“If you actually got to know me,” I say, “beyond the little sex kitten bitch nut job you think I am, you’d find out there’s a whole lot more to me than all that.”
He whisper-shouts, “How am I supposed to get to know you when you block my fucking number!”
“Look, there’s no point to this. I told you it was a one-time thing. I said it would never happen again, so it shouldn’t have surprised you in the least when it didn’t.”
He looks fit to be tied. “Yes, I know what your mouth said that night, Laila, but your body told me something very different.”
I scoff. “Obviously, not. Or else I would have come to your room, wouldn’t I?”
It’s a dagger to his heart, obviously. “How did you resist me, though? That’s the part I can’t wrap my head around.”
“Oh, jeez.”
“No, seriously. Not because I’m ‘Savage from Fugitive Summer.’ Not like that. Because . . .” He shifts his weight, betraying his utter torment. “Laila, I’ve been losing sleep over this. How did you resist coming to my room, night after night, for a full month, after what happened between us in Phoenix? How the hell was that even possible?”
In this moment, I’m dying to tell Savage what I witnessed in Vegas—the sucker punch of him bringing a groupie to his room, the same way he’d brought those groupies into my dressing room. Although, in Las Vegas, unlike the times before, Savage couldn’t have known I’d see him. And that fact laid to rest a certain theory of mine, once and for all. Before Vegas, I’d stupidly entertained the crazy, magical thought that maybe Savage had brought those groupies into my dressing room only to mess with me, but not to actually screw around with them. But when I saw him with that woman in Vegas, I knew I’d been deluding myself.
For so long now, I’ve wanted to tell Savage what I saw and how much it hurt me. I’ve wanted to scream at him, “How could you?” But, always, I decide, like I’m doing now, that small moment of vindication, that momentary “gotcha!” wouldn’t be worth admitting I practically sprinted to Savage’s room mere minutes after receiving his text.
In the face of my silence, Savage leans in, looking like a madman on meth. “You started fucking Charlie right after me, didn’t you?”
“What?”
“Don’t deny it. It’s the only thing that makes sense. I saw you two together, all the time, after Phoenix. Always laughing and eating meals together. Always looking so damned cozy together.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud. Savage thinks I had a torrid love affair during the tour . . . with Charlie? A man who recently married the great love of his life . . . a former Marine named Dave? I know for a fact Savage had numerous sessions with Charlie during the tour. Did he not ask the man a single personal question, in all that time? Did he not try to get to know Charlie, the tiniest bit? That’s so Savage, I hate him even more for it.
“Oh no,” I whisper. “You figured me out. Did Charlie tell you? Shoot. I made him swear he wouldn’t tell a soul about us.” I lean forward. “Just like I made you promise the same thing after I fucked you.”
Savage’s nostrils flare. “Cut the bullshit, Laila. Did you fuck Charlie or not? I need to know.”
“It’s none of your business. But, yes.”
“Are you messing with me or telling me the truth?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“I deserve to know, after everything you’ve put me through.”
“After what I’ve put you through? Ha! Why do you even care who I’ve been with, when there’s an endless supply of groupies, all of them dying to ‘get their hands on you’?”
Savage’s dark eyes are a scorching pyre of jealousy and fury. “Stop it. What happened the night of the hot tub was off the charts for both of us, and you know it. Let’s press the restart button and give this a try. Laila, I can’t get that night off my mind.”
“Well, that’s your misfortune, then. I’ve certainly been able to get it off mine, thanks, in part, to the masterful way Charlie fucked me, every single night of the tour after Phoenix . . . and continues doing to this day.”
It’s all a lie, of course, even besides the Charlie part. In truth, I’ve thought about that mind-blowing night with Savage in Phoenix on a running loop. Every single day since it happened. And even more so every night, when I’m all alone and lonely in bed. Hell, I’ve even started dreaming about Savage! But there’s no way I’d admit that to him now. If he’s feeling tortured and confused by my supposed immunity to his charms, then good. Serves him right.
Savage opens his mouth to reply, looking absolutely furious, just as the PA appears. “Here we go,” she says brightly. She presses on her headphones, briefly, before nodding and holding up three fingers. 3-2-1.
An announcer bellows, “Please welcome Savage from Fugitive Summer . . . and Laila Fitzgerald!”
The audience applauds. The PA tells us to go. And Savage and I begin striding onstage, shoulder to shoulder, our eyes locked and our jaws clenched, with an energy I’d caption “homicidal lust” coursing between us.
Nineteen
Laila
I toss my hair behind my shoulder, like I’m getting ready to throw down in a wrestling ring, and belt out the last powerful note of my latest single—the third one off my sophomore album that’s been taking off like a rocket. And when my song ends, Sylvia Lennox, the beloved host of this long-running daytime talk show, leaps up and applauds with her studio audience, before beckoning me to join her in a cozy sitting area.
As I walk toward my glamorous host, I wave and smile at the boisterous crowd, even though I feel like collapsing onto the floor in relief. I’ve felt extreme nerves during other high-stakes performances in my young career, especially lately, but nothing compares to this. I couldn’t sleep last night, worrying I’d somehow screw this up. But, thank God, I think I just nailed it.
“That was fantastic!” Sylvia shouts above the din, before giving me a warm hug. “I love that song, Laila! So catchy!”
“Thank you so much, Sylvia.”
We take our seats and make brief small talk about the album, and then about my weird hobby of making pottery on a wheel. Or, more accurately, trying to make pottery on a wheel. Until, finally, Sylvia crosses her legs, leans forward, and says “So, let’s talk about your upcoming appearance on Sing Your Heart Out.” She turns to her audience. “Have y’all heard Laila is going to be Aloha’s mentor this season?” The audience claps, confirming, yes, they’ve heard the exciting news, before Sylvia returns to me. “Has shooting on the show started yet?”
“Not yet. Very soon.”
“I’ve heard Aloha helped you get the job. True?”
“True.” I tell the story, briefly, and sing Aloha’s praises, and the audience claps.
“Who do you think will replace Hugh at the judges’ table?” Sylvia asks. “It’s a hot topic. They haven’t made an announcement yet.”
“I have no idea.” Unfortunately, it’s the truth. All I know is, it’s not going to be me. I add, “I’m as excited as everyone else to find out who they pick.”