My pulse lurches. I hadn’t thought of that, but she’s right.
Aloha continues listening for a moment before snorting and saying, “He just had to gloat, one more time, at the end. Such a cheeky bastard.” She presses pause and takes out the earbuds. “So, Laila. I have a question not answered by the lyrics. Something that wasn’t clear.” Aloha furrows her brow, like she’s trying to solve the secrets of the universe. “Did Savage, by any chance . . . make you come three times?”
We both break into raucous laughter. Even in my present state of total freak-out, I can’t help giggling with my good friend.
I resume my chair next to Aloha. “So, you agree he’s singing my name in those ‘la la’ parts, right? Because Savage denied it.”
“You’ve already talked to Savage about the song?”
I nod furiously. “He burst in here, while I was midway through listening to it. Apparently, Kendrick gave me an early copy of the album without consulting Savage first, and when Savage found out, he hightailed it straight down here to find me.”
“Interesting.”
“And then, when Savage realized I was already listening to ‘Hate Sex High,’ he had the nerve to deny he sang my name in the song! He insisted he was singing ‘la la’ all the way through.”
Aloha scoffs, her expression making it clear she doesn’t buy Savage’s explanation for a minute.
I continue, “Savage insisted I was only hearing my name because I’m a ‘megalomaniac’ who thinks the world revolves around me.”
Aloha laughs in a way that would have resulted in a spit-take if she’d taken a sip of a beverage immediately beforehand.
“Preposterous, right?” I ask.
“Utterly and totally preposterous. Not to mention, insulting to your intelligence. He’s singing ‘Laila,’ over and over again. Plus, come on, the verses track what happened between you and Savage during the tour—the stuff with Malik in New York and your hookup later on. So, there’s no doubt, even if he didn’t call you out by name, which he did, that the song is one thousand percent about you. But, yes, there’s no question he also says your name, repeatedly, to emphasize his point.”
“But what’s his point?” I ask breathlessly. “Is his point what he sings in the chorus? The part where he says he’s feeling ‘something’ he doesn’t want to feel for his muse—for ‘Laila’ who’s falling into hate with him?”
“You mean, Laila who’s coming three times while chasing a hate sex high?”
I exhale loudly. “Honestly, it’s the chorus that’s freaking me out the most, even more than all the sex stuff. I don’t know if it would be hitting me so hard if Savage hadn’t raced down here with bulging eyes the minute he found out I had an early copy. But, Aloha, when Savage burst through that door, he looked like he was going to have a heart attack at the thought of me listening to that particular song. And then he brought up the chorus first, to deny it was true, before I’d said a word about it. So, I don’t think his main worry was the sex stuff.”
Aloha bites her lip, processing. “How’d you leave it with him?”
“He conceded the song was ‘inspired’ by me. That there were ‘kernels of truth’ in the verses. But he said he took those ‘kernels of truth’ and spun them into ‘popcorn lies’ in the chorus. But why would Savage feel the need to sprint down here, like a bat out of hell, unless he knew that chorus admits he caught feelings for me during the tour?” I let my mouth hang open, wide, as if to say, Can you believe it?
But Aloha’s face reflects skepticism. “Well, I mean, he could have been worried you’d be livid to be called out, by name, as someone he’d screwed.” Aloha pauses, waiting for a reaction from me, and whatever wilted expression she’s seeing on my face makes her sigh with compassion. “Okay, let’s look at this objectively, honey. Savage is the guy who had sex with you on the night of the hot tub, and then, mere hours later, turned around and screwed someone else. So, even if he is singing in the chorus about ‘catching feelings’ for you, then how much stock do you really think you should put into those supposed feelings?”
I look down at my lap, feeling embarrassed about my show of excitement.
“Aw, I’m sorry,” Aloha says quickly. “Maybe you’re right. I’m certainly not trying to rain on your parade here . . .”
I take a deep breath and look up, making a concerted effort to wipe all traces of disappointment off my face. Aloha is right. I’m assigning way too much depth and importance to that chorus, when the obvious truth is that Savage proved himself a diehard womanizer in Las Vegas. A man who’d felt nothing but lust toward me, the same thing he’d felt toward countless other women across the globe. Truly, it was the height of self-delusion for me to think the song is about Savage catching feelings for me, when the truth is that I was never anything special to him. Nothing but another conquest.
Aloha apologizes again and tries to backtrack, but I wave her off, saying, “No, no, don’t apologize. I asked for your honest opinion, and you gave it to me. I’m glad you never pull any punches with me.”
“But, honey, I never want to ‘punch’ you in any way. I just wanted—”
“No, no, stop. Like you said, even if Savage did catch feelings for me after the night of the hot tub, which is unlikely, his ‘feelings’ wouldn’t be something I should rely on, based on his subsequent behavior. I need to remember the timeline of events here. There’s no other conclusion to be drawn when I look at Savage’s actions, rather than projecting some fairytale fantasy onto a few stupid lyrics in a song.”
Aloha looks sympathetic. “Oh, Laila, I’d love for you to be the woman who brought Mr. Fuckboy to his knees. I’d love that for you. I just don’t want you to get hurt. In the past, I’ve seen Savage in action, from afar, and let’s just say his reputation as a lady killer is well-earned.”
I nod. “Yeah, I know. I always want you to be nothing but totally honest with me. Even if the truth hurts, that’s what I want to hear.”
Aloha puffs out her cheeks. “Okay, well, if I’m being totally honest with you, it seems to me the song is a ‘gloating song’ about Savage having sex with you. A song written to taunt Malik, far more than to express any secret feelings he was having for you. I mean, Savage literally asks, at the end, if ‘he’—meaning Malik—made you come three times, the same way Savage did. If that’s not a pissing contest between two dudes—if that’s not Savage running a victory lap—then I don’t know what is.”
My heart feels like it’s lodged in my toes. Aloha is right, yet again. After his tussle with Malik in that restaurant, Savage wanted his adversary to know he’d won the game and claimed the prize. Also, that he’d done all of it exceedingly well. Savage sat down and wrote “Hate Sex High” to deride Malik, not because he felt tortured by his blossoming feelings for me. In the end, the song had very little to do with me, actually, and everything to do with his desire to flip the bird at Malik.
Suddenly, I feel like I’m standing in that hallway in Las Vegas, all over again. An acute sensation of rejection washes over me. I feel pathetic. Foolish. Embarrassed. Why do I still want Savage to want me, more than anyone else—but especially more than some random groupie he just met? Why does he still have this ridiculous hold over me?