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Kendrick’s Adam’s apple bobs. He nods, but before he’s said a word, a female voice sings out, “Hey, boys!” And when we turn to look, it’s Aloha, coming up the path from Reed’s guest house alongside Laila, both women looking made-up and camera-ready.
“Hey, girls,” Kendrick replies brightly, while I look down at my toes, feeling awkward about my earlier conversation with Laila.
The women reach Kendrick and me and Laila announces she’s listened to our entire album and loves it. Kendrick thanks her, so I look up and thank her, too. But the minute our eyes meet, Laila quickly looks away.
“I had a couple notes on the mixes,” Laila says to Kendrick. She itemizes them and I’m impressed by her observations.
“Awesome notes, Laila,” Kendrick says, giving voice to my thoughts. “I’ll send your thoughts along to Zeke and the band. I’m sure we’ll make a few adjustments.”
Laila responds to Kendrick, and as she talks, I can’t stop staring at her, willing her look at me. But no dice. She only has eyes for Kendrick. My gaze drifts to Aloha’s green eyes to find her staring at me. And the second our eyes meet, Aloha flashes me a look that reinforces everything Kendrick said to me a moment ago: Don’t fuck with my friend.
I look away from Aloha’s scowl, feeling exposed. Embarrassed. And, mostly, annoyed. It’s one thing for my best friend to bitch-slap me. He has that right. But I’m not going to cower to anyone else. Least of all a Disney princess who’s obviously passed judgment on me, based on something she knows nothing about. Aloha is good friends with both Colin’s ex and Dax’s wife. So I’m sure she’s heard plenty of stories from both women about me being a player. Come to think of it, I think I might have ghosted Colin’s ex after we hooked up. Maybe? So, I guess Aloha has good reason to dislike me. But, still, there’s no reason for Aloha to send me that big a nonverbal “fuck you.” I didn’t kill anyone, for fuck’s sake. I just didn’t return a few texts!
I look at the ground, since that’s the only safe place for me to look right now, and a moment later, a production assistant arrives to let us know we’re minutes away from the press conference. “We need the full cast to get dressed and head into Reed’s game room,” she says.
Aloha and Kendrick head to their respective rooms to get dressed, but I touch Laila’s arm and ask her if we can talk alone for a second.
“We don’t have a lot of time,” Laila says.
“This will only take a minute.” I clear my throat. “I just want to make sure we’re good.”
Laila crosses her arms. “Why wouldn’t we be?”
“Because of what we talked about in the guest house. The song?”
“Oh, that,” Laila says. But it’s horseshit—yet another over-the-top performance by Miss Fitzgerald. She shrugs nonchalantly. “Honestly, I’d already forgotten all about that.”
My stomach flip-flops. This should be great news. I should be feeling relieved Laila is ready to move on. But that’s not how I’m feeling. “I just want to be sure you’re not mad or maybe confused about some of the lyrics . . .?” I clear my throat again. “I mean, coming on the heels of that Instagrammer’s video, I have to think you’re pretty confused about what the hell I’m—”
“I’m not confused at all,” she says flatly. “I don’t believe a word that Instagrammer said, Adrian. I only said I believed her to torture you.” She pats my arm. “Don’t worry. I’m well aware ‘Hate Sex High’ was about you taunting Malik—letting him know you’d fucked me, and done it well—rather than you confessing you’d caught feelings for me.” She scoffs. “I know you were pissed Malik physically attacked you in New York, and you wanted to mess with him. That’s all that song is about. Only a fool would think otherwise.”
Shit. That’s what I’m thinking, even though I should be thinking, “Thank God.”
“Hey, you know what?” Laila says, her blue eyes blazing. “I know I said earlier it wouldn’t be necessary to rerecord those ‘la la’ parts, but I’ve changed my mind. On second thought, I don’t want the whole world to know, for a fact, I’m the woman who came three times.”
“Okay. No problem. Should be an easy fix.”
“Sorry to ask you to change your art, but—"
“I’m the one who offered, remember? I think maybe I’ll replace those last ‘la las’ with ‘whoa-ohs,’ so there won’t be any chance of confusion.”
“Perfect,” she says. She stares at me for a long moment, like she’s expecting me to say more. And when I don’t, she says, “Well, if that’s all you wanted to talk to me about, then I think we’d better get dressed and head to Reed’s game room.”
