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My heart strumming against my sternum, I look around the large room again, to no avail, suddenly regretting my decision to try to piss her off. Why do I always do shit like this? Why do I always self-sabotage? I thought we were playing a sexy game of “fuck you” with each other. A game of “I’m not jealous, you’re jealous!” You know, lobbing fastballs at each other and daring the other to try to hit it out of the park. But now I’m thinking I miscalculated and totally turned her off.
When I reach my friends, they demand a play-by-play. Which, of course, I give them, eliciting even more raucous laughter, especially from the birthday boy. After a while, Reed comes by and berates me for not following his direct orders and finding Zasu. And so, reluctantly, I leave my friends and take a lap of the massive downstairs area, looking for this Zasu chick—even though I wouldn’t put it past Reed to send me on a wild goose chase, solely to get me away from Georgina. But, whatever. Whether Zasu actually exists or not, I’m more than happy to take a lap of the party to pretend to look for her, if only to give me a believable excuse to look high and low for the woman I’m actually interested in finding: Little Miss Death Daggers Laila Fitzgerald.
Five
Savage
Would it have killed Reed to describe this mythical Zasu person to me, if it was so damned important to him that I find her? Fucking prick. As I’ve rambled around the packed party, I’ve asked a couple people, half-heartedly, if they know someone named “Zasu,” who’s supposedly a reporter for Rock ‘n’ Roll, and each and every one of them describes Georgina.
“No, no. Not her,” I keep saying.
To which they reply, “Oh. Then . . . I dunno.”
Of course, throughout my quest, I’ve kept my eyes peeled for Laila the whole time. So far, no luck. Not knowing what else to do, I head outside to continue my search in Reed’s expansive backyard. If Laila is outside with Cash, or, worse, if she’s already left the party with him, I’ll be so pissed at myself. It’s one thing for me to have refrained from hitting on Laila for my best friend in the world—the guy who’s more responsible than anyone else for my current lot in life. But as friendly as I am with Cash, I’d never in a million years step aside from hitting on Laila for him. No fucking way.
Becoming increasingly frustrated, I wander into the pool area and immediately stop dead in my tracks, and then sigh with relief, when I spot Laila in the far distance, bopping around happily on Reed’s basketball court, looking like a kid on a playground during recess. There’s a large group on the court along with Laila that includes Aloha Carmichael and the guys from 22 Goats and their dates. But no Cash.
I smile to myself. Did Naughty Little Laila ditch Cash’s ass the minute he was no longer useful to her—the minute she no longer needed him to make me jealous? I bet she did. Which means I’m still in the hunt, baby. That is, if Kendrick strikes out with her, of course. Obviously. I owe him at least that much.
I watch Laila and her friends for a moment, and quickly discern the group is playing HORSE, based on the way everyone keeps taking the same shots in rotation. And the minute I realize the game, I feel oddly invested in standing here long enough to find out if Laila makes her shot. I make a bet with myself: “If Laila makes her shot, I’ll head over there and welcome her to the tour. If she doesn’t, I’ll head inside and make her come to me.”
Fish from 22 Goats takes his shot and makes it and his cute date jumps for joy like he’s won a Grammy. Next up, Fish’s girlfriend takes her shot and whiffs so badly, I laugh out loud. Immediately, Fish and Laila console her and the girlfriend slinks into Fish’s waiting arms.
Finally, after a few other players take their shots, it’s Laila’s turn. She gets the ball from Aloha’s husband, Zander, a buff Black dude I’ve met here and there, and then heads to the designated spot on the court—a location a few feet behind the three-point line. After taking a ridiculously long time to gather herself, as if the fate of the world depends on her making the shot, Laila bends her knees, exhales, and flings her arms upward, releasing the ball into the air.
And . . . it’s a brick. A clunker that thuds to the ground a few feet from the rim.
Confronted with her abject failure, Laila shrieks before peeling off a glorious streak of laughter I can hear all the way over here. Finally, she drops to the ground, dramatically, and writhes around like she’s been shot, making her friends guffaw.
