As Laila and I are talking to Fish and Alessandra, Reed pointedly brings his date over to say hello to Laila and me. And, once again, like in New York, his date is none other than Georgina. The sultry reporter for Rock ‘n’ Roll. How Reed still hasn’t gotten bored with her and moved along to the next yet, or, conversely, hasn’t royally messed things up with her, I have no idea. But, plainly, by the couple’s body language, they’re still going strong.
As Laila hugs Georgina in greeting, Reed trains his steely gaze on me. “You remember my fiancée, Georgina, don’t you, Savage?”
Reflexively, my eyes dart to Georgina’s left hand. And, I’ll be damned, she’s wearing a glittering golf ball on her ring finger.
Laila expresses effusive congratulations to her friend—apparently the women bonded quite a bit during the music video shoot—while I say, “Yeah, of course, I remember Georgina. Congratulations, Reed. You’re a lucky man.”
“Yes, I am,” Reed replies. And there’s no doubt in my mind he means it. Also, that he’s still holding a grudge from months ago, when I had the audacity to hit on Georgina when she appeared to be a single reporter at a party. It’s so on-brand for Reed to be holding a grudge for something so stupid, I can’t help chuckling to myself.
“What’s funny?” Reed asks.
“Nothing. I’m so happy for you, I’m bursting with joy.”
Reed glares at me like he wants to punch the smile off my face. So, I smile even more broadly at him. Why does Reed always have to make it so damned hard to like him? For the love of fuck, I didn’t know Violet was his little sister when I hit on her a thousand years ago! And I didn’t know Georgina was destined to become his future wife when I hit on her! Which, by the way, I only did for Kendrick’s birthday amusement, in the first place.
Feeling thoroughly annoyed, not to mention kind of peopled out, I wander away from the group to fill a plate at a nearby food table. Once I’ve got my meal in hand, I wander to a quiet corner and gratefully take a load off.
After a while, Laila appears, holding her own plate and a glass of wine. “Is this seat taken, fake boyfriend?” she asks.
“I was saving it especially for you, fake girlfriend.”
She sits. “Crazy day, huh?”
“It definitely took an unexpected turn.”
“Are you still mad about the money?”
“Nah. I’m over it. It’s only money. I can always make more.”
“Now, that’s the spirit.” She peers at me. “You still look grumpy.”
I shrug. “That’s just my face.”
She laughs. “I’m the same way. Unless I’m smiling, everyone thinks I’m pissed or angry. The irony is, when I’m smiling, it’s far more likely I’m plotting murder. So never judge my emotions by my face.”
“I think you’ve plotted my murder a time or two.”
“Or a thousand.”
“At least.”
We eat in silence for a bit, until Laila says, “You don’t like parties very much, huh?”
I pick up a chicken wing. “I like parties, as long as I’m not required to speak to anyone I don’t know.”
“Yeah, I picked up on that during the tour. You never once came to a single game night with the crew and staff.”
“They had game nights?”
“Every Thursday night. It was fun.”
“Nobody ever invited me.”
“Would you have come, if they did?”
“No. But it would have been nice to be invited.”
We’re silent again for a while, eating and drinking. Looking at the spectacular view.
After a while, I say, “I don’t think it’s weird to prefer hanging out with my best friends, rather than strangers. Doesn’t everyone prefer that?”
“Yes and no. Sometimes, it’s nice to meet new people. Get to know them. Hear their stories.”
I shudder and she laughs.
“You really hate to mingle, don’t you?”
“I hate it. We have to do it so much in our line of work, so when I’m not ‘on,’ I’d much rather be totally ‘off.’”
“I get that.”
“But it’s not the way you’re wired.”
“Not really. I love being alone to recharge, for sure. But I also love being around people, too.” She takes a long sip of her wine, and I watch the movement of her lips as the fluid passes them, suddenly feeling overwhelmed with the desire to taste them. I remember them wrapped around my cock. The way they were swollen and red when I pulled myself out of her mouth.
“What about Fish?” she asks, pulling me from my reverie.
“What about him?”
“He’s a friend of yours, right?”
“He’s a friend of everyone’s. He’s like Kendrick. Why?”
“I was surprised you seemed kind of standoffish around him, earlier.”
“I wasn’t being standoffish. I was just . . . standing.”
“It seemed like you were upset.”
“Laila, that’s just my face.”
Laila laughs. “Okay.”
“Honestly, I’d probably hang out with Fish a lot more, if he wasn’t always hanging out with his bandmates.”
She furrows her brow. “You don’t like Dax and Colin? How is that possible?”
“I like them. They don’t like me.”
Laila scoffs. “That’s impossible. Dax and Colin like everyone.”
“C-Bomb is a good buddy of mine.” I don’t need to say anything further. Everyone at River Records, and probably in the world, knows the 22 Goats’ smash hit, “Judas,” penned by Dax, is about Dax’s beef with the drummer of Red Card Riot.
Laila nods, apparently buying my explanation. I don’t think it’s the whole truth, though. But there’s no way I’m going to mention I once hit on Dax’s wife and also had a fling with Colin’s ex-girlfriend to the woman I’m hell-bent on sleeping with.
“So, should we talk about our backstory now?” she asks.
Reflexively, my eyes drift to her mouth again. “Yeah.”
“If we go by Nadine’s suggested timeline,” she says, “we got together around the end of the tour.”
“Mm-hmm.” My eyes are on her tits now. I haven’t
