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“But since you are here, against my will,” he spits out, “you should be kissing my goddamned ass, not ripping it a new asshole—and especially not in front of the entire crew.” He motions to the flabbergasted crowd of people standing around us, their mouths hanging open—a group that now includes not only staff and crew, but the members of Fugitive Summer, as well. “Know your place, Laila. Or, I assure you, you can and will be replaced.” He smiles at whatever panic he’s seeing on my face. “You think you’re the one who makes every single one of these people’s paychecks possible? You think the fans in this stadium paid to see you? Think again!”
He steps forward, closing the already small gap between us, and gets right into my face.
“Now, why don’t you go to your dressing room and have your little glass of white wine and call your asshole boyfriend to tell him about me being a big, fat meanie to you tonight. Actually, I don’t care what you do, as long as you stay the fuck out my way for the rest of the night, so I don’t cut your ass from the tour, just to teach you a much-needed lesson in humility.” He exhales, and his warm breath releases onto my face. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for me to head onstage to entertain the thousands of people who came out tonight to watch me shake my ass like a motherfucking rockstar cliché.”
Fifteen
Savage
Phoenix, Arizona
When Kendrick and I step outside the door of his hotel suite, the moonlit air feels unexpectedly warm for this late hour.
“Thanks for the birthday party, brother,” I say, gripping Kendrick’s sideways palm.
After releasing my hand, Kendrick looks around at the moonlit night and winces. “It’s still hot as an oven out here, at this hour?”
“Welcome to Phoenix,” I quip. As Kendrick knows, I spent my earliest years in this oven of a city, before moving to Chicago at age twelve to live with my grandma in her apartment complex, which was where I met the Cook brothers, whose family lived down the hall.
“You were ruthless in ‘Birthday Truth or Dare’ tonight,” Kendrick says, laughing.
I shake my head. “You were way more ruthless on your birthday. Surely, making the head of our label hate my guts is far worse than me making you briefly turn your balls into cucumber slices at the spa.”
We laugh together, both of us reliving tonight’s silliness. After Kai had passed out on the couch in Kendrick’s suite, I dared my best friend to whip out his balls and rest them onto his brother’s sleeping eyelids—you know, as if Kai were a customer at a spa and Kendrick’s balls were a couple of cucumber slices. And thanks to the rules of our game, Kendrick couldn’t refuse. In fact, the dude is such a good sport he even went so far as to remain in that compromised position for a full minute, albeit with his large hands covering his dong, and invited everyone at the party to snap close-up shots of his brother’s ball-covered face.
It was priceless. Easily, the highlight of my birthday party. The lowlight, however? Laila not showing up, despite Kendrick extending an invitation to her. I don’t blame her, of course. I knew the odds were low she’d come, given that she now hates me passionately. The thing is, as much as I’ve purposefully tried to make Laila hate me for weeks now, for reasons only a clinical psychologist would be able to explain to me, I realized tonight, rather starkly, while looking around at the people at my birthday party, I desperately wanted Laila to be there. I realized, in fact, that I’d very much like a do-over now, please. I’d very much like Laila to stop hating me now, please. The only problem? I have no idea how to dig myself out of this stupid hole I’ve been expertly digging for weeks. I wanted Laila to hate me with the force of a thousand suns? Well, mission accomplished.
Kendrick yawns. “I’m gonna head inside now, before Tracy falls asleep. Goodnight, brother.”
He’s talking about our tour manager. For the past week or so, Kendrick has been having a “tour fling” with her, which seems to imply he’s finally given up on waiting for Laila to break up with Malik. Surely, it’s no coincidence I’m only now regretting my strategy with Laila, after it seems crystal clear my best friend has finally taken himself out of the hunt.
To be honest, I would have bet any amount of money Laila would have ditched Malik’s trashy ass by now. And yet, every single time I’ve walked past her in a hallway, or overheard her as she’s stood nearby, she’s always on her phone, talking with Malik. Giggling with him. Saying stuff like, “Oh, Malik! You’re so bad, baby!”
