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“I’ve told her. She cried tears of joy.”
Eli flops into a chair. “Savage.”
“I had to get it for her. You know the story of that house.”
“How much did you agree to pay? Please, tell me you at least got a smoking good deal?”
I pause. It seemed like a no-brainer at the time when I knocked on the door of that house last week and made them an offer they couldn’t refuse. The house wasn’t even on the market, actually. And they insisted it wasn’t for sale, at any price. So, I offered to pay them a king’s ransom to change their mind. I figured, Why not? The tour was massively successful, which means I can afford to burn my entire salary, and then some, from Sing Your Heart Out on a gift for Mimi. But now, I’m thinking maybe it was a wee bit extravagant to blow every penny of my salary, and more, on that one purchase. “Okay, actually, I told you a little white lie,” I admit. “The house wasn’t actually on the market . . .”
“Oh, God. No. How much, Savage?”
I grimace. “Five million.”
“No!”
“I had to offer that much, or else—"
“Savage, no!”
“It’s okay. For what it’s worth, the house is going to be in my name, so, one day . . .” I trail off, not wanting to think of the ending to that sentence—the obvious implication that Mimi won’t be around to enjoy her fancy new house on a hill forever.
“Your salary from the show won’t cover that,” Eli says, like I don’t know basic math. “Not to mention, you won’t even get paid, all at once, by the show—assuming I can fix this for you. Plus, even if you do wind up staying on the show, if I can save your stupid ass today, then half your salary will go to taxes and commissions.”
“Half?” I blurt. “Well, shit.”
Eli looks genuinely distraught on my behalf. He fidgets in his armchair for a moment. “Savage, even if I can get the show to keep you on, that was the most irresponsible purchase, ever. You already bought Sasha a house last year—and you don’t even have one for yourself!”
My stomach flip-flops. “Look, I’m not gonna apologize. I had to do this for Mimi. She’s the first person in the world who ever truly believed in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself. The first person who told me I actually mattered.” I swallow hard, keeping my emotions at bay. “There’s no way to know how much time she has left, Eli. But things aren’t looking good. So, whatever time she’s got, I want her to get to lie in a huge bed fit for a queen in the master bedroom of that particular house, while watching me sit at the judges’ table—in Hugh Delaney’s fucking chair—on her all-time favorite show.”
Eli runs his palm down his face. “Aw, Savage. You’re such a fucking . . . softie.”
I press my lips together. That’s not how I thought Eli was going to end that sentence. I was expecting him to say idiot. Or maybe asshole. And I can’t deny his word choice has moved me.
“I’m sorry I messed up last night,” I murmur. “I considered last night a last hurrah before I turn into a pumpkin, you know? I truly didn’t think they’d care if I added to my dick pic collection.”
“You were already a pumpkin. That’s my whole point. The contract was effective the minute you signed it. And the infuriating part is that I told you that.”
“The good news is that, besides that one naked swan dive, I truly was a Boy Scout last night. A popular Instagram model practically begged me to take her upstairs to my room, but I said no.” I gasp. “Hey, let’s call the producers and tell them about that!”
“They already know, dumbass. Everyone already knows because that highly popular Instagrammer posted a video about her interaction with you this morning, which is now making the rounds on the internet, right alongside screenshots and videos of your gigantic dong, mid-flight.”
Twenty-One
Savage
I furrow my brow at my manager. “What do you mean the Instagrammer made a video about her interaction with me last night? There was nothing to say because I turned her down.”
“That’s exactly what she said,” Eli replies. “It’s the supposed reason you turned her down that’s making her video take off. And thank God it is, because that video is the only reason I’ve got a snowball’s chance in hell of fixing this mess for you.”
I blink in confusion. “What’d the Instagrammer say in her video?”
“Tell me your version of your conversation with her, first. Word for word, if you can.”
I release a puff of scornful air. “I can’t remember what I said to her, word for word. I was drunk. Plus, the party was noisy, so I couldn’t hear everything she said.”
