Finally, as the bass-heavy beat gains momentum, Savage counts off—“One, two, three, let’s go!”—and away he goes, launching into the lyrics of the first verse.
Almost immediately, as Savage sings, I open my eyes, recognizing myself in the song. Is this a coincidence . . . or is Savage singing this song about me?
No way.
Why would Savage write a song about me?
“Close, please,” the makeup artist says, referring to my eyes.
“Hold on a second,” I say. I quickly look down at my phone, curious about the title of this one. And when I see it, I gasp. Hate Sex High. That’s what the song is called. Which definitely makes me think I’m not crazy to think the song could be about me. Maybe? But I’ve no sooner had that last thought than the song barrels into its chorus . . . and the lyrics there make my jaw practically clank to the floor.
Thirty-Three
Savage
I wander out of the house with a cup of coffee and take in the view for a moment, scratching my bare belly. I feel light as a feather right now. Like everything is clicking into place. I gotta hand it to Kendrick. The man is a genius. Speaking of Kendrick, I notice him sitting in a chair with his laptop and decide to head over there to tell him he’s the man—that, thanks to his advice, I’ve now got Laila eating out the palm of my hand.
When I reach Kendrick, he’s got headphones on, and he’s nodding his head to a beat only he can hear.
When he notices me, he pulls off one side of his headphones and blurts excitedly, “Did you see Zeke sent the final mixes?”
My heart lurches. “No. When? I left my phone in my room.”
“Twenty minutes ago. I’m listening now and everything sounds amazing!”
“Oh, my God. Let me hear something!”
Kendrick hands me his headphones and I slip them on, while Kendrick presses play on the first song—“Shockwave”—a banger that’s one of my favorites on the album.
“Oh my God. ‘Shockwave’ sounds so good,” I say excitedly. “Although I’d add a touch more bass to the mix. Ask Kai what he thinks, obviously, but that’s my opinion.”
“Yeah, okay. I’ll ask him.”
I listen for a long moment again, before saying, “Zeke sent the link to Reed, too?”
“Yeah. I saw Reed a few minutes ago. He was super stoked. He headed straight to his office to listen now.”
“Cool. So excited.”
“Same. Reed said he’ll send it to some people with really good ears.”
“Awesome. Is he sending it to Dax Morgan and Dean Masterson, you think?”
“Yeah, he mentioned both. Fish, too.”
“Perfect. Fish’s ears are impeccable.”
“I know. If Reed didn’t send it to him already, I would have done it myself. I sent it to C-Bomb, too. He said he’ll take a listen today. Oh, and Laila, too. Just now. She’s got amazing ears.”
My heart stops. “Laila? You already sent it to her or you’re planning to send it to her?”
“I already did. She said she’d listen right away, while she gets her hair and makeup done.”
“Kendrick, no.” I can barely breathe. “How long ago was that?”
“What’s wrong?”
“When was that?”
“Just now. Like, ten minutes ago. Fifteen, tops. Why?”
“Where is she? Did she say where she was going?”
“Hair and makeup.”
“Yes, but where?” I’m shouting now, as panic rises sharply inside me. “Where is hair and makeup, Kendrick?”
“I don’t know. She went that way.” He points. “What’s wrong? Laila is totally trustworthy.”
My heart is crashing. My breathing shallow. I point maniacally at Kendrick’s laptop. “Quick, look to see if she’s already downloaded it! If not, cancel her access. Now, Kendrick!”
“Why?”
“Just do it!”
“I’m doing it. Calm down.” He starts clicking on his keyboard, looking frantic. “What’s the problem?”
“’Hate Sex High,’ Kendrick! I don’t want Laila listening to that one right now. Not yet.”
“Oooh.” He taps on some keys before looking up from his screen, his features contorted in apology. And even before he’s said a word, I know what he’s going to say. But he says it, anyway. “She already downloaded it, dude. It’s too late.”
I take a deep breath. “Maybe not. It’s only been a few minutes. Maybe Laila isn’t listening to the album yet. Or if she is, maybe she hasn’t gotten to that song. Where is it in the order?”
Kendrick checks the screen and grimaces again. “Third, like you requested.”
“Fuck! She went that way?”
“Yeah. I think there’s a guest house over there. Maybe that’s—"
But I’m not listening. Without further ado, I sprint away in the direction Kendrick indicated, cursing a blue streak as I go . . . feeling uncannily like I’m running toward a ticking time bomb.
Thirty-Four
Laila
As the third song on the album—“Hate Sex High”—reaches the end of its first chorus and barrels into a sort of sing-along post-chorus section that causes my head to explode, there’s a commotion at the door. A sudden movement attracts my attention, and when I look toward the doorframe, none other than Savage is standing there, his chest heaving and his eyes bugged out.
I look at him, rendered speechless, as Savage’s voice continues singing in my ears . . . about me. And whatever Savage sees on my face in this moment prompts him to say, quite obviously, the word “Fuck.” I can’t hear him saying the word, but I can sure as hell read his lips, as Savage’s voice launches into the second chorus of “Hate Sex High” in my earbuds:
You’re falling, falling, falling, falling, falling in hate with me
I’m feeling, feeling, feeling, feeling something I don’t want to feel . . .
Savage begins walking toward me, and when he mouths the word “Laila” before me, it’s coincidentally at the exact same time he sings my name in the song, in the post-chorus section where Savage sings, repeatedly: “La la la la la la la la la Laila Laila.”
I rip out my earbuds, just in time to hear Savage asking the hair and makeup artist to leave. As the woman scurries out the front door of the casita, the song continues wafting from the earbuds in my hand, now sounding compressed and tinny, but otherwise clear as a bell.
Savage’s voice in the earbuds sings: “And I’m feeling, feeling, feeling, feeling . . . something I don’t want to feel.” And Savage before me inhales sharply and jolts in response.
“It’s not about you!” Savage blurts, his face flushed. “I know how it must seem, but it’s, you know, creative license. Pure fiction. Not about you.”
Pure fiction? That seems highly unlikely. Partial fiction, maybe. But there’s just too much obvious truth, too much coincidence in the verses, for the entire song to be pure fiction.