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But, whatever. I don’t have the bandwidth to focus on Reed and his love life for very long. I’m too fixated on Laila and hers. Fucking Malik! When he walked into the greenroom at The Garden earlier tonight, I felt an almost primal desire to pummel his face. And the impulse has only grown as the evening, and my alcohol consumption, has worn on.
Unfortunately, the happy couple—Laila and her handsy MVP—is sitting immediately across from Kendrick and me at this long, crowded table, so I can’t avoid constantly staring at them. And guess what? The fucker never stops touching Laila with his huge hands. Ever. At any given moment, Mr. Basketball’s got his arm around Laila’s shoulders, or a hand covering hers. Or maybe he’s got his hand under the table, doing God knows what to her under there. Or if not any of that, he’s touching her hair or leaning in to whisper into her ear—oftentimes, immediately after glowering at me.
Actually, I don’t know if I’m imagining that last part. The glowering. Is Malik Wallace a mind reader? Or is the booze making my face a whole lot more readable than usual? Either way, the man clearly wants me, and everyone in this restaurant, to know the magnificent, sultry, talented Laila Fitzgerald is his.
The crazy thing is I don’t get jealous, except when it comes to Laila. Why should I, when there are unlimited fish in the sea? And yet, here I am, contemplating physically attacking a professional athlete, despite my brain knowing, logically, he’d almost certainly beat my ass. Also, logically speaking, I know Malik’s got every right to drape himself over his own girlfriend. I’m nobody to Laila, after all. If Malik were out of the picture, she’d be in Kendrick’s arms. Not mine. And yet, I can’t stop staring and plotting Malik’s untimely demise.
I think the part that burns me the most is knowing Laila hooked up with Malik after meeting him at Reed’s party. If I hadn’t left when I did that night, if I’d sucked it up and walked over to her to welcome her to the tour the way my bandmates did, would everything be different now? I thought I was stepping aside for my best friend, which is something I can stomach, though not happily. But it turns out, I was stepping aside for Malik Wallace. And realizing that feels like a special kind of torture.
Kendrick leans into me, just as Malik whispers something to Laila that makes her giggle. “Fuck my life,” Kendrick mutters. “Sitting across from them is my personal version of hell.”
“Sorry, brother. That sucks. Let’s drink another round.”
I flag a server—a young woman I’d guess is an aspiring actress or model or dancer, given that this is Manhattan and she’s lithe and stunning. And she immediately strides over to me with a big smile on her face.
“Another round,” I say, motioning to my empty glass and Kendrick’s. “Make ‘em both doubles this time.”
“Triples,” Kendrick says.
“You got it, boys,” she says with a wink. She bites her lower lip and leans into me. “If this is inappropriate, I’m sorry. But would you and Kendrick mind taking a selfie with me? I’m a huge fan.”
Kendrick agrees, of course, because he’s much nicer than me, and she pokes her head between us and snaps the photo. But when that task is done, she doesn’t leave. Rather, she turns her attention on me, specifically, in a way I’ve seen many times, and whispers, “I’m a huge fan, Savage.”
Well, that’s not subtle. If history has taught me anything, she’s telling me she’s down to sleep with me tonight. If I’m right about that, I’m not interested. However, I couldn’t help noticing, as we took that selfie, Laila was watching the interaction with blazing eyes. So, I decide, interested or not, to let Laila think she’s not the only one who’ll be getting laid tonight.
“Come here,” I say to the waitress. I motion to her to lean closer, like I’m going to tell her a secret, and she follows my command with obvious excitement. I lean in, my body language shifting into fuckboy mode, the same way it did when I hit on Georgina at Reed’s party. “What’s your name, beautiful?”
“Desiree,” she replies breathlessly. And I can almost see her heart pounding against her sternum.
“That’s a sexy name. What’s your favorite Fugitive Summer song?”
She doesn’t hesitate. “‘Come with Me.’”
It’s not a surprise. I don’t know if that song is genuinely a top favorite for all the women who’ve claimed as much. All I know is that song has gotten me laid more times than I can count. Whenever they say they love that one, in particular—my band’s most brazenly sexual song—and then look at me the way this waitress is looking at me now—I can pretty much count on the next thing the woman says making it clear she’s down to fuck.
