Confronted with her abject failure, Laila shrieks before peeling off a glorious streak of laughter I can hear all the way over here. Finally, she drops to the ground, dramatically, and writhes around like she’s been shot, making her friends guffaw.
As Laila is writhing on the ground, a couple of tall, muscular guys reach the court. They high-five Aloha’s husband, Zander, before standing over Laila and laughing along with everyone else. And that’s when I realize one of the guys is the pro basketball player, Malik Wallace of The Knicks. The NBA’s Rookie of the Year last year, who led his team, singlehandedly, to win the Eastern Conference Finals. Jesus Christ. Reed’s contact list really is the coolest in LA.
As a fan of The Bulls, I should probably hate Malik Wallace, given how much he bitch-slapped my team last season. But it’s impossible not to respect such rarified talent and skill.
Heeeey, I think. Malik would be a perfect cover for me! I suddenly realize I could walk over there to the court and act like I came to meet Malik, thereby giving Laila the chance to introduce herself to me and thank me for letting her join the tour. Laila doesn’t know I had nothing to do with her getting the gig, after all. So why not walk over there to “meet Malik” and let Laila kiss my ass while I’m there, as any grateful opener would do? It’s pure genius.
I start walking, feeling pretty damned good about my strategy. It’s critical with a woman like Laila Fitzgerald—the kind who can get any man she wants—not to let her know how much I’m drooling over her. I can’t let her think she has the upper hand. Otherwise, she’ll surely ditch me as fast as she ditched Cash. And maybe Kendrick, too? That remains to be seen.
Fuck.
No.
I stop walking, the hair on the back of my neck standing up.
Of all the people on that court right now, the last one I’d want to be talking to Laila is Malik Wallace. But he’s doing just that. And not only talking to her, but brazenly flirting with her. She’s off the ground now and the pair has drifted off to the side to talk one-on-one.
Crap.
She’s laughing now. Swatting flirtatiously at Malik’s muscular arm.
Fuck.
Laila calls for the ball from one of her friends, and when she gets it, she hands it to Malik, clearly being sassy with him. She points. And he laughingly steps to the spot where she just airballed her latest attempt. Gracefully, Malik releases the ball and sinks it with nothing but net. And when he’s done making his shot—and, presumably, his point—he beelines back to Laila . . . and she gives him an exuberant high-five.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
They’re obviously bonding over there—in record speed.
The pair continues talking as the game continues around them. But, soon, their conversation is interrupted when Dax Morgan, the lead singer of 22 Goats, says something to the group that makes his bandmates—Fish and Colin—huddle up. My guess, based on the way the night has been going, is that Dax just received word that it’s 22 Goats’ turn to take the large stage in the main room of the party, along with whatever combination of musician-friends they want to invite. My band already played earlier in the night with our selected group of friends, so it makes sense to me that’s what I’m seeing.
“Hey, Savage!” a female voice says to my right. And when I turn my head, there’s a beautiful Asian woman standing before me. She extends her hand with a bright smile. “I’m Zasu, one of the writers for Rock ‘n’ Roll. Reed sent me to find you to talk about your upcoming interview.”
Well, I’ll be damned. By now, I’d convinced myself Zasu didn’t actually exist.
I shake her hand and say it’s good to meet her and she flushes visibly at my touch.
“I’m a huge fan,” she gushes. “I was elated to find out you’d been assigned to me for the special issue.”
“Thanks.” I glance at the basketball court again. And fuck my life, Laila is still talking to Malik.
Zasu says something, forcing me to return my attention to her. She’s flustered. Blushing. Fanning herself like I’ve seen many, many fans do over the past few years. And so, I wait, feeling vaguely annoyed. Women react like this upon meeting me all the time. Which is fine, but weird. I mean, I’m the same guy I’ve always been, yet nobody reacted like this when I worked at a supermarket in Chicago. But, okay. I get it. I’m famous now. And this is part of the gig when I meet fans. But when I meet a reporter? Come on.
Zasu laughs at herself and sighs. “Forgive me. This never happens to me. I’m being so unprofessional.” She shakes it off, pulls herself together, and starts explaining the general game plan for the one-on-one interviews. Specifically, she says they’re going to be different, and more fun, than the typical sit-down.
But since I’ve already heard this exact spiel from Georgina earlier, I tune her out. By the end of my ping pong game with Georgina, she’d convinced me to go ATVing with her on the day of my interview, since it’s something I’ve never done. Something I’ve never wanted to do, honestly, but I wasn’t going to say no to Georgina. There are worse things than spending the day with a gorgeous woman, watching her ride a fast machine.
As Zasu continues talking, I gaze toward the basketball court again, just in time to see Kendrick and Kai arrive. There are some hugs and handshakes. Some introductions. Kendrick and Kai both visibly recognize Malik Wallace. And, not surprisingly, they stride up to him and Laila and strike up an animated conversation.
Finally, Dax and his bandmates break from their huddle. Dax announces something that wrangles the cats around him, and the entire group begins walking toward the house, with Laila falling into step between Malik and Kendrick.
“So, do you have any ideas about an activity you might like to do?” the reporter, Zasu, asks me. “Maybe something you’ve never done before?”
The group is even with Zasu and me now, about thirty yards away behind Zasu’s back. Kendrick hasn’t noticed me because his head is turned toward Laila. But Laila, who’s looking at Kendrick as he speaks sure as hell sees me standing over here in a dark corner with Zasu. How do I know that? Because she’s rolling her eyes at me, as if to say, Again? And I can’t help winking at her in reply. Dude, she’s the one who was flirting with Cash earlier, and is now the cream filling between Malik and Kendrick. If Laila’s annoyed that I’ve bounced from one hot woman to the next at this party, then maybe she should look in the mirror and be pissed at herself.
“Savage?” the reporter says.
But my eyes are tracking Laila’s movement like a hawk tracking a mouse in a field. With a death glare to me, Laila turns her head and says something to Malik before finally walking far enough forward that I’m now looking at her back. I crane my neck, still watching, as Laila, and everyone she’s with, including Malik and Kendrick, disappear through a set of double doors into the house.
“Um. Savage?”
My heart racing, I look at the reporter but say nothing.
“I was asking if you have any ideas for an activity we could do on the day of your interview?”
“No. I have no idea.”
“Oh. Okay. Well . . . I can send you a list of ideas, maybe?”
“You know what? I’d rather do the interview by phone. My band will be heading out on tour soon and I’d like to have as few obligations between now and then as possible.”