“Talk to you later, Laila,” he says. “Come eat with us after your soundcheck. We’ll be in Greenroom 2 with a full spread. Plenty for you and your band.”
“Thanks so much.”
Kendrick heads toward a far door, just as Savage’s striking face comes into view. He strides into the large venue and toward the stage, and Kendrick greets him warmly and then falls into step with him. At the same time, the rest of the band converges on the stage and gets settled with their instruments in a way that suggests they’ve all done this before. Many, many times—and on a very tight schedule. When Savage and Kendrick walk onstage to join the rest of their band, everyone waves curtly at Savage. But they don’t scold him or otherwise freak out. They just get down to business.
Savage slides the strap of his guitar over his shoulder. “Has this been tuned?”
“Yes,” a nearby roadie confirms. “All three are ready to go.”
“Thanks.” Savage steps up to his mic and taps on it, quickly discerning it’s not live. He waves his arm and the soundman at the back of the venue flips a switch. “Hello, Philadelphia,” Savage booms when the mic is live. “1-2, 1-2.” Boom. Savage’s eyes land on me. And there it is, again. That same crazy electricity I felt every time my eyes met his at Reed’s party. A kind of double-ovarian explosion I’ve never felt before. “Hello, Laila,” Savage says calmly into his microphone, a smirk on his handsome face.
But that’s all I get. Without even waiting for me to mouth “hello” in reply, Savage looks down and rips off the opening guitar riff from one of Fugitive Summer’s biggest hits—the sexiest song in their catalog, by far—a song filled with double entendres about orgasms and oral sex called “Come with Me.”
Did Savage just now dedicate this song to me, by saying my name before launching into it? Or am I connecting dots that simply aren’t there?
Of course, the full band expertly follows Savage’s lead, right on cue, and, soon, he leans into his microphone and begins to sing. And just like that, even during a soundcheck, Savage transforms from a mere mortal into a god before my eyes. Even when there’s no audience cheering him on, no collective hysteria to elevate him to superhuman status, Savage nonetheless looks supernatural in this moment. The perfect representation of a man doing what he was divinely created to do. And whether I want to think it or not, despite me actively not wanting to think it, as I watch Savage performing onstage, I find myself thinking, on a running loop: I. Want. That.
Nine
Laila
“All I’m saying is it’s a lucky thing you’ve got bodyguards,” Kendrick is saying to Savage as I enter the greenroom with my musicians after our soundcheck. “Or else Laila would have murdered you in there.”
Crap.
Fugitive Summer is sitting at a large table, eating a meal. And based on what Kendrick just said, it seems Kendrick has been telling his band the story of my earlier bitchfest, the one in which I complained to my assistant about Savage traveling on the day of the opening show.
At the sound of my band entering the room, Fugitive Summer collectively turns their heads toward the door.
“Hey, guys,” I say awkwardly, my cheeks blooming. “Have you met my band?”
My heart racing, I introduce everyone—two guys and two women—trying to sound light and bright. And through it all, I steadfastly avoid Savage’s gaze.
Kendrick enthusiastically invites us to fill our plates from a buffet at a nearby table. So, we all head over there and begin doing just that, exchanging small talk with Fugitive Summer as we do. We talk about the venue. The acoustics. The amazing sound crew. My musicians compliment Fugitive Summer on their soundcheck, and several of them compliment my band in return, saying they heard our two songs from in here and we sounded great.
As I walk to the dining table with my meal in hand, I feel eyes on me. And when I finally muster the courage to look up, I discover I’m right. But the eyes don’t belong to Savage. They belong to Kendrick. He’s looking at me apologetically. Like he feels bad he just ratted me out to his friends.
I shoot him a warm smile to let him know I’m not offended in the least. That in fact, I’m well aware I deserved it. Actually, although I’d never admit this to Kendrick or anyone else, I’m kind of glad Savage knows my thoughts about his lateness, albeit not directly from me. Someone needs to tell that boy the truth—that the entire world doesn’t revolve around him. It might as well be me.
As conversation at the table between the two bands becomes easier and gains momentum, I muster the courage to peek at Savage, and find him already staring at me. Or, more accurately, glaring at me. Glowering, like he wants to beat the hell out of me.
Oh, dear. Is Mister Rockstar pissed about what Kendrick just now revealed? Because, if so, I’m not sorry. The man made me have to reschedule half the stuff on my calendar and cancel the rest. So, I think I’m allowed to be a tiny bit annoyed. Lesson learned, though. Annoyed or not, I’ll shut my trap going forward.
Savage slowly slides a bite of food into his gorgeous mouth and chews, not taking his eyes off me.
So, I arch my eyebrow, and do the same.
He subtly mimics my facial expression, like he’s mocking me.
So I shoot him a look that says, Come at me, bro.
He doesn’t hesitate. He makes a face that says, Oh, I will . . . and then looks away.
Damn it! When will I learn to look away first?
Feeling pissed at myself, I take a big bite of food and tune into the conversation happening around me. It seems Kai and one of my musicians went to the same music
