Seven
Savage
Chicago, Illinois
Me: Yo, KC. I decided to fly into Philly tomorrow morning, instead of tonight. Mimi asked me to come to her treatment this afternoon, and I couldn’t say no. Don’t worry, I’ll be there in plenty of time for soundcheck tomorrow.
Kendrick: Does Tracy know?
Me: Yeah. She’s pissed. Says I’m cutting it too close. I told her not to stress. It’ll work out just fine.
Kendrick: How is Mimi doing?
I look at my grandmother sitting next to me on the couch, looking like a little hummingbird. She’s flanked by me on one side and my cousin, Sasha, on the other, as we watch the season finale of Mimi’s favorite show, Sing Your Heart Out.
Me: She’s good. Feisty and funny, as always. Just really tired. Today’s treatment kicked her tiny ass pretty hard.
Kendrick: Give her a big hug for me.
Me: Will do. How’s tricks on your end?
Kendrick: Good. We’re at the hotel, chilling before tomorrow.
Me: Chilling how?
Kendrick: The usual. Watching Netflix with Kai and Titus. Smoking a blunt. Eating way too much pizza. Be jealous.
I sigh with relief. Call me paranoid, but all day long I’ve been imagining Kendrick and Laila hitting it off on the plane by day, and then fucking like rabbits in Kendrick’s hotel room by night. Thanks to Kendrick’s response, I’m highly relieved and cautiously optimistic. But, still, I can’t help probing a bit more. This time, I get straight to the point.
Me: How’d it go with Laila today?
Kendrick: FUCK MY LIFE, DUDE! SHE’S GOT A BOYFRIEND AND HE’S MALIK FUCKING WALLACE!!!!
No.
My heart is sinking. But not for Kendrick. For myself. But why do I even care? I don’t know Laila. She’s nothing to me but a sexpot in a music video. A pair of blue eyes shooting daggers at me from across a crowded party. A pair of perfect tits. Plush lips I’d do anything to kiss . . .
Fuck!
What’s wrong with me? Why do I feel this primal desire to fuck the living hell out of that woman, above all others? It’s insane. I know I’m having a classic “celebrity crush,” like a teenager with a wall full of posters. Which is so unlike me, it’s ridiculous. And yet, I can’t help it. From the moment I saw her in that music video, I wanted to fuck her. And not in a fantasy. I wanted to hunt her down, maybe through Reed, or her agent, and meet, seduce, and fuck her. Unfortunately, I was on tour at the time, so it wasn’t in the cards . . . and now, she’s magically the opener on the rest of our tour, and I’m supposed to hang back and do nothing while Kendrick pines for her and she has FaceTime sex with Malik Wallace, of all people?
Me: I think I saw Laila with Malik at Reed’s party.
Kendrick: Yeah, that’s where they met. Can you believe it? I missed my chance by minutes. If I’d walked onto that basketball court five minutes earlier and invited Laila to get a drink, she never even would have met Malik.
And if I’d disregarded Kendrick calling dibs an hour before that, and beelined over to Laila when I first saw her across the party, I’d already have banged her a hundred times by now.
Me: It’s probably for the best, KC. Like I said before, messing with an opener is a bad idea.
Okay, it’s now official. I’m going to hell. Because even as I press send on my latest text, I know I’d fuck Laila, whether she’s our opener or not, if only Kendrick wouldn’t hate me for it. And maybe even if he would.
Kendrick: You’re probably right. I’ve heard horror stories about guys messing around with openers and living to regret it.
Me: Exactly. It would have gone all kinds of bad in the end.
Kendrick: I’m sure the middle part would have made the bad ending well worth it, though.
I exhale a long breath, not knowing what to reply to that. As I ponder my response, my eyes drift to the TV as Hugh Delaney, the crusty old country star who’s been a judge on Sing Your Heart Out since its inception, tells a wide-eyed contestant what he thought of her second of three performances in the finale show. Shaking his head, Hugh says, “Honestly, Deanna, I was expecting more from you tonight. This is the finale! And yet, I didn’t see your usual sparkle. Hopefully, you’ll pull a rabbit out of your hat for your final song.”
The audience boos, as Aloha leans into her microphone. “I couldn’t disagree with you more, Hugh,” she says, eliciting rousing applause from the crowd. “Deanna’s performance was far more subtle than her prior ones. But that’s what made it so moving to me. Sometimes, less is more, Hugh.” Aloha looks straight at him. “Try it sometime.”
The audience roars its approval of Aloha’s assessment—and, even more, her zinger to Hugh. The man everyone loves to hate.
My cousin, Sasha, yells from her end of the couch, “You tell him, Aloha! Boom!”
Chuckling, I look at our grandmother between us to see her reaction to Aloha’s zinger, as well as Sasha’s effusive support of it, and discover our little hummingbird is fast asleep, her tiny body looking peaceful and painless in repose.
“Aw, Mimi,” I murmur. “Sweetheart.” With a little wink to Sasha, I get up and scoop our grandmother into my arms, bring her into her bedroom, and carefully lay her down. I tuck her in and head to the kitchen, where her regular nighttime caregiver, Stuart, is sitting at the table, eating a bowl of soup. I tell him Mimi is down for the count, and Stuart says he’ll take it from here.
I head back into the family room and sit back down next to Sasha, just as my phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s another text from Kendrick.
Kendrick: JESUS CHRIST!!!! I just researched Malik Wallace. He’s total trash to women, dude. Look him up. Reddit is full of women who say he’s a
