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“Oh?”
“The producers made it part of my contract. They think I make ‘bad choices’ when I ‘drink to excess.’”
“Are they right about that?”
I snicker. “I’ll put it this way. My dick is still trending on Twitter, a full twenty-four hours after I got drunk at a birthday party last night.”
She can’t resist giggling. “Oh dear.”
“I wouldn’t normally drink two nights in a row, either. But, like I said, tonight was supposed to be my last hurrah, so . . . Fuck it.”
“Well, I’m glad you had fun tonight.”
“I didn’t. I hated tonight, actually. Except for talking to you. You’re the best part of my night.”
“Thank you. I enjoyed talking to you, too.” She stops in front of a doorway at the end of a long hallway and motions. “Here we are. Nighty night.”
I enter the room—a guest room decorated in elegant hues of white—and Amalia follows me inside, telling me where I can find additional blankets and towels. She points out this and that amenity, and, lastly, asks if I need anything further or have any questions.
“I have one question,” I reply.
Kendrick would tell me I’m an idiot for what I’m about to ask. But I don’t care. I can’t lie in bed under the same roof as Laila Fitzgerald and not at least try to finally get to eat that woman’s pussy.
I smile at Amalia. “Could you tell me which room is Laila’s? I think I’ll shower and get ready for bed, and then check in on her to make sure she got to her room, safe and sound.”
Thirty
Laila
I tiptoe out of my bedroom, wearing nothing but a midriff-baring T-shirt and undies, and creep down the dark, quiet hallway, headed to parts unknown. And that’s where the “brilliant strategy” portion of my quest ends and the “winging it” portion begins.
Crap! Why didn’t I ask Amalia which room Savage is staying in tonight? Stupid Laila! This house is as big as the hotel in The Shining, and I literally have no idea which door is hiding Mr. Smoldering Pouty Pants.
Unfortunately, I was stupid and/or naïve enough to think I could resist him. Not only tonight. But for the entire season of the show. What I didn’t count on, however, is how horny I get when I drink. And how freaking hot Savage is when he’s jealous. Good lord, put the two together, and the boy is like crack to me.
As Savage sat in that dark corner of Reed’s patio earlier tonight, watching me getting hit on by Colin, I felt so turned on, I could barely keep myself from sprinting over to Savage and launching myself at him like a missile. Despite all the reasons not to do it, I decided, right then and there, I’d invite Savage to my room whenever he finally approached me again. I imagined myself leaning in and whispering to him, “Come to my room later, so you can finally eat my pussy ‘from every angle.’” I imagined myself saying it to him in a sultry, breathy kind of whisper—the kind that would have made Savage pop a boner, right on the spot.
But then, the jerk never approached me again at the party! On the contrary, he got up and marched into Reed’s house, without even glancing at me! Which royally pissed me off, I must say. Savage is the one who screamed at me in that laundry room that we needed to remain in character at all times, whenever anyone else is around. And then, what did that hypocrite do? He sat in a dark corner, all night long, looking like a crazy person, not interacting with his supposed girlfriend, at all, and then waltzed out of the party, without even saying goodnight to me—the supposed love of his life! What kind of dickheaded boyfriend would leave a party without even saying goodbye to his girlfriend? Not mine, that’s for sure. Or if he did, he wouldn’t be my boyfriend for long. So now, I’ve decided to find Savage, wherever he is in this massive house, and give him a piece of my mind.
I stop in the middle of the hallway and look around. Which of these doors is hiding Mr. Sexy Pants Crazy Man? None of them look on the cusp of singeing, due to Savage’s proximity. For all I know, Savage’s room is in an entirely different hallway. Or maybe even on the first floor.
Not knowing what else to do, I pick a random door and press my ear against it, hoping that, miraculously, I’ll hear Savage’s voice behind it, or maybe detect some kind of supernatural Savage-infused vibration humming from inside the room. But, no, the room is silent and the air doesn’t feel super-charged with rockstar electrons in the slightest.
“Savage?” I whisper, ever so softly, my lips brushing the wood of the door, my voice as soft as flapping butterfly wings. But, sadly, perfect silence answers me.
