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Suddenly, I feel like I’m standing in that hallway in Las Vegas, all over again. An acute sensation of rejection washes over me. I feel pathetic. Foolish. Embarrassed. Why do I still want Savage to want me, more than anyone else—but especially more than some random groupie he just met? Why does he still have this ridiculous hold over me?
Aloha says, “Aw, Laila. I could be wrong. After the night of the hot tub, was there any indication Savage was feeling ‘something’ he didn’t want to feel toward you? Think back.”
Images flood me. Savage’s arm slung over that groupie’s shoulders. A booze bottle dangling in his free hand. The woman’s obvious excitement that Savage had deigned to choose her. I hear her voice saying, “Let me at that famous body!” And every molecule in my body recoils and shudders at the memory. “No,” I reply, my spirit heavy. “On the contrary, the only indication was that Savage felt the same thing men always feel for me: nothing but lust.” I take a deep breath to regulate the pang of embarrassment twisting my core. How on earth did I hear “Hate Sex High” and turn it into a confessional about Savage catching feelings for me, when the truth is so damned obvious?
Aloha juts her lower lip in sympathy. “Aw, honey. Who cares what I think? I wasn’t there, and you were. Trust your gut.”
“I do. And my gut is telling me you’re right. It’s telling me I heard what I wanted to hear in the song, not what was actually there.”
Sighing, Aloha gets up from her chair and hugs me. “Oh, sweet Laila. You and your horrible taste in men.” She kisses my hair. “Why can’t you ever fall for guys who aren’t players and heartbreakers, girlie?”
I nuzzle into Aloha’s dark hair and exhale. “It’s my fatal flaw. I see a guy with multiple red flags sticking out of his hair and ears and asshole, and I run towards him, at full speed, rather than away.”
Aloha chuckles, while I groan in misery.
“I don’t even like Savage, as a person,” I say softly. “He’s an arrogant jerk. It’s like he’s cast a spell on me. Like I’m a drug addict and he’s my drug. I know he’s bad for me, but I can’t stop wanting him.”
Aloha pulls back from our embrace to level me with her green eyes. “Do you really want him—or do you want him to want you?”
“I want him to want me!” I shout, without hesitation. “Why doesn’t he want me, Aloha?”
Aloha chuckles. “Well, it seems pretty clear, from what I heard coming out of Savage’s room last night, you both want each other—physically, anyway.” She smooths my hair, presses a kiss to my forehead, and resumes her chair. “Buckle up, Buttercup. It sounds like the next three months are going to be a wild ride for you. You’re going to be living and working with Savage, and probably having amazing sex with him every night, too, if those sounds I heard last night were any indication. So, do yourself a favor and make sure you’re not projecting feelings onto him that might not be there. Or else, the next three months could really mess with your heart.”
I sigh. “Don’t worry. I’ve got my head on straight now. Savage has no idea Malik was nothing to me. I made him think I was with Malik for weeks after I’d already kicked him to the curb in New York. Obviously, it drove Savage crazy to think there was one woman on planet earth who was resistant to his charms. That’s what the song is about.”
The makeup artist sticks her head inside the door. “Ready for me?”
Aloha raises her eyebrows, asking me if I’m good.
“Yeah, come in,” I reply, flashing a wistful smile at Aloha. “We’re done here.”
“I’m always here for you,” Aloha says softly.
“Thank you. I’m good. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll hide out here for a bit. I promised Kendrick I’d listen to the whole album, and I don’t want to go out there and bump into You Know Who while I’m doing that.”
“Stay as long as you like—provided you let me know if there’s another song about you.”
“God help me,” I mutter, before leaning back and shoving my earbuds in again. But, thankfully, as I listen to the rest of the album, I don’t hear another song that contains my name buried in the mix or a single lyric that feels even remotely like it was inspired by me.
Two
Savage
As I exit Reed’s guest house following my conversation with Laila about “Hate Sex High,” the makeup artist I’d asked to step outside on my way in is standing outside the door, looking stressed. Clearly, the poor woman has a tight schedule before the press conference and the last thing she needed was some asshole rock star showing up and asking her to step outside.
