Falling Out of Hate with You (The Hate-Love Duet 1)

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.”

Zasu’s shoulders sink with disappointment. “Oh.”

A collective roar of excitement blasts from inside the house, followed by the amplified sounds of an electric guitar and Dax Morgan’s voice, greeting the crowd.

“Oooh!” Zasu shouts. “It’s 22 Goats!”

“Go on,” I say, gesturing toward the house. “You don’t want to miss this.”

“That’s okay. I can listen from out here, so we can finish our conversation.”

“I’m not really up for this right now, actually,” I reply, just as the band begins playing one of 22 Goats’ biggest hits—a mid-tempo love song called "Fireflies.”

“Okay. No worries. Thanks for your time, Savage. I’ll be in touch.” Zasu pauses, apparently expecting me to respond. And when I don’t, she sprints toward the house.

For a long moment, I stand alone in the shadows, trying to decide what to do.

Dax is singing the lyrics to his famous song. But, suddenly, a female voice takes over. It’s Aloha. Followed immediately by another female voice taking the next line. Laila. The sound of her distinctive voice makes me close my eyes. Damn, she’s good.

I run my hand through my hair, feeling a rush of adrenaline and yearning. Knowing Laila is in there, dazzling the crowd with her talent and beauty and sultry stage presence is almost too much for me to bear. I want to head in there and watch, more than I want to breathe. But not when I know Kendrick is in there, watching and wanting her. Probably Malik Wallace, too.

Jealousy floods me again. Which makes no sense, given that I’ve never even spoken to the girl. She’s just another hot woman at a party. Another vixen in a music video. A gorgeous artist with astounding talent, yes. But, still, someone I’ve never even met. So, why should I care if she’s off-limits to me, when another woman, just as alluring and desirable, will surely cross my path in a matter of minutes? I need to let Kendrick have her. And that’s that.

Several voices launch into singing the famous sing-along chorus of “Fireflies.” Yet, the only voice my brain can hear is Laila’s. And, suddenly, I feel the urgent need to get the hell out of here. If I don’t, I’m going to do something I’ll regret. I’ll fuck over Kendrick. Or I’ll pick a fight with Malik Wallace, of all people. Or, God help me, I’ll pick a fight with Laila herself, just to prove to myself I don’t want her.

Exhaling loudly, I grab my phone and tap out a message to Kendrick: