Well, that’s ludicrous. Since when does Reed let anything or anyone get in the way of something, or someone, he wants? Could it be Reed promised Georgina’s boss he wouldn’t hit on her, for some reason? Which I suppose is possible, given her age and inexperience and his position of power and reputation as a womanizer. But even then, I can’t imagine Reed would uphold a promise like that for long, if he really wanted Georgina.
I languidly pull a box of cigarettes out of my pocket. I only smoke when I’ve been drinking. And I couldn’t be happier to have a box with me now, given how much Reed notoriously despises cigarettes. Casually, I stick an unlit cigarette between my lips and say, “I think we should let her decide if she wants to get hit on or not.”
Well, that does it. Reed can’t keep it together another minute. His dark eyes blazing, he points toward the end of the hallway, like he’s commanding a misbehaving dog into a doghouse. He shouts, “Go find the other writer! Her name is Zasu. She’s been assigned to do your interview.”
I can’t believe my ears. Reed is going to make poor Georgina, a summer intern with stars in her eyes, give up a solo interview with me—one of the hottest commodities on the planet right now—solely because, waah, waah, Reed doesn’t want to risk me seducing her?
I say, “Georgie and I have great chemistry.” I heard Fish’s date call Georgina that nickname earlier tonight, during our ping pong game, so I’m assuming it’ll piss Reed off if I use it, too. I add, “We already have the whole thing figured out.”
“You’re doing an interview with Zasu,” Reed commands vehemently. “It’s not a request.”
I remove my unlit cigarette from my lips, unable to locate my lighter. “You want Georgina for yourself, don’t you?”
Bingo. From Reed’s facial expression, it’s clear I’ve hit the nail on the head.
His voice tight, Reed grits out, “My motivations don’t matter. The only thing you need to know is the owner of your label is telling you she’s off-limits. Now, go find Zasu.”
I slip the cigarette back between my lips. “Got a light?”
“No!” Reed booms. He points again, nonverbally ordering me away, and I know I’ve reached the finish line—the point where there’s nothing more I can say or do in this passion play. I pull the unlit cigarette out of my mouth again, wink at Reed, and saunter away, but not before tossing over my shoulder, “You’re too old for her, anyway, man. She’s only twenty-one.”
Ha. That ought to sting.
When I re-enter the main room of the party, I discover my friends buckled over with laughter at my performance. I walk toward them, my arms outstretched like, “Did you expect anything less from the master?” and then, instinctively, glance toward Laila. But, damn, she’s not there. As I look around, I don’t see her anywhere. Did she storm out, too disgusted by my fuckboy display to stick around? Or, worse, did my aggressive flirting with Georgina prompt her to go into a dark corner . . . with Cash?
My heart strumming against my sternum, I look around the large room again, to no avail, suddenly regretting my decision to try to piss her off. Why do I always do shit like this? Why do I always self-sabotage? I thought we were playing a sexy game of “fuck you” with each other. A game of “I’m not jealous, you’re jealous!” You know, lobbing fastballs at each other and daring the other to try to hit it out of the park. But now I’m thinking I miscalculated and totally turned her off.
When I reach my friends, they demand a play-by-play. Which, of course, I give them, eliciting even more raucous laughter, especially from the birthday boy. After a while, Reed comes by and berates me for not following his direct orders and finding Zasu. And so, reluctantly, I leave my friends and take a lap of the massive downstairs area, looking for this Zasu chick—even though I wouldn’t put it past Reed to send me on a wild goose chase, solely to get me away from Georgina. But, whatever. Whether Zasu actually exists or not, I’m more than happy to take a lap of the party to pretend to look for her, if only to give me a believable excuse to look high and low for the woman I’m actually interested in finding: Little Miss Death Daggers Laila Fitzgerald.
Five
Savage
Would it have killed Reed to describe this mythical Zasu person to me, if it was so damned important to him that I find her? Fucking prick. As I’ve rambled around the packed party, I’ve asked a couple people, half-heartedly, if they know someone named “Zasu,” who’s supposedly a reporter for Rock ‘n’ Roll, and each and every one of them describes Georgina.
“No, no. Not her,” I keep saying.
To which they reply, “Oh. Then . . . I dunno.”
Of course, throughout my quest, I’ve kept my eyes peeled for Laila the whole time. So far, no luck. Not knowing what else to do, I head outside to continue my search in Reed’s expansive backyard. If Laila is outside with Cash, or, worse, if she’s already left the party with him, I’ll be so pissed at myself. It’s one thing for me to have refrained from hitting on Laila for my best friend in the world—the guy who’s more responsible than anyone else for my current lot in life. But as friendly as I am with Cash, I’d never in a million years step aside from hitting on Laila for him. No fucking way.
Becoming increasingly frustrated, I wander into the pool area and immediately stop dead in my tracks, and then sigh with relief, when I spot Laila in the far distance, bopping around happily on Reed’s basketball court, looking like a kid on a playground during recess. There’s a large group on the court along with Laila that includes Aloha Carmichael and the guys from 22 Goats and their dates. But no Cash.
I smile to myself. Did Naughty Little Laila ditch Cash’s ass the minute he was no longer useful to her—the minute she no longer needed him to make me jealous? I bet she did. Which means I’m still in the hunt, baby. That is, if Kendrick strikes out with her, of course. Obviously. I owe him at least that much.
I watch Laila and her friends for a moment, and quickly discern the group is playing HORSE, based on the way everyone keeps taking the same shots in rotation. And the minute I realize the game, I feel oddly invested in standing here long enough to find out if Laila makes her shot. I make a bet with myself: “If Laila makes her shot, I’ll head over there and welcome her to the tour. If she doesn’t, I’ll head inside and make her come to me.”
Fish from 22 Goats takes his shot and makes it and his cute date jumps for joy like he’s won a Grammy. Next up, Fish’s girlfriend takes her shot and whiffs so badly, I laugh out loud. Immediately, Fish and Laila console her and the girlfriend slinks into Fish’s waiting arms.
Finally, after a few other players take their shots, it’s Laila’s turn. She gets the ball from Aloha’s husband, Zander, a buff Black dude I’ve met here and there, and then heads to the designated spot on the court—a location a few feet behind the three-point line. After taking a ridiculously long time to gather herself, as if the fate of the world depends on her making the shot, Laila bends her knees, exhales, and flings her arms upward, releasing the ball into the air.
And . . . it’s a brick. A clunker that thuds to the ground a few feet from the rim.