Becoming increasingly frustrated, I wander into the pool area and immediately stop dead in my tracks, and then sigh with relief, when I spot Laila in the far distance, bopping around happily on Reed’s basketball court, looking like a kid on a playground during recess. There’s a large group on the court along with Laila that includes Aloha Carmichael and the guys from 22 Goats and their dates. But no Cash.
I smile to myself. Did Naughty Little Laila ditch Cash’s ass the minute he was no longer useful to her—the minute she no longer needed him to make me jealous? I bet she did. Which means I’m still in the hunt, baby. That is, if Kendrick strikes out with her, of course. Obviously. I owe him at least that much.
I watch Laila and her friends for a moment, and quickly discern the group is playing HORSE, based on the way everyone keeps taking the same shots in rotation. And the minute I realize the game, I feel oddly invested in standing here long enough to find out if Laila makes her shot. I make a bet with myself: “If Laila makes her shot, I’ll head over there and welcome her to the tour. If she doesn’t, I’ll head inside and make her come to me.”
Fish from 22 Goats takes his shot and makes it and his cute date jumps for joy like he’s won a Grammy. Next up, Fish’s girlfriend takes her shot and whiffs so badly, I laugh out loud. Immediately, Fish and Laila console her and the girlfriend slinks into Fish’s waiting arms.
Finally, after a few other players take their shots, it’s Laila’s turn. She gets the ball from Aloha’s husband, Zander, a buff Black dude I’ve met here and there, and then heads to the designated spot on the court—a location a few feet behind the three-point line. After taking a ridiculously long time to gather herself, as if the fate of the world depends on her making the shot, Laila bends her knees, exhales, and flings her arms upward, releasing the ball into the air.
And . . . it’s a brick. A clunker that thuds to the ground a few feet from the rim.
Confronted with her abject failure, Laila shrieks before peeling off a glorious streak of laughter I can hear all the way over here. Finally, she drops to the ground, dramatically, and writhes around like she’s been shot, making her friends guffaw.
As Laila is writhing on the ground, a couple of tall, muscular guys reach the court. They high-five Aloha’s husband, Zander, before standing over Laila and laughing along with everyone else. And that’s when I realize one of the guys is the pro basketball player, Malik Wallace of The Knicks. The NBA’s Rookie of the Year last year, who led his team, singlehandedly, to win the Eastern Conference Finals. Jesus Christ. Reed’s contact list really is the coolest in LA.
As a fan of The Bulls, I should probably hate Malik Wallace, given how much he bitch-slapped my team last season. But it’s impossible not to respect such rarified talent and skill.
Heeeey, I think. Malik would be a perfect cover for me! I suddenly realize I could walk over there to the court and act like I came to meet Malik, thereby giving Laila the chance to introduce herself to me and thank me for letting her join the tour. Laila doesn’t know I had nothing to do with her getting the gig, after all. So why not walk over there to “meet Malik” and let Laila kiss my ass while I’m there, as any grateful opener would do? It’s pure genius.
I start walking, feeling pretty damned good about my strategy. It’s critical with a woman like Laila Fitzgerald—the kind who can get any man she wants—not to let her know how much I’m drooling over her. I can’t let her think she has the upper hand. Otherwise, she’ll surely ditch me as fast as she ditched Cash. And maybe Kendrick, too? That remains to be seen.
Fuck.
No.
I stop walking, the hair on the back of my neck standing up.
Of all the people on that court right now, the last one I’d want to be talking to Laila is Malik Wallace. But he’s doing just that. And not only talking to her, but brazenly flirting with her. She’s off the ground now and the pair has drifted off to the side to talk one-on-one.
Crap.
She’s laughing now. Swatting flirtatiously at Malik’s muscular arm.
Fuck.
Laila calls for the ball from one of her friends, and when she gets it, she hands it to Malik, clearly being sassy with him. She points. And he laughingly steps to the spot where she just airballed her latest attempt. Gracefully, Malik releases the ball and sinks it with nothing but net. And when he’s done making his shot—and, presumably, his point—he beelines back to Laila . . . and she gives him an exuberant high-five.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
They’re obviously bonding over there—in record speed.
The pair continues talking as the game continues around them. But, soon, their conversation is interrupted when Dax Morgan, the lead singer of 22 Goats, says something to the group that makes his bandmates—Fish and Colin—huddle up. My guess, based on the way the night has been going, is that Dax just received word that it’s 22 Goats’ turn to take the large stage in the main room of the party, along with whatever combination of musician-friends they want to invite. My band already played earlier in the night with our selected group of friends, so it makes sense to me that’s what I’m seeing.
“Hey, Savage!” a female voice says to my right. And when I turn my head, there’s a beautiful Asian woman standing before me. She extends her hand with a bright smile. “I’m Zasu, one of the writers for Rock ‘n’ Roll. Reed sent me to find you to
