One
Laila
As Savage leaves Reed’s guest house after our stilted, awkward conversation about “Hate Sex High,” I shove my earbuds back in, press play on the song, close my eyes, and listen carefully. A moment later, the makeup artist taps my arm, letting me know she’s returned from outside, so I nod to her and close my eyes again, finding it hard to give my attention, even fleetingly, to anything but Savage’s voice in my ears.
Presently, Savage’s sexy voice is singing, “You’re falling in hate with me/I’m feeling something I don’t want to feel . . .” And I can’t help wondering . . . what is the something Savage was feeling when he wrote this song—the something he didn’t want to feel? A few minutes ago, Savage swore, up and down, that the entire song was “pure fiction.” But then, he immediately backtracked and said the chorus was a “popcorn lie” he’d spun from various “kernels of truth” in the verses. The thing is, though, I hadn’t even mentioned the chorus when Savage felt the need to vehemently deny its truth. So now, I can’t help thinking the dude doth protest too much.
The song continues to the second half of the chorus, the part where Savage sings a string of “la la’s.” And, once again, I hear my name at the ends of those lines. Repeatedly. Yep, that’s definitely my name! Granted, Savage’s voice is buried in the mix, artfully interwoven with his bandmates’ voices singing “la la.” Most likely to preserve deniability for Savage. But, nonetheless, anyone with the ability to hear would be able to discern my name at the end of those la la’s.
A flash of energy courses through my veins. Does Savage singing my name in the song enthrall or anger me? I can’t decide. All I know for certain is that hearing Savage belting out my name, for the entire world to hear—knowing he’s explicitly identifying me as the muse for this raunchy song—is making my blood simmer and every hair on my body stand at full attention.
The song continues, with Savage making a big thing about his muse coming three times. “Girl, you came three times,” he sings, twice, before speaking the line in a smug, matter-of-fact tone. Finally, Savage concludes in the bridge, “You’re chasing . . . a . . . hate sex high”—and as Savage sings the titular lyrics of the song, a shiver skates across my skin. As freaked out as I am in this moment, I can’t help reliving the night of the hot tub as I listen. The night I did, in fact, chase a hate sex high with Savage, all the way to three glorious orgasms that felt far more intense and electrifying than anything I’d experienced before.
I feel a tap on my shoulder and open my eyes to find the makeup artist smiling at me. She holds up a makeup brush as if to say “all done!” So, I stop the song, which is currently barreling into its final chorus, and check myself out in the mirror.
“Looks great,” I say. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Who’s sitting in your chair next?” I ask, hoping she’ll say Aloha, and when she does, I tap out a text to my darling friend, asking her to please get her ass down to Reed’s guest house as soon as possible—earlier than scheduled—because I need to talk to her about something urgent.
Three minutes later, Aloha appears, her famous emerald-green eyes practically glowing. After greeting the makeup artist, Aloha asks me, “Is everything okay?”
I jut my chin toward the makeup artist, who’s presently preparing her station, to let Aloha know the urgent thing I need to talk to her about is confidential, and Aloha instantly gets the message.
“Hey, Susanna,” Aloha says. “Would you mind taking a quick break before we get started? I came early to chat with Laila.”
“Of course,” the makeup artist replies. “How’s fifteen minutes?”
Aloha looks at me, her eyebrows raised. And when she sees the expression of pure panic on my face, she says, “Let’s make it twenty.”
The door closes behind the makeup artist, and before I’ve said a word, Aloha lurches at me and yells, “What did Savage do to you last night, you little freak? My room was across the hallway from Savage’s and I heard every scream and moan!” She takes the chair next to mine, smiling wickedly. “And don’t tell me all those noises were you barfing, and not the sounds of pure ecstasy. I know barfing when I hear it, and that wasn’t it.”
I roll my eyes, even as I’m blushing. “The second half of what you heard was me barfing.”
“And the first half?”
I can’t help smiling. “The sounds of pure ecstasy.”
Aloha squeals. “Tell me everything.”
“There’s not much to tell. Savage ate me from every angle and I was too drunk to care if anyone in the house heard my reaction.”
Aloha fans herself. “Girl, you never disappoint. How did you even wind up in Savage’s room?”
“I was horny and drunk and didn’t know which room was his, so I crept down the hallway on my tiptoes, in my undies, and went looking for him.”
Aloha hoots. “Laila Fitzgerald! You little horndog!”
I snort. “I pressed my ear against a couple doors, hoping to feel some kind of ‘Savage vibration’ emanating from the other side. And then, lo and behold, there Savage was in his underwear on the far end of the hallway, on his way to find me.”
Aloha reacts gleefully.
“But that’s not the urgent thing I needed to talk to you about. I need you to listen to something that’s making my head explode. Talk me off the ledge, Aloha. I’m freaking out.” I grab my phone, anxiety coursing through me, and get “Hate Sex High” cued up. My heart thumping, I explain, “This morning, Kendrick gave me an early copy of Fugitive Summer’s new album, so I could listen to the mixes.” I hand my phone to Aloha. “Listen to the third track. ‘Hate Sex High.’ It’s about me—about the night I told you about, when I screwed Savage’s brains out during the tour.”
“Holy crap,” Aloha whispers, taking my phone and earbuds.
As she begins listening, I get up and pace back and forth in the small guest house, unable to keep my body, or mind, from spazzing out.
“Love the beat,” Aloha murmurs. “Cool baseline.” She pauses. “Ha! That’s so Savage. It sounds like he’s getting a blowjob.”
“Keep listening,” I say. Clearly, she’s only gotten as far as the introductory “yeahs.”
Suddenly, Aloha’s eyebrows lift. Her eyes widen. She begins muttering things like “Whoa” and “Wow.” Finally, she shouts, “He’s singing Laila! What the fuck!” She presses pause. “He’s called you out by name?”
“Right?”
“Dude.” She presses play again and a moment later shrieks, “You came three times with him that night?”
I blush and nod. “More last night.”
Aloha flashes me a snarky look. “Well, damn. No wonder you don’t care if he’s an asshole.” She snickers to herself before quieting down to listen again. And then, “Wow, he’s proud of those three orgasms, huh?” She pauses. “Okay, Savage, we get it. She came three times.” She snorts. “What a smug little shit to put this song as the third track on the album, as yet another nod to those three Os. That’s so Savage.”