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When I’m done with my shower, I slide on a pair of sweats, set my alarm, and reply to a text from my assistant about my travel schedule for tomorrow.
“Back to the grind,” I murmur softly, closing my eyes.
But, unfortunately, sleep doesn’t come to me, despite the weed in my system.
Finally, I give up. I grab my phone and google “Malik Wallace” and “cheater” and “Reddit,” and quickly discern Kendrick was absolutely right. The dude is trash. I guess it’s possible some of these stories about his assholery aren’t true. There are definitely lots of stories online about me that are pure fiction. But, come on, not all of these stories can possibly be fake. Obviously, Malik’s not a guy who keeps his word when it comes to women. Which means Laila won’t put up with him for long. I don’t know the woman, granted. But I know enough to know a firecracker like her, the woman who wanted to murder me for seemingly flirting with Georgina, and then Zasu, at Reed’s party, doesn’t put up with a guy’s shit for very long.
I can’t help smiling to myself at the realization that Laila will almost certainly wind up kicking Malik to the curb during the tour. Will she be looking to have a little revenge sex after Malik fucks around on her? Because, if so, I’ll be right there to volunteer as tribute.
No.
Stop it, man.
That’s Kendrick’s plan. You can’t steal it.
I take a long, deep breath and exhale slowly.
Actually, I think it’s good Laila has a boyfriend. This way, I won’t immediately succumb to temptation and betray Kendrick, or otherwise cockblock him. Because a woman having a boyfriend is a boundary I can respect.
Sort of.
Okay, not at all.
But, at least, I can tell myself I respect it. I can tell myself there’s double the reason to stay away from Laila. This way, I don’t have to resist her, based solely on Kendrick calling dibs. Which, admittedly, is a tall order for me. This way, with Laila dating a guy with as much clout as me, probably even more, I’ve got double the chances of not betraying my very best friend.
Eight
Laila
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
“They haven’t even started yet?” I say, feeling flabbergasted. According to today’s itinerary, Fugitive Summer should have finished their soundcheck a half hour ago. Which is why I prematurely wrapped up an interview in my dressing room to race down here to the stage area, right on time, to begin my soundcheck. And now I find out Fugitive Summer hasn’t even begun? I know the headliner always soundchecks first, and takes as long as needed. And delays can happen. But would it have killed our tour manager, Tracy, to let me know the itinerary is no longer accurate, so I didn’t miss out on the rest of my interview?
Tracy says, “Savage took a later flight from Chicago than originally planned. But no worries, he’s on his way from the airport now and should be here any minute.”
She’s calm and cool. Which I can’t fathom. Savage isn’t even in the building yet? Because he didn’t fly last night, as planned—as any sane and responsible person would do, when literally thousands of people are depending on him? What the ever-loving rockstar cliché is wrong with that man? Who else but him, in his shoes, would travel on the day of any show—let alone the tour opener? It’s not like Savage’s fans would be perfectly fine to watch a replacement singer tonight, the way audiences accept understudies on Broadway. People pay a lot of money to watch Savage, and only Savage, sing, play his guitar, and shake his famous ass! And yet, Savage felt it was a perfectly reasonable thing to risk letting thousands of people wait tonight—or maybe even risk letting them down completely? All I can say is that boy had better have a damned good reason for cutting it this close.
I look at my assistant, Katrina, my aggravation probably written all over my face. But I don’t care if our tour manager knows I’m pissed. In fact, I want her to know. Now that my soundcheck has been delayed by at least an hour and a half, my assistant will need to reschedule a ton of stuff for me. My hair and makeup. Another interview. Plus, call me crazy, but I was hoping to have a moment to eat and relax before showtime. To call my mom and sister before going onstage. But now, thanks to Savage, I won’t be able to do all of it.
“Why don’t you take a seat and relax, rather than going back to your dressing room?” Tracy says, emphasizing the word relax in a way that tells me she already thinks I’m a raving bitch. She motions toward the front row of seats. “This way, you’ll be ready to hop onstage the moment they’re done.”
