“I have.”
Sylvia addresses her audience. “Have y’all seen this one?”
The audience applauds, confirming they’ve seen it, too.
“I don’t know, Laila,” Sylvia says. “Looking at this photo, I can see why those pesky rumors about you and Savage simply won’t die. I mean, look at the chemistry between you two! Those are some serious sparks!”
The audience expresses its agreement, while I find myself wondering how the heck I managed to walk straight into this landmine. Did Daria set this up with Sylvia, to make sure this clip went viral? I bet she did.
“Those aren’t sparks,” I say. “They’re daggers. Right before Savage and I walked onstage, we had a little disagreement. Surprise, surprise. So, what you’re seeing there isn’t me wanting to jump his bones, as the meme would have you believe. It’s me wanting to murder him.”
Sylvia smirks. “I think you’re missing the whole point of the meme, darling. The point is that—and this is something I think we can all relate to—a woman can simultaneously want to murder a man and jump his bones. It’s called hate sex, honey. And from my experience, it can be awfully fun.”
The audience roars with laughter. Oh, Sylvia. She’s a gem.
Sylvia continues, “I’d think that’d be especially true when you’re having hate sex with a specimen who looks like that.” She motions to the screen behind us while I gape like a fish on a line, fruitlessly racking my brain for a witty retort. Finally, before I’ve managed to find adequate words, Sylvia looks directly into one of the cameras and says, “Big thanks to the lovely and talented Laila Fitzgerald for joining us today! Buy her album and watch her on Sing Your Heart Out this season! When we come back, we’ll be joined by Chef Claude, who’s going to teach us how to make the perfect French croissant!”
The audience applauds. The red lights on the various cameras turn off. A producer announces, “We’re clear.” And Sylvia throws her head back and lets loose with a belly laugh.
When she straightens up, she grips my forearm. “That was solid gold, Laila. Absolute perfection!”
I exhale what feels like my entire lung capacity. “It was?”
“It was brilliant.” She mimes a chef’s kiss. “I don’t know if you just lied to my face about Savage, little girl. Or if you’re silly enough not to have taken a big ol’ bite of that apple during your tour. But, God help you, if you were stupid enough to resist him when you had the chance, then take some advice from a woman twice your age.” She leans forward. “Fuck that man, Laila. Call him now and tell him to meet you in a hotel, and fuck . . . that . . . man.” She guffaws at my flabbergasted expression. “Honey, when you get to be my age, you’ll realize the only regrets in life are the things you didn’t do. The mistakes you didn’t make.” She smirks. “Trust me, honey, having hate sex with a man who looks like that delicious specimen is one mistake you’ll never regret.”
Twenty
Savage
The air is electric. The stage, flooded with lights. The packed audience in this massive arena is singing along with me to “Hate Sex High” . . . which makes no sense, now that I think about it, since the album with that song on it is currently being mixed and mastered. Did someone at the label leak the rough cut of the album?
A warm breeze wafts over my body, caressing every inch of my skin . . . including my dick and balls. And when I look down, perplexed, I realize I’ve been prancing around onstage . . . completely in the nude.
I look behind me, at the gigantic Jumbotron projecting my every movement, and, yup, there’s my naked dick, blasting out into the arena, as big as a barn. My eyes drift to Kendrick behind me at the drum kit and he guffaws at my stupidity, while not missing a beat in the song.
I turn around again, toward the audience, and discover everyone is holding up their phones, trained on me. Or, rather, trained, with sniper-like precision, on my dick. Which means, here we go again—my dong is once again about to become an internet star.
I suddenly hear Eli’s voice, screaming my name. Shit. My manager already knows about this latest fuck-up? Panicking, I look toward the wing of the stage, assuming that’s where I’ll find Eli. But the person I behold in the wings is a whole lot hotter than Eli. It’s Little Miss Laila.
Well, well, well. I knew she’d finally come crawling back to me, eventually, begging me for another ride on my pony. She’s standing in the wings, wearing that eye-popping dress from the awards show—the one that left only the tiniest sliver of flesh to the imagination. Not that I need my imagination to fill in the gaps when it comes to Laila’s gorgeous body, since I’ve already seen every glorious inch of it on the best night of my life. Every inch, that is, except her glorious pussy, up close and personal.
What did Kendrick say last week while showing me Laila’s interview on Sylvia? He said, “I think you’ve got a fish on your line, brother.” And now, hallelujah, it turns out Kendrick was right.
Laila’s blue eyes burning with sexual desire, she begins banging her fist against a nearby wall, commanding me to stop gawking at her and get my ass over to her in the wings.
“Patience,” I coo, enjoying her little tantrum. After everything Laila has put me through, I must admit I’m enjoying her obvious desperation. Taking my sweet time, I stroll languidly toward her, like I’ve got all the time in the world, like I haven’t been dying for this moment to arrive for half my life. And when I finally come to a stop mere inches from Laila, when the tip of my naked cock brushes against the sheer fabric on her belly, I physically spasm with pent-up arousal and anticipation.
I lick my lips, poised to say, “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist me forever.”
But she shuts me up by gripping my cock, the same way she did the night of the hot tub.
“Don’t speak,” she cautions. “And don’t kiss me, either. Just fuck me. Fuck me, hard, like you did in Phoenix.”
Exhaling a stilted breath, I wordlessly unzip her dress and peel it off her, until it’s in a crumpled heap at her feet. With my cock dripping, I pick her up by her glorious ass, push her back against the wall, press my aching tip against her wet entrance, and—
“Savage!”
No.
It’s my manager, Eli, again.
“Savage!” he shouts. “Open up. It’s an emergency!”
No, no, no!
All of a sudden, Laila disappears from my arms in a puff of sensuous smoke. There’s another banging sound. And then Eli’s voice rips me from my dream and into stark consciousness. I open my eyes and discover I’m not backstage in an arena, on the cusp of finally fucking Laila again. I’m in a hotel room. Naked and alone in bed, in the late morning light. Also, damn, I’m nursing one hell of a hangover.
Groaning, I rub my pained forehead—and as I do, Eli’s yelling and banging on the door persists and becomes even louder. I glance at my phone on the nightstand and curse at the time: 10:18. That’s way too early for anyone to wake me when I’m not on tour, especially the morning after Kai’s birthday party. Whatever brought Eli here, it’d better be damned important.