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“Sorry about that,” I mutter. “You can go back in now.”
“No worries. Have a good one.”
“You, too.”
As the woman heads inside to return to Laila, I begin traipsing up the pathway toward Reed’s gigantic main house, physically shaking with adrenaline. I think I persuaded Laila, pretty convincingly, not to put too much stock in my lyrics. In fact, by the time I left the guest house, I think I had Laila pretty well convinced “Hate Sex High” is mostly fiction, other than the obvious references in the verses. Obviously, there’s no getting around the fact that Laila was the one who chased a hate sex high with me, all the way to three orgasms. But, thankfully, I think I persuaded Laila not to freak out about the chorus—specifically, the one lyric I didn’t want her to hear the most.
If I’d had the balls to tell Laila the truth about that particular lyric a moment ago, the one in which I confessed I was feeling something I didn’t want to feel for her, I would have had to tell her I was flat-out obsessed with her by the time I stumbled upon her in that hot tub. I would have had to tell her I became even more obsessed with her after finding out sex with her was hotter than my hottest fantasy. I would have had to tell her my obsession with her morphed into downright madness, once she’d started ignoring me and all my texts, in city after city, beginning in Las Vegas. And that my madness only amplified when she started showing up everywhere with motherfucking Charlie the Fitness Trainer, looking like she’d just finished sucking his dick. But I couldn’t tell Laila any of that. Not yet, anyway. Not now.
After rounding a corner, I come upon Kendrick, sitting in the same spot on Reed’s patio where I left him earlier, his MacBook open and his headphones on.
When my best friend sees me approaching, he rips off his headphones. “Well?”
I come to a stop in front of Kendrick and exhale. “When I walked in, Laila was in the middle of listening to ‘Hate Sex High’—a fact I knew, instantly, because of the look on her face.” I mimic Laila’s expression, making the same sort of look people make during a jump-scare in a horror movie.
Kendrick grimaces. “What’d she say about the song?”
I take a chair and tell Kendrick the whole story, in great detail, concluding with, “Thankfully, by the time I left, I think I had her pretty well convinced the song is just, you know, inspired by her, but with lots of artistic license taken, especially in relation to the chorus. The part that matters the most.”
Kendrick sighs. “Well, it’s a relief you were able to talk to her right away, so the situation didn’t spiral out of control on you.”
“Mm-hmm,” I say, simply because, the minute Kendrick says the word relief, I realize that’s not the predominant emotion I’m feeling. That, in fact, I’m feeling mostly disappointment that Laila believed my bullshit about the song not being completely true. Did I secretly hope Laila would see right through my lies and force me to come clean and confess everything to her? No. That’s a ludicrous thought, especially since I don’t even know what “coming clean” and “confessing everything” would mean in this situation. What do I honestly feel for Laila? I know Laila blasted her way into my sexual fantasies when I saw her music video during the international leg of our tour, and that she cast one hell of a spell on me when I laid eyes on her at Reed’s party. But like Kendrick’s said to me in the past, I think it’s highly possible I’ve only wanted what I can’t have. Is Laila nothing but a sex kitten fantasy for me, and the real Laila, if I got to know her, wouldn’t interest me at all? Honestly, I don’t know. And until I do, I’m sticking to my story that “Hate Sex High” is only based on the truth.
“No, Savage,” Kendrick says, out of nowhere, apparently, reacting to my facial expression. “We talked about this last night.”
“What?”
Kendrick’s jaw tightens. “Feel free to mind fuck anyone else, if that’s what gets you off. Make anyone else fall for you, right before you toss them aside because they’ve become ‘boring’ to you when the chase is over. But don’t you dare pull any of your usual shit with Laila, or I swear, I’ll take it personally, like you’ve pulled that shit on me. You understand?”
I exhale. “You already said all this to me last night.”
“But not when you were sober. I’m just making sure we’re clear.”
All of a sudden, it hits me like a ton of bricks: Kendrick is in love with Laila. Or, at least, he thinks he is. Surely, his head knows by now he can’t have her, but his heart still hasn’t gotten the memo. “We’re clear,” I reply softly. “I promise I won’t pull my usual bullshit with her.”
