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“I don’t get it,” Ruby interjects. “What’s the dare, Kendrick?”
Kendrick motions to me, like he’s inviting me to enlighten Ruby.
Rolling my eyes, I say, “I’m assuming he wants me to hit on the hot reporter in front of Reed.”
“Bingo,” Kendrick says. “Let’s test your theory that he’s been sleeping with her, or wants to. I want you to hit on her, really obviously in front of him. With enough fuckboy heat you’ll lure Reed out of his proverbial bush this time. But not with so much heat he lurches at you like a cheetah and smashes your face against a wall.”
I grimace, as everyone else laughs.
“Why on earth would you force me to walk this tightrope?” I say. “You were there when C-Bomb told us that crazy story about what Reed did to the dude who’d fucked his ex.”
“What did Reed do?” Ruby asks, her eyebrows shooting up.
But, unfortunately for Ruby, she’s asking her question as Kendrick is saying, “Reed would never beat the shit out of you, simply for flirting with his woman. Flirting is way less a crime than fucking. Plus, your face makes him way too much money to smash it into a wall, regardless.”
“What the hell did Reed do?” Ruby shouts, this time cutting through the din. She looks at her twin brother, Titus, who’s laughing along with Kendrick and Kai. “You know this story?”
Titus nods. “I heard it from C-Bomb.” He’s referring to the iconic drummer of Red Card Riot—Caleb Baumgarten—who’s a good friend to our band.
“Well, he didn’t tell me,” Ruby says.
“You weren’t there,” Titus replies to his sister.
“Well, tell me the damned story already!” Ruby blurts. “It sounds juicy.”
Without further ado, Kendrick launches into telling the tale, which, in summary, is that, in the earliest days of River Records, Reed went batshit crazy after discovering the lead singer of one of his earliest bands had fucked his unnamed ex. Apparently, upon discovering the news, Reed beelined to a party at C-Bomb’s house, where the lead singer was hanging out, and promptly smashed the guy’s face into a wall. Not content to stop there, however, Reed also dropped the guy’s band from his label the next day and permanently shelved their debut album, which, C-Bomb said, was due to release within weeks. “And Reed did all this,” Kendrick says, “despite the fact that he’d already invested tens of thousands of dollars into developing the band’s music and marketing.”
Ruby explodes with shocked comments and questions, which the guys answer with relish. But since I’ve already heard this story, I let my mind and attention wander. I check out the movie star, Isabel Randolph, for a bit, admittedly feeling star-struck. As a guy with some fame myself, albeit not at Isabel’s level, I understand the inner workings of the cult of celebrity and consciously try not to let it seduce me. But, still, I can’t deny it’s kind of cool to see such a world-famous face, in person.
After a bit, however, when my interest in Isabel flags, I continue surveying the packed, noisy room. I check out several friends as they laugh and chat in nearby groups, noting, in particular, that my buddy, Fish, seems particularly smitten with his cute date. And that she looks absolutely enthralled with him. Good for Fish. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.
I keep scanning and people-watching. Sipping my drink. But when my gaze lands on Laila Fitzgerald, it stays put.
Laila Fitzgerald.
She’s another River Records artist. One I’ve been dying to meet for some time. And by “meet” I mean “meet, seduce, and, God willing, fuck.” When I first saw Laila’s most recent scorching-hot music video, that sucker immediately went into my spank bank, where it’s been in heavy rotation ever since—and, surprisingly, it hasn’t lost a bit of its effectiveness on me over time. In fact, repeat viewings have only made me more appreciative of Laila’s sex appeal.
At the moment, Laila is standing in a far corner of Reed’s palatial living room, chatting animatedly with two beautiful women. One of them, I know—fellow artist, Aloha Carmichael. The other one, I don’t. A Black woman with confidence and high cheekbones. Someone I’d probably consider hitting on, if I hadn’t spotted Laila. As it is, though, now that I know Laila is here, there’s no other woman in the room.
With her long, sandy hair, light eyes, and peaches-and-cream complexion, Laila isn’t my usual type. On paper, she’s far more Kendrick’s type than mine. Kendrick likes girls who look like they were cheerleaders in high school. Or maybe foreign exchange students from Sweden or Russia.
But, see, the thing about Laila that makes her so uniquely appealing to me, despite her “cheerleader” packaging, is her exquisite and undeniable “fuck you” charisma. Thanks to her full lips, which she wears in a perma-pout, and the persistently naughty look in her gorgeous blue eyes that practically screams “I’m a freak in the sheets!”, Laila comes off like a first-class sex kitten. A bombshell. A siren. Which means, when it comes to Laila Fitzgerald, the phrase “not my usual type” isn’t in my vocabulary.
