Laila giggles. “Tell him thanks. That’s actually very helpful.”
Damn. The look she just shot me was pure fire.
She motions to my phone. “Aren’t you gonna tell him thanks?”
My eyes drift to her lips, briefly. “Uh. Yeah.” I tap out the message and then plop my phone onto the car seat between us. I ask, “So, you want to start hashing out the backstory of our ‘romance’ before tomorrow’s press conference?” It’s what the producers told us to do, so our answers sound credible and consistent.
“There’s no time like the present,” she says. “What’s the story of how we first got together, my darling? Let’s start there.”
“Hmm,” I say. But before I’ve said more, our SUV hangs a right onto a quiet residential street, and, suddenly, I know exactly where we are—and where we’re headed. I gesture toward the distinctive iron gate coming into view at the end of the long street—the one I recognize as the gate in front of Reed Rivers’ hilltop mansion. “Looks like we’re staying at Reed’s tonight.”
“Oh, wow . . .” she says, peering through the windshield. “That’s his gate?”
“It sure is,” I mumble. “Shit.”
“You don’t like Reed?”
“I like him fine,” I lie. But, really, me not liking Reed isn’t the problem. The truth is, I was looking forward to spending the evening alone with Laila. She already mentioned she’s down to get shitfaced with me. And the last time we were both shitfaced, I practically fucked her off a lounge chair. But it’s fine. Whether we’re alone or staying at Reed’s tonight, the plan is the same. It’s now my mission from God to eat this woman while making her eat those fateful words that have plagued me since the night of the hot tub: This will never happen again.
Twenty-Six
Savage
After our SUV passes through Reed’s iron gate and comes to a stop in his large, circular driveway, there’s a flurry of activity already in progress in front of the large house. Several vans and cars are parked there, and an army of workers are coming in and out. One of our bodyguards advises Laila and me to stay put in the backseat for a moment while he “inspects” the area for paparazzi, and when he’s satisfied we’re all clear, he swiftly escorts us from the SUV into Reed’s house, as Laila giggles and makes another crack about the imaginary “spy thriller” we’re starring in.
Upon entering the mansion, we’re greeted by the executive producer of Sing Your Heart Out, Nadine Collins, who explains the workers are busy creating a studio in Reed’s game room, where Laila and I, and the entire cast—all four judges and their assigned mentors—will shoot some promo videos and photos to be released after tomorrow’s press conference—which, Nadine explains, will also take place at Reed’s house, to minimize the potential for leaks.
“I’ve sent production assistants to collect some personal items for your stay tonight, as well as at the permanent location,” Nadine says. “We should have the new place lined up by tomorrow night.”
We thank her and she asks if we have any questions.
“Have you been able to confirm my mentor yet?” Laila asks. As was discussed today during one of our phone calls with the producers, now that Laila has been unexpectedly promoted to judge, both Laila and Aloha will need mentors, both of which will be selected by the producers with an eye toward maximizing ratings.
“We’ve got several mentor candidates we’re in talks with,” Nadine replies. “I’ve got a scheduled call to finalize our decision in . . . ” She looks at her watch. “Damn. I’m late for my call. Reed is out back having a get-together with some friends. He said for you to come outside and join him.” She calls to an elegant older woman who looks to be Latina, and when she arrives, the woman introduces herself as Reed’s longtime housekeeper, Amalia. Nadine tasks Amalia with escorting us outside and getting us fed before scurrying off for her call like a chicken with her head cut off.
“Would you prefer to see your rooms before joining Reed outside?” Amalia asks. “Or room, if that’s what you prefer?”
“We’ll definitely need separate rooms,” Laila replies. “Is there food outside?”
“Yes, lots of it.”
“Then I’d prefer to go outside now and see our rooms later, please. If that’s okay. I’m starving.”
“Of course, dear. As you wish. I’ll be here all night.”
We follow the elegant housekeeper toward a set of double doors. And I can’t help feeling an illogical pang of disappointment Laila said we’ll need separate rooms.
Outside, we find Reed partying with a small group of friends. We’re introduced to the only people we haven’t met before—a couple Reed introduces as Henn and Hannah. From there, we greet the rest, all of whom we know. When Laila greets everyone, she gives them hugs like they’re her lifelong besties, while I dispense a series of simple hellos. I’m especially standoffish with the wife of Dax Morgan, the lead singer of 22 Goats. Dax’s wife, Violet, is also Reed’s little sister. The one I flirted with a few years ago at a party, long before Violet had met Dax, without me realizing her connection to Reed. I don’t know if Dax knows the story, but I wouldn’t put it past Reed to tell him, and I feel a bit awkward about it.
Besides Dax and Violet, I’m relieved to see Fish, the bass player of 22 Goats, and his cute girlfriend, Alessandra, the artist from the music video in New York, are also here. Those two are as nice as humans come from the factory. So, at least, until Kendrick gets here, I won’t feel like the entire party hates me.
As conversation continues, I hang back and watch my fake girlfriend flit around Reed’s patio like the social butterfly she is, easily engaging with everyone, the same way she did during our
