Everyone around me is saying they’ve never met Laila.
“It doesn’t matter,” Kendrick says, his resolve written all over his face. “With Reed over there, I can act like I need to talk to him about the tour.” He’s referring to the fact that we just got back from the eight-month-long international leg of our world tour and will be heading back out onto the road in a few weeks for the three-month-long domestic leg.
“Yeah, I don’t think . . .” I begin to say. But I’m saying it to Kendrick’s back. He’s already on the move. Walking directly toward Laila Fitzgerald. “Hey, KC!” I shout. “Wait up, Kendrick!”
But it’s no use. The music is too loud for my best friend to hear me. Or maybe he’s hearing me just fine and doesn’t give a shit. Something tells me it’s Door Number Two—that wild horses couldn’t stop Kendrick from heading over to meet Laila right now.
Shit.
For the first time in my life, I don’t feel like standing aside when a bandmate has called dibs. For the first time in my life, I feel like running after my friend, tackling him to the ground, and shouting, “I saw her first! I call dibs! She’s mine.”
But since Kendrick’s already halfway there, and it’s not my style to seem overeager, and since it is his birthday, after all, I force myself to stay put. I tell myself not to panic. Instead, I calmly throw back the rest of my drink and tell myself another gorgeous woman who interests me even more than Laila will cross my path, any minute now. Her friend, for instance. She’s hot as hell. The one with the dark skin, lush Afro, and banging body. But, no. Even as I try to talk myself into not giving a shit, I can feel my sights setting on Laila and nobody else.
A cocktail waitress walks by and I grab another drink. Ruby has started telling a story, so I try to focus firmly on that and try my damnedest not to obsess about what might be happening across the room. But it’s no use. I can’t think of anything else but my sincere desire and hope that my best friend in the world, the guy who’d throw himself in front of a bus for me, is, right at this moment, miserably striking out.
Unable to resist any longer, I sneak a peek across the party, just in time to witness Kendrick getting a huge hug from Laila. Reed is still there, but Aloha and the other woman are gone. And, damn, it looks like Laila is full-blown fangirling over Kendrick. Whoa. That’s not a normal introductory greeting! That’s the sort of hug fans give us during meet and greets. The kind women give their lovers when greeting them at the airport. Jesus Christ. Did I imagine that smoldering, come-hither look Laila flashed me a few minutes ago? Obviously, I did. Was she looking at Kendrick standing next to me the whole time?
I should be happy for my best friend, and I know it. But that’s not what I’m feeling. In fact, what I’m feeling is something quite the opposite of that. Something I never feel. Jealousy.
When Laila finally breaks free of Kendrick, animated conversation between Laila, Reed, and Kendrick ensues. As the trio talks, Laila’s eyes suddenly shift to me. And this time, when our eyes lock, when Laila discovers I’m already staring at her, again, she flashes me a wide, beaming smile that simultaneously takes my breath away and kind of pisses me off. She just hugged the crap out of Kendrick and now she’s trying to knock me onto my ass with that dazzling smile of hers? For fuck’s sake, Kendrick is standing right there, obviously still flirting his ass off with her, and she’s ignoring him to smile at me?
My brain feels like it’s toggling between primal desire, deep confusion, and downright anger, even as every fiber of my body yearns to return Laila’s beaming smile—to let her know I’m interested. Ready to go. Let’s do it, baby. Ultimately, however, my primary emotions seem to be protectiveness of Kendrick and annoyance at Laila for flirting with both of us. And so, ultimately, I do the thing Kendrick would surely do for me, if the situation were reversed: I clench my jaw, press my lips together, and look away, ceding the runway, free and clear, to my best friend. The birthday boy.
Two
Laila
When I enter the party, I’m blasted with blaring music combined with the loud din of laughter and chatter. I take in the grandeur sprawling before me, my lips parted in awe. Reed’s house is magnificent—a modern-day palace. Which makes sense, since Reed Rivers is the King of LA—a music mogul known in the industry as “The Man with the Midas Touch.”
I scan the expansive room, looking for any sign of my good friend, Aloha. A few minutes ago, she texted she’d find me near Reed’s front door when I arrived, but I don’t see any sign of her. What I do see, however, is wall-to-wall glamour and hotness. It’s silly for me to feel this way, given how much awesomeness has happened in relation to my debut album this past year and a half, but finally getting to attend one of Reed’s legendary parties makes me feel like I’ve really and truly arrived, every bit as much as attending the Grammys earlier this year.
My eyes drift as I await Aloha and stop short when I spot my celebrity crush across the large, crowded room. He’s Adrian Savage from Fugitive Summer. If you ask me, Savage is the hottest man alive. Dark hair and eyes. A jawline that could cut glass. A chiseled physique that looks like it was forged in tan marble. And all of it made especially panty melting by his omnipresent “big dick energy.” An attitude that apparently isn’t false advertising, based on those notoriously mouthwatering photos of him in the shower.
At present,
