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

As our sensuous kiss deepens, I pull her out of her chair and guide her to straddle me in my chair, and, soon, she’s grinding against me as her tongue goads me on. I begin caressing her breasts over her tank top, pinching her stiff nipples, and burying my hands into her thick hair, every fiber of my body aching and yearning to get inside her.

“We’ve got time,” I murmur into her lips. “Come to my room. Let me fuck you.”

“Yes,” she breathes.

But she’s no sooner said the word than a voice in the doorway says her name. When we break apart, breathing hard, there’s a production assistant in the doorframe.

The PA says, “I’m sorry to interrupt.” She clears her throat. “Nadine sent me to fetch Laila and bring her to hair and makeup. She said we’re on a tight schedule.”

Laila smiles and kisses my cheek. “Rain check?” She slides off my lap and points at the noticeable bulge behind my sweatpants. “I’ll see you later tonight.”

I slap her ass as she turns to go. “Count on it, girlfriend.”

“Don’t miss me while I’m gone, boyfriend.”

“I can’t miss someone who ceases to exist when she’s not in my presence.”

“Sure, Jan.”

With that, she swishes her hips with extra flair, and disappears through the doorway with the PA. When she’s gone, and I know she can’t possibly hear me, I sit back in my chair, smiling from ear to ear, my hard cock throbbing and my heart racing, and whisper to myself, “Hallelujah.”

Thirty-Two

Laila

I follow the staffer outside and across Reed’s patio, heading toward Reed’s guest house in the back of Reed’s huge estate. Apparently, the hair and makeup woman has set up camp there. As we walk, we come upon Kendrick. He’s sitting on a patio chair with a laptop on his lap and headphones over his ears.

When he sees me, Kendrick pulls down one side of his headphones and greets me. “I just got the final mixes for our album!” he says effusively.

“Ooooh!” I say. “When can I listen? I seem to recall someone saying, on day one of our tour, I’d get to be one of your early listeners.”

“Absolutely. We’d love to get your feedback on the mixes. Give it a listen as soon as you can and let me know if you hear anything that sounds wonky to you—anything at all you think is too low or high in the mix.”

“It’d be my honor. I can’t wait.”

Kendrick clicks on his keyboard for a moment. “I just sent you a download link.”

I look at my phone. “Got it! Woohoo! I’ll listen now, while I’m getting my hair and makeup done!”

“Awesome. Thanks.”

“No, thank you.”

I say my goodbyes to Kendrick and resume following the PA to Reed’s casita, where I’m immediately greeted by the hair and makeup woman. After the woman gets me settled in her chair, we talk briefly about the look we’re going for today—sexpot, of course—and once we’re both on the same page, I settle back, put a pair of earbuds in, and press play on the first song of Fugitive Summer’s highly anticipated album.

Right away, it’s obvious the first song is going to be a massive hit, although I’d personally make the bass line a touch louder in the mix. Next up, the second song begins and I quickly fall equally in love with it. How does this band do it, album after album? Every song of theirs is like crack to me. And Savage’s voice and delivery is always mesmerizing. From what I understand, he writes the lion’s share of the band’s lyrics, which is probably why he always delivers them so believably. Say what you will about Savage, the man, being deeply flawed and mercurial, but as an artist, that boy is a true genius.

The third song begins as the makeup artist finishes applying foundation and moves on to my eyes. And, once again, even before Savage begins singing, based on nothing but the sexual, dirty beat and groove and flashes of Savage’s phallic electric guitar, I already know I’m going to love this one. It’s got a vibe that’s reminiscent of “Come with Me,” the band’s most sexual song, without it feeling like a copycat or redux. Indeed, the sexual vibe of the song is reinforced, even before the first verse begins, as Savage growls out a few sensual “yeahs” to kick things off, his strained voice sounding remarkably like he’s getting a blowjob in the recording booth.

Finally, as the bass-heavy beat gains momentum, Savage counts off—“One, two, three, let’s go!”—and away he goes, launching into the lyrics of the first verse.

Almost immediately, as Savage sings, I open my eyes, recognizing myself in the song. Is this a coincidence . . . or is Savage singing this song about me?

No way.

Why would Savage write a song about me?