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Ha.
I’m so mad at myself right now. And yet, powerless to change course. At least, if I was going to give in to temptation, which I swore to myself I wouldn’t do, then self-respect demands I wait at least a full week to do it. At a bare minimum. Not mere hours. And yet, here I am, speed-walking like a middle-aged mom with a Walkman across this expansive lobby, on my way to Savage’s room for Round Two, feeling like a hungry dog who’s just heard the dinner bell.
Walking away from Savage on that lounger this morning, and not taking him up on his offer to head to his room, was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life. But I did it! And I was so damned proud of myself! And now, here I am, not even waiting until after tonight’s show to admit I’m hopeless.
I tried to resist Savage when I got his text a half hour ago, telling me his room number and begging me, literally, to let him eat me “from every angle” after tonight’s show. Upon receiving that text, I put my phone down on the nightstand in my hotel room and muttered, “Nope. You have zero effect on me, Savage.” But when I felt my resolve quickly crumbling like a beachside cliff, I stuffed my phone into my pocket and marched downstairs to the lobby, intending to spend the next few hours before soundcheck in the casino. What better way to distract myself?
But, unfortunately, I ran into our tour manager, Tracy, in the lobby, before making it to the casino. And that’s when she mentioned Fugitive Summer had just finished an interview and that all the members of the band were heading to their respective rooms to chill for a bit before soundcheck. In that moment, I felt possessed by a demon. Incapable of waiting a second longer to let Savage make good on his offer to eat me from every angle. I knew, whether I liked it or not, I was a goner.
And now, here I am. Pounding on the call button at the elevator bank in the lobby like my very life depends on it. After only one time with Savage, I feel physically addicted to him. Like I don’t care what pride I need to swallow to have him.
When one of the elevators opens, I lope over to it, lurch inside, and punch the button for the twentieth floor. But just before the doors close, two young women enter the small space, and immediately gasp.
“You’re Laila Fitzgerald!” one of them says.
“I am. Hello.”
“We love you!”
I thank them, and they ask for, and receive, a selfie.
“Are you going to the show tonight?” I ask, intending to offer them tickets if they say they’re not already going.
But it’s a moot point when they reply, “Hell yes, we’re going! Fugitive Summer is our favorite. And you, too!” They look at each other and at the same time, scream, “Savage!” And then quickly burst into gleeful, giddy laughter at their silliness.
“He’s definitely one of a kind,” I say.
One of them says, “Everyone says he’s your boyfriend . . . ?”
“No!” I bark, involuntarily, unable to keep the panic out of my voice. I clear my throat and try again, this time more calmly. “No.”
But the damage is done. I’ve obviously come off as a lunatic. The woman who doth protest way too quickly and loudly. The girls pause, apparently sensing, accurately, that I’m off my rocker. “Sorry if we assumed,” one of them says, slowly, like she’s talking a jumper off a bridge. “We saw that video of you and Savage shouting at each other and—”
“That was a misunderstanding,” I reply, my heart thumping. “But there’s nothing going on between us, I assure you.” They’re referring to a video of Savage and me in New York, taken while we screamed at each other on the sidewalk in front of that restaurant. Thankfully, the street noise and other ambient sounds were too loud to capture our words with any clarity. But our body language was clear enough—fierce enough to instantly spark rampant rumors Savage and I were having a passionate lover’s spat.
“Well, good, that just leaves him for us, then,” one of the young women says, making her friend giggle.
The elevator stops on their floor, but one of them holds it open while asking me if I can get them backstage tonight. But now that I’ve revealed myself to be a total nut job, I’m too embarrassed to see them again.
“No, I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m not allowed to do that.”
“Oh well. It was worth a try. Say hi to Fugitive Summer for us, okay? Especially Savage!”
“I will!”
After the doors close between us, I begin pounding on the button for Savage’s floor, despite it already being lit up. Now that I’m this close to Savage, I can feel his magnetic pull on me. Indeed, my mouth feels like it’s physically watering at the thought of what I’m going to do to that man, the minute I have him alone. Hopefully, he’ll be smart enough not to speak when I arrive. Or else, quite possibly, he’ll talk himself right out of the best blowjob he’s ever gotten.
