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Crap. Does she have a spy who’s already told her about our knock-down, drag-out screaming match backstage in Atlanta? Or is she simply fishing? “No, that argument was the only one,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Adrian and I mostly stayed out of each other’s way during the tour.”
“Adrian? You’re on a first-name basis with him, huh? I don’t think I realized that’s his first name. What a sexy name.”
“I . . . I used to call him that to annoy him, while he called me Fitzy to annoy me. See? There were no fireworks between us. More like grade-school teasing, combined with total and complete indifference.”
“Huh,” Sylvia says, conveying an ocean of disbelief with that one syllable. She addresses the guy with the headset again. “Can we bring up the meme now? Thanks.”
Holy hell. The meme, too? I feel like I’m being waterboarded.
Poof.
Like magic, the meme that’s been flooding social media this past week, ever since the Video Music Awards, appears on the screen behind us. It’s a photo of Savage and me, taken as we walked onstage together, our eyes locked in fiery anger. In the shot, Savage is smoldering at me like a volcano about to blow, while I’m glaring at him like I’m plotting his slow and painful dismemberment, starting with the piecemeal removal of his cock and balls. And, of course, since this is a meme, there’s a caption across the top and bottom that reads: “I hate you so much . . . I want to fuck you to death.” Although for Sylvia’s daytime audience, the f-bomb in the caption has been blurred out.
“Have you seen this one?” Sylvia asks innocently.
“I have.”
Sylvia addresses her audience. “Have y’all seen this one?”
The audience applauds, confirming they’ve seen it, too.
“I don’t know, Laila,” Sylvia says. “Looking at this photo, I can see why those pesky rumors about you and Savage simply won’t die. I mean, look at the chemistry between you two! Those are some serious sparks!”
The audience expresses its agreement, while I find myself wondering how the heck I managed to walk straight into this landmine. Did Daria set this up with Sylvia, to make sure this clip went viral? I bet she did.
“Those aren’t sparks,” I say. “They’re daggers. Right before Savage and I walked onstage, we had a little disagreement. Surprise, surprise. So, what you’re seeing there isn’t me wanting to jump his bones, as the meme would have you believe. It’s me wanting to murder him.”
Sylvia smirks. “I think you’re missing the whole point of the meme, darling. The point is that—and this is something I think we can all relate to—a woman can simultaneously want to murder a man and jump his bones. It’s called hate sex, honey. And from my experience, it can be awfully fun.”
The audience roars with laughter. Oh, Sylvia. She’s a gem.
Sylvia continues, “I’d think that’d be especially true when you’re having hate sex with a specimen who looks like that.” She motions to the screen behind us while I gape like a fish on a line, fruitlessly racking my brain for a witty retort. Finally, before I’ve managed to find adequate words, Sylvia looks directly into one of the cameras and says, “Big thanks to the lovely and talented Laila Fitzgerald for joining us today! Buy her album and watch her on Sing Your Heart Out this season! When we come back, we’ll be joined by Chef Claude, who’s going to teach us how to make the perfect French croissant!”
The audience applauds. The red lights on the various cameras turn off. A producer announces, “We’re clear.” And Sylvia throws her head back and lets loose with a belly laugh.
When she straightens up, she grips my forearm. “That was solid gold, Laila. Absolute perfection!”
I exhale what feels like my entire lung capacity. “It was?”
“It was brilliant.” She mimes a chef’s kiss. “I don’t know if you just lied to my face about Savage, little girl. Or if you’re silly enough not to have taken a big ol’ bite of that apple during your tour. But, God help you, if you were stupid enough to resist him when you had the chance, then take some advice from a woman twice your age.” She leans forward. “Fuck that man, Laila. Call him now and tell him to meet you in a hotel, and fuck . . . that . . . man.” She guffaws at my flabbergasted expression. “Honey, when you get to be my age, you’ll realize the only regrets in life are the things you didn’t do. The mistakes you didn’t make.” She smirks. “Trust me, honey, having hate sex with a man who looks like that delicious specimen is one mistake you’ll never regret.”
Twenty
Savage
The air is electric. The stage, flooded with lights. The packed audience in this massive arena is singing along with me to “Hate Sex High” . . . which makes no sense, now that I think about it, since the album with that song on it is currently being mixed and mastered. Did someone at the label leak the rough cut of the album?
