Aloha fans herself. “Girl, you never disappoint. How did you even wind up in Savage’s room?”
“I was horny and drunk and didn’t know which room was his, so I crept down the hallway on my tiptoes, in my undies, and went looking for him.”
Aloha hoots. “Laila Fitzgerald! You little horndog!”
I snort. “I pressed my ear against a couple doors, hoping to feel some kind of ‘Savage vibration’ emanating from the other side. And then, lo and behold, there Savage was in his underwear on the far end of the hallway, on his way to find me.”
Aloha reacts gleefully.
“But that’s not the urgent thing I needed to talk to you about. I need you to listen to something that’s making my head explode. Talk me off the ledge, Aloha. I’m freaking out.” I grab my phone, anxiety coursing through me, and get “Hate Sex High” cued up. My heart thumping, I explain, “This morning, Kendrick gave me an early copy of Fugitive Summer’s new album, so I could listen to the mixes.” I hand my phone to Aloha. “Listen to the third track. ‘Hate Sex High.’ It’s about me—about the night I told you about, when I screwed Savage’s brains out during the tour.”
“Holy crap,” Aloha whispers, taking my phone and earbuds.
As she begins listening, I get up and pace back and forth in the small guest house, unable to keep my body, or mind, from spazzing out.
“Love the beat,” Aloha murmurs. “Cool baseline.” She pauses. “Ha! That’s so Savage. It sounds like he’s getting a blowjob.”
“Keep listening,” I say. Clearly, she’s only gotten as far as the introductory “yeahs.”
Suddenly, Aloha’s eyebrows lift. Her eyes widen. She begins muttering things like “Whoa” and “Wow.” Finally, she shouts, “He’s singing Laila! What the fuck!” She presses pause. “He’s called you out by name?”
“Right?”
“Dude.” She presses play again and a moment later shrieks, “You came three times with him that night?”
I blush and nod. “More last night.”
Aloha flashes me a snarky look. “Well, damn. No wonder you don’t care if he’s an asshole.” She snickers to herself before quieting down to listen again. And then, “Wow, he’s proud of those three orgasms, huh?” She pauses. “Okay, Savage, we get it. She came three times.” She snorts. “What a smug little shit to put this song as the third track on the album, as yet another nod to those three Os. That’s so Savage.”
My pulse lurches. I hadn’t thought of that, but she’s right.
Aloha continues listening for a moment before snorting and saying, “He just had to gloat, one more time, at the end. Such a cheeky bastard.” She presses pause and takes out the earbuds. “So, Laila. I have a question not answered by the lyrics. Something that wasn’t clear.” Aloha furrows her brow, like she’s trying to solve the secrets of the universe. “Did Savage, by any chance . . . make you come three times?”
We both break into raucous laughter. Even in my present state of total freak-out, I can’t help giggling with my good friend.
I resume my chair next to Aloha. “So, you agree he’s singing my name in those ‘la la’ parts, right? Because Savage denied it.”
“You’ve already talked to Savage about the song?”
I nod furiously. “He burst in here, while I was midway through listening to it. Apparently, Kendrick gave me an early copy of the album without consulting Savage first, and when Savage found out, he hightailed it straight down here to find me.”
“Interesting.”
“And then, when Savage realized I was already listening to ‘Hate Sex High,’ he had the nerve to deny he sang my name in the song! He insisted he was singing ‘la la’ all the way through.”
Aloha scoffs, her expression making it clear she doesn’t buy Savage’s explanation for a minute.
I continue, “Savage insisted I was only hearing my name because I’m a ‘megalomaniac’ who thinks the world revolves around me.”
Aloha laughs in a way that would have resulted in a spit-take if she’d taken a sip of a beverage immediately beforehand.
“Preposterous, right?” I ask.
“Utterly and totally preposterous. Not to mention, insulting to your intelligence. He’s singing ‘Laila,’ over and over again. Plus, come on, the verses track what happened between you and Savage during the tour—the stuff with Malik in New York and your hookup later on. So, there’s no doubt, even if he didn’t call you out by name, which he did, that the song is one thousand percent about you. But, yes, there’s no question he also says your name, repeatedly, to emphasize his point.”
“But what’s his point?” I ask breathlessly. “Is his point what he sings in the chorus? The part where he says he’s feeling ‘something’ he doesn’t want to feel for his muse—for ‘Laila’ who’s falling into hate with him?”
“You mean, Laila who’s coming three times while chasing a hate sex high?”
I exhale loudly. “Honestly, it’s the chorus that’s freaking me out the most, even more than all the sex stuff. I don’t know if it would be hitting me so hard if Savage hadn’t raced down here with bulging eyes the minute he found out I had an early copy. But, Aloha, when Savage burst through that door, he looked like he was going to have a heart attack at the thought of me listening to that particular song. And then he brought up the chorus first, to deny it was true, before I’d said a word about it. So, I don’t think his main worry was the sex stuff.”
Aloha bites her lip, processing. “How’d you leave it with him?”
“He conceded the song was ‘inspired’ by me. That there were ‘kernels of truth’ in the verses. But he said he took those ‘kernels of truth’ and spun them into ‘popcorn lies’ in the chorus. But why would Savage feel the need to sprint down here, like a bat out of hell, unless he knew that chorus admits he caught feelings
