Several voices launch into singing the famous sing-along chorus of “Fireflies.” Yet, the only voice my brain can hear is Laila’s. And, suddenly, I feel the urgent need to get the hell out of here. If I don’t, I’m going to do something I’ll regret. I’ll fuck over Kendrick. Or I’ll pick a fight with Malik Wallace, of all people. Or, God help me, I’ll pick a fight with Laila herself, just to prove to myself I don’t want her.
Exhaling loudly, I grab my phone and tap out a message to Kendrick:
Me: Yo, KC. I’m gonna dip. Not feeling great. Happy 25th. I love you, brother. Have a blast tonight. Good luck with Laila.
After pressing send, I shove my phone into my pocket, grab a cigarette and light it—and then stride with purpose toward a faraway set of French doors. They’re a different set than the ones Laila and her group walked through several minutes ago. I don’t know where they lead, exactly, but I’m thinking the odds are high they won’t take me directly through the main room of the party, where Laila is currently onstage, gracing the world with her insane talent and sex appeal.
Happy Birthday, Kendrick, I think. For the love of fuck, don’t let her leave with Malik Wallace.
Six
Laila
One month later
Well, there’s no turning back now.
Not that I’d want to turn back. I’m just saying I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. Today is the start of my tour with Fugitive Summer. One of my favorite bands. And the beginning of a whole new, exciting chapter of my career.
I’m sitting in the backseat of a large SUV with tinted windows, alongside my assistant, Katrina, plus the security guy assigned to me for the tour. Which is super fancy. We’re driving to Van Nuys Airport outside of LA, rather than LAX, because we’re flying private. Also, super fancy. At the airport, I’ll board a private jet headed for Philadelphia, where the tour will kick off tomorrow night. After that, we’ll spend three months zigzagging the entire country in a fleet of buses before ultimately winding up back in our hometown of LA.
Shortly after that, the new season of Sing Your Heart Out will begin shooting, at which point I’ll find out when my one-episode stint as Aloha’s mentor will begin. And once that happens, all bets will be off. According to Reed and Daria, the one-two-three punch of my second album, this tour, and, ultimately, my stint on the show, will catapult my career to staggering new heights. Fingers crossed, anyway. I’ve learned that “success” is out of my control. All I can do is work hard, do my very best, remain professional and humble at all times, and let the universe take it from there.
My phone buzzes with an incoming text from Malik. He’s wishing me safe travels and says he hopes it’ll work out he’ll be able to catch my show in New York. I reply and tell him, “Yeah, I hope it works out! Have a great game tonight!” And leave it at that.
Malik’s been fairly persistent since Reed’s party. But I’ve been super busy and also wary of his reputation as a manwhore. So, nothing much has happened between us this past month, since he slid into my DMs immediately after Reed’s party. At Malik’s invitation, I did go to one of his games a few weeks ago—the hometown Lakers vs. Malik’s team, The Knicks. I sat courtside at The Staples Center, in the front row, and cheered Malik on. Which meant I was cheering a lot, since he was the high scorer in the game.
But afterwards, I only kissed Malik and thanked him for having me, at which point it became clear he’d been assuming we’d go back to his place to bang after the game. I didn’t see the point in pursuing something with him, though. Not with me leaving for three months and Malik’s schedule being packed with games and events. Not to mention, Malik is based in New York and I’m in LA. Even if Malik does wind up coming to my show in New York, what could really happen between us, after that? The whole thing seems pointless to me.
I shove my phone in my purse as the SUV stops at a security kiosk at the airport entrance. The driver shows his credentials to the guard, along with mine, my assistant’s, and the bodyguard’s, and then, away we go, toward a private jet parked on the tarmac.
“Are you so excited?” my assistant, Katrina, asks, poking my arm.
“So excited,” I confirm. But that’s all I can muster, thanks to the pounding of my heart. I’d never admit this to Katrina, or to anyone. But I’m almost as excited about finally getting to meet Adrian Savage as I am about starting the actual tour.
By now, I’ve met all the other members of Fugitive Summer. Two of them—brothers Kendrick and Kai—approached me at the party. The other two—twin siblings, Titus and Ruby—were more than gracious and welcoming when I approached them. Also, Kendrick and Ruby both gave me their numbers at the party and told me to contact them if I had any questions before the tour. I never did initiate any texting with either of them, however. First off, I wanted to play it cool. But, also, I’ve been crazy busy this past month, finalizing my album for a rush release in time for the tour and rehearsing with my backing band. But, still, it was incredibly sweet of both of them to make me feel so welcomed and appreciated. Especially Kendrick, who was sweet enough to reach out a couple times to ask about the progress of my album.
And then there’s Savage, who didn’t speak to me at the party, even once. But, rather, made it abundantly clear, through his glares and body language, he was a) not happy about me joining the tour, and b) way too busy chasing tail to
