“Oh, yeah? Well, guess what, Adrian? If your kink is doling out unsolicited advice to me, then I’ve got news for you, baby. You need to shut the fuck up, motherfucker.”
He bursts out laughing. I mean, the dude belly laughs. And I can’t help feeling like I’ve accomplished something amazing.
His laughter subsiding, Savage brings the bottle to his lips and mutters, “Touché, Fitzy. Too-fucking-shay.” I watch him sip and swallow, once again imagining his sensuous lips performing oral sex on me. It’s impossible not to imagine it. Everything about his song “Come with Me” suggests he’s an enthusiastic fan of that particular sex act. And the way he’s moving his mouth right now is insanely sexy.
Suddenly, I find myself wondering how the groupie thing works with him. On the one hand, I know his reputation. When I said I’ve googled him, it was the truth. Not that I needed to google him. Everything about him screams “manwhore.” Plus, I saw his reputation in action at Reed’s party, firsthand, so I know the dude’s got no qualms about hitting on women, one after another, until he gets what he wants.
On the other hand, I haven’t actually seen Savage with a single woman during this tour. Do his handlers quietly bring groupies to his room in every new city? I’ve noticed he doesn’t hang out and party nearly as much as his bandmates. Is that because he’s typically otherwise engaged in his room?
“Call me Savage, by the way,” he says, out of nowhere. “Only my family calls me Adrian.”
“Only if you agree not to call me ‘Fitzy’ again.”
“You don’t like Fitzy?”
“It sounds like the name of a white fluffy dog wearing a tutu.”
Savage chuckles. “Well, shit, now I’ve got no choice. You’re Fitzy for life.”
“Okay, then you’re Adrian.”
He pauses like he’s weighing his options, and finally says, “Yeah, it’s totally worth it.”
I roll my eyes. “So, anyway, Adrian, the whole reason I came out here was to clear the air with you. I think maybe you’ve been pissed about me trash-talking you in Philly for being late, and I—”
“I’m not pissed about that.”
“No?”
He pulls a face like that’s a ridiculous notion. “Why would I give a flying fuck what you think?”
My lips part and my brow furrows. Did this motherfucker just insult me while forgiving me for insulting him? But before I’ve responded, the sound of sharp laughter and familiar voices cuts through the darkness and causes both of us to jolt and lean back like we’ve been doing something wrong over here.
The voices belong to Ruby, a couple people from my band, and Kendrick. And the minute Kendrick’s voice becomes identifiable, Savage’s entire body stiffens. He hastily stubs out his cigarette, clears his throat, and pops up, looking very much like a kid who’s just been caught with his hand in a cookie jar.
“I think I’m gonna crash in my room now,” he murmurs. And for a split-second, I think he’s inviting me to join him. But, no. He quickly adds, “Do me a favor and tell Ruby and Titus I left the party and said happy birthday, okay?”
“Uh, sure,” I reply, feeling vaguely disappointed. But I’m speaking to Savage’s back. He’s already on the move. High-tailing it out of here like a bank robber on the run. “Don’t be late for the buses tomorrow!” I call out. And then add, pointedly, “Adrian.”
Just before his frame disappears into the dark night, Savage turns around, so that he’s walking backward. Facing me now, he flashes me an impish grin and says, “I’m never late, Fitzy. Everyone else is just . . . early.”
Eleven
Savage
New York, New York
My band and everyone else who played at tonight’s charity concert at Madison Square Garden are seated at a long table in a swanky restaurant in Midtown, courtesy of our host, Reed Rivers. And I’m shitfaced. Breaking my hard and fast rule about never drinking to drown my sorrows. Because . . . Malik Wallace.
To anyone watching me drinking like a fish tonight, I’m sure I look like I’m merely celebrating tonight’s amazing show, along with everyone else at this table. But I’m not. In reality, I’m fixated on that bastard’s every movement. His every flirtatious smile, aimed directly at Laila. Basically, I’ve been drinking while trying to figure out how I can murder that motherfucker and get away with it.
“You called it at Reed’s party,” Kendrick says next to me, jutting his chin at Reed and his date on the far end of the table. Who’s Reed’s date tonight? Well, none other than Georgina, the sultry reporter I hit on as Kendrick’s birthday present. The fact that Georgina is at Reed’s side at all, a full two months later, is shocking enough. But factor in that Reed’s brought her as his date to a work event, which isn’t Reed’s style, and that he’s been packing on the PDA with her throughout the entire dinner, and I’m thinking this woman has cast a spell on The Prick, the likes of which I never would have believed.