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Rejection.
Humiliation.
Hate.
All of it is coursing through me, all at once.
But, mostly, hate.
An elevator going down finally opens and I step inside, physically shaking with rage.
You know what? I don’t even care. Screw Savage. Screw Malik, too. And screw my cheating ex-boyfriend, Shawn, while I’m at it. I don’t need a man. Especially not one who’s going to make me forfeit my self-respect to be with him. Never again. Savage once told me to know my worth. Well, guess what? I’m going to follow his advice, from now on.
As the elevator descends, I tap out a text to the personal trainer assigned to the tour—a buff guy named Charlie. He’s not on the tour for me, of course. He’s a perk for the headliner. But Tracy, our tour manager, told me I’m welcome to use Charlie’s services, whenever he’s not otherwise engaged. Up until now, I’ve met with Charlie only here and there, out of respect for my place in the hierarchy. But now, screw it. I’m going to throw myself, and all these negative emotions, into a whole new obsession. A positive one. Namely, getting healthy, once and for all, in my mind, body, and spirit.
Me: Hey Charlie! By any chance, are you free to meet me in the hotel gym in fifteen for a session?
Luckily, Charlie replies immediately:
Charlie: I sure am. See you in 15.
The elevator doors open on my floor and I march toward my room to change into my workout clothes. Fuck Savage. And fuck every man like him. I’m officially done with bad boys, for good. Before now, the history of my romantic entanglements could be summarized as follows:
Laila: Is that a red flag? Nah. Couldn’t be, despite its red color and uncanny “flag” shape.
Narrator: And then she fucked him. Only to find out later, yes, it was, indeed, a red flag.
Well, no more. Starting now, and for the foreseeable future, but especially for the remaining month of the tour, I’m sending myself to bad boy rehab. I’m going cold turkey, bitches! Thanks for the unsolicited advice about knowing my self-worth, Savage. I promise I’m not going to forget it, ever again.
Eighteen
Laila
Six weeks later
Los Angeles, California
“You clean up nice, yourself!” the woman onstage says brightly to her co-presenter. She’s a longtime country star who won this same award last year, and he’s a young buck with his first hit this year—an up-and-comer in tight jeans and a cowboy hat whose ass should be in a shadow box. And as the pair continues their scripted banter, aided by the teleprompter, I can’t help craning my neck around a nearby production assistant, searching the backstage area in vain for any sign of my co-presenter, Adrian Savage—who, true to form, is ridiculously late. This time, cutting it so close, I feel like I’m going to have a heart attack.
It’s the Video Music Awards and I’m standing in the wings, as instructed, right on time, awaiting my turn to present the next award with my assigned co-presenter. After the current duo finishes their thing, there will be a commercial break, thank God, which gives us a tiny margin of error. But then, whether Savage has arrived or not, I’ll have to walk out there and present this damned award, one way or another. If he doesn’t show up, I’ll have to disregard all the scripted banter on the teleprompter, everything I practiced earlier today at the rehearsal Savage didn’t attend, and I’ll have to wing it. Which is something I hate doing, ever. But especially on live TV.
I haven’t seen Savage since the tour ended two weeks ago, and barely saw him throughout the entire last month of the tour. I certainly didn’t ask to be paired with him today. Apparently, the producers, like the rest of the world, saw that viral video of Savage and me screaming at each other in front of that restaurant and decided we’d bring in the ratings as co-presenters. It’s fine, though. I got good at ignoring Savage for the final month of the tour, after seeing him for exactly who he is in Las Vegas. So, I can certainly summon my superpowers, once again, and ignore him while reading off a teleprompter.
I’m told Savage didn’t make it to the quickie rehearsal earlier today, thanks to a flight delay out of Chicago. But now that he’s not here, and the seconds are ticking down, I’m wondering if his supposed “travel delay” earlier was a flat-out lie. Is he standing me up, on purpose, to get back at me for ignoring him for the last month of the tour?
I look down at myself—at the dress I decided to wear tonight. If Savage doesn’t show up and see this gorgeous work of art on me, I’ll be so pissed. It’s basically form-fitting netting with well-placed swirls that artfully, but barely, hide my most scandalous lady bits. I wouldn’t have worn such a naughty dress for an awards show, typically. Even one as raucous as the Video Music Awards. But knowing I was going to see Savage for the first time since the tour ended spurred me on and made me want to remind him what he missed out on.
