“So, I saw a photo of you at a basketball game recently,” Kendrick ventures. “It was a Lakers game in LA, but you were cheering on Malik Wallace?”
And there it is. The look in his eyes that confirms he’s interested in me romantically. No doubt about it. “Yeah, Malik invited me to the game. You were there when I met him at Reed’s party, right? You met Malik, too?”
Kendrick nods. “Strangely, Malik didn’t invite me to sit courtside at a Lakers game.”
I chuckle, not knowing what else to do. “It was a last minute thing. He slid into my DMs, and asked me, so . . .”
“Are you guys dating, or . . .?” Kendrick asks tentatively.
I don’t know why I do it, but I reply, yes, I’m dating Malik. In fact, I use the word “boyfriend.” Even though, in reality, that’s a massive overstatement. In truth, Malik is nothing to me, really. He’s been pursuing me, and I went on a date with him, but we’ve made no promises, to put it mildly. For all I know, he’s screwing someone else right now, and that’s perfectly fine with me. But the thing is, I don’t want to have to tell Kendrick, point blank, I’m simply not interested in him. I don’t want to hurt his feelings or make things weird, especially not on day one of the tour. So, I take the easy way out, when it’s offered to me.
“Cool,” Kendrick says. “He’s a . . .” He sighs. “Cool.”
“I barely saw him this past month,” I add quickly, not wanting Kendrick to get the impression Malik is the great love of my life or something. “I was so busy expediting the album, and rehearsing for the tour, I barely had time to eat or sleep, let alone see him.”
Kendrick tries to smile. “Yeah, well, your hard work really paid off. Seriously, Laila, the album is incredible.”
“Thank you so much, Kendrick. You’re a great friend.”
At that last word, Kendrick looks like he wants to scream. There’s an awkward pause as he bites the inside of his cheek before finally puffing out his cheeks in resignation and whispering, “Cool.”
I look at Ruby and she’s grimacing compassionately, not even trying to hide her awareness of what just happened.
“Hey, asshole,” Kai says, appearing out of nowhere and, thankfully, filling the awkward silence. Kai flops into a seat next to his brother and demands Kendrick watch the next episode in some series they’ve been binge-watching together.
“As long as you ply me with alcohol,” Kendrick says.
“You don’t need to ask me twice.” Kai flags down a flight attendant and we all place orders. As we’re doing that, Titus comes over and joins the party. And soon, our whole group is drinking and talking, laughing and swapping stories. Even Kendrick, much to my relief, seems like he’s back to himself.
A few times during the conversation, Savage’s name comes up, organically, and I feel myself perk up every time his name is mentioned—every time I get a new scrap of insider information about him. I hate that I’m constantly drawn to Savage, considering his obviously oversized ego, but I can’t help myself. Not only is he gorgeous and talented, by all accounts he’s closed off and prickly, too. Which, unfortunately, I must admit, makes him exactly my type.
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.