But Aloha’s face reflects skepticism. “Well, I mean, he could have been worried you’d be livid to be called out, by name, as someone he’d screwed.” Aloha pauses, waiting for a reaction from me, and whatever wilted expression she’s seeing on my face makes her sigh with compassion. “Okay, let’s look at this objectively, honey. Savage is the guy who had sex with you on the night of the hot tub, and then, mere hours later, turned around and screwed someone else. So, even if he is singing in the chorus about ‘catching feelings’ for you, then how much stock do you really think you should put into those supposed feelings?”
I look down at my lap, feeling embarrassed about my show of excitement.
“Aw, I’m sorry,” Aloha says quickly. “Maybe you’re right. I’m certainly not trying to rain on your parade here . . .”
I take a deep breath and look up, making a concerted effort to wipe all traces of disappointment off my face. Aloha is right. I’m assigning way too much depth and importance to that chorus, when the obvious truth is that Savage proved himself a diehard womanizer in Las Vegas. A man who’d felt nothing but lust toward me, the same thing he’d felt toward countless other women across the globe. Truly, it was the height of self-delusion for me to think the song is about Savage catching feelings for me, when the truth is that I was never anything special to him. Nothing but another conquest.
Aloha apologizes again and tries to backtrack, but I wave her off, saying, “No, no, don’t apologize. I asked for your honest opinion, and you gave it to me. I’m glad you never pull any punches with me.”
“But, honey, I never want to ‘punch’ you in any way. I just wanted—”
“No, no, stop. Like you said, even if Savage did catch feelings for me after the night of the hot tub, which is unlikely, his ‘feelings’ wouldn’t be something I should rely on, based on his subsequent behavior. I need to remember the timeline of events here. There’s no other conclusion to be drawn when I look at Savage’s actions, rather than projecting some fairytale fantasy onto a few stupid lyrics in a song.”
Aloha looks sympathetic. “Oh, Laila, I’d love for you to be the woman who brought Mr. Fuckboy to his knees. I’d love that for you. I just don’t want you to get hurt. In the past, I’ve seen Savage in action, from afar, and let’s just say his reputation as a lady killer is well-earned.”
I nod. “Yeah, I know. I always want you to be nothing but totally honest with me. Even if the truth hurts, that’s what I want to hear.”
Aloha puffs out her cheeks. “Okay, well, if I’m being totally honest with you, it seems to me the song is a ‘gloating song’ about Savage having sex with you. A song written to taunt Malik, far more than to express any secret feelings he was having for you. I mean, Savage literally asks, at the end, if ‘he’—meaning Malik—made you come three times, the same way Savage did. If that’s not a pissing contest between two dudes—if that’s not Savage running a victory lap—then I don’t know what is.”
My heart feels like it’s lodged in my toes. Aloha is right, yet again. After his tussle with Malik in that restaurant, Savage wanted his adversary to know he’d won the game and claimed the prize. Also, that he’d done all of it exceedingly well. Savage sat down and wrote “Hate Sex High” to deride Malik, not because he felt tortured by his blossoming feelings for me. In the end, the song had very little to do with me, actually, and everything to do with his desire to flip the bird at Malik.
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
