It’s the Video Music Awards and I’m standing in the wings, as instructed, right on time, awaiting my turn to present the next award with my assigned co-presenter. After the current duo finishes their thing, there will be a commercial break, thank God, which gives us a tiny margin of error. But then, whether Savage has arrived or not, I’ll have to walk out there and present this damned award, one way or another. If he doesn’t show up, I’ll have to disregard all the scripted banter on the teleprompter, everything I practiced earlier today at the rehearsal Savage didn’t attend, and I’ll have to wing it. Which is something I hate doing, ever. But especially on live TV.
I haven’t seen Savage since the tour ended two weeks ago, and barely saw him throughout the entire last month of the tour. I certainly didn’t ask to be paired with him today. Apparently, the producers, like the rest of the world, saw that viral video of Savage and me screaming at each other in front of that restaurant and decided we’d bring in the ratings as co-presenters. It’s fine, though. I got good at ignoring Savage for the final month of the tour, after seeing him for exactly who he is in Las Vegas. So, I can certainly summon my superpowers, once again, and ignore him while reading off a teleprompter.
I’m told Savage didn’t make it to the quickie rehearsal earlier today, thanks to a flight delay out of Chicago. But now that he’s not here, and the seconds are ticking down, I’m wondering if his supposed “travel delay” earlier was a flat-out lie. Is he standing me up, on purpose, to get back at me for ignoring him for the last month of the tour?
I look down at myself—at the dress I decided to wear tonight. If Savage doesn’t show up and see this gorgeous work of art on me, I’ll be so pissed. It’s basically form-fitting netting with well-placed swirls that artfully, but barely, hide my most scandalous lady bits. I wouldn’t have worn such a naughty dress for an awards show, typically. Even one as raucous as the Video Music Awards. But knowing I was going to see Savage for the first time since the tour ended spurred me on and made me want to remind him what he missed out on.
That nearby PA suddenly exhales with relief, the same way I’ve seen so many others do before her while awaiting Savage. And that’s how I know Mr. Rockstar has arrived, approximately three minutes before we’re set to walk onstage on live TV.
The air shifts and electrifies. And then, there he is. Rounding a corner.
Casually, he sidles up to me, like he’s got all the time in the world. His eyes wide, he looks me up and down and says, “Damn, Fitzy. That’s quite a dress. Fuck.”
“Hello, Adrian,” I say curtly, pretending not to notice the way his eyes are popping out of his head. His cologne and charisma, the intensity of his gaze . . . all of it is hitting me like a ton of bricks. But I ignore it all.
The superstar onstage says, “And the award goes to . . .” She opens the envelope and immediately stiffens at whatever she’s seeing inside. She looks out at the crowd and smiles thinly. “Hugh Delaney.”
Savage, the production assistant, and I simultaneously snicker, as the audience in the theatre collectively does the same. There’s some scattered, half-hearted applause before the woman onstage finally chokes out, “I’m told Hugh can’t make it tonight, so Taggert and I accept this award on his behalf!”
Savage leans into my ear, making my skin tingle at his proximity. I feel his warm breath as he says, “Yeah, no shit Hugh couldn’t make it tonight. Ha.”
I can’t help snorting with him, totally contrary to my strategy of ignoring him. “Yeah, Hugh’s a little busy tonight . . . imploding spectacularly.”
It’s an understatement. Four days ago, the world found out the fifty-three-year-old, iconic country star who’s been the elder statesman on Sing Your Heart Out since the beginning, has been cheating on his world-famous actress-wife with their kids’ Brazilian nanny—a twenty-year-old who claimed, once the sex tape of them leaked, she’d been “coerced” into having a long-running affair with Hugh.
In response to the shocking allegations, Hugh went on an epic bender, drove his Range Rover into a tree, and promptly got arrested for DUI. Right after that, Hugh’s wife filed for divorce, while the nanny filed a civil lawsuit and sold her story to a gossip rag. The day after that, as in, two days ago, Sing Your Heart Out announced Hugh’s termination, two weeks before shooting on the new season is set to start, saying he’d breached his contract’s strict morality clause. And now, here we are, celebrating Hugh’s win for Best Country Music Video.
The scandal has been catastrophic news for old Hugh, obviously, but fantastic news for whoever his last-minute replacement on the show will turn out to be. It’s a long shot, but my agent, Daria, is already hard at work, trying to make Hugh’s replacement me. I don’t expect her efforts to bear fruit. I’m barely famous enough to have snagged a spot as a mentor this season. But my profile has expanded significantly since the success of my second album. Not to mention, since that video of me fighting with Savage in New York caused Google searches of my name to spike by one thousand percent. So, my agent figured it was worth a shot.
Daria’s pitch to the show’s producers has been: “You’ve already publicized Laila as a mentor this season and the response has been fantastic. So why not make a surprise announcement that you’ve expanded her role because you’ve realized she’ll bring a fresh energy to the judges’ table? Who better to replace Hugh at the last minute than his polar opposite—a young, enthusiastic woman?”
Yeah, we don’t have high hopes that pitch will work. Almost certainly, they’ll replace Hugh with another big star, another man, who’ll appeal to Hugh’s same demographic. They’ve always had one woman and two men at the judges’ table, since the beginning—and Aloha is still under contract for the next four years of the show.
The PA hands Savage the short script for our banter. “This is all cued up on the teleprompter,” she assures him. “But you’ll probably want to read this before walking out there, so you don’t stumble on anything.”
“I’ll do that. Could you give us some space to rehearse in private?”
“Sure. Let me know if you need me. I’ll come back and cue you, right before the announcer introduces you both.”
As she walks away, Savage tosses the script onto a nearby speaker. “You’re stubborn as shit,” he says to me.
“Excuse me?”
“I kept my word and told no one. For a full month, I pretended nothing happened between us, whenever anyone was around. I kept my word to you and showed you I’m trustworthy. So why didn’t you come to my room, even once? Why not answer a single one of my texts—either during the tour, or over the past two weeks? At the very least, you could have replied to one of my texts! But you just can’t help yourself, huh? You’re so used to being a bitch to me, it’s now your default mode.”
I grit my teeth. “Yeah, interesting to note I’m only a bitch with you. I’m actually really nice with everyone else. And if you must know, I never received any of your texts, except the ones you sent in Vegas, because I blocked your number.”
Savage rubs his face, closes his eyes, and lets out a long and tortured exhale.