“I’m actually in the rehab phase now. At least, I’m trying to be.”
“Is that so?” She snickers, signaling she’s not convinced. “We all saw that photo of you sitting courtside at a Lakers-Knicks game earlier this year . . .”
I shake my head. “No comment.”
“Mm-hmm. And what about the video we’ve all seen of you arguing with a certain bad boy rockstar? Someone with whom the entire world is certain you’ve had a torrid love affair . . .?”
And there it is. How did I not see this coming? Shoot. The last thing I want to do is give Savage the satisfaction of hearing me say his name on national TV. Especially on a show as popular as Sylvia. But I can already see where this is headed, and that my fate is sealed. Sylvia is a salivating dog before me. And there’s no way she’s going to release this bone without me giving her something spicy.
“Aw, come on, Sylvia,” I say in a last-ditch effort to stave off the inevitable. “Have mercy on me.”
Sylvia giggles. “What fun would that be, when you and Savage have so much chemistry?” She addresses a guy in a headset behind a camera. “Tom, can we put up a photo of Savage, please? Any ol’ photo of him will do.”
Poof.
In a flash, a photo of Mr. Pouty Pants magically appears behind us on a large screen. And, no, it’s not just “any” photo. It’s from a smoking-hot photo shoot he recently did for the cover of Gentleman’s World magazine—a cover that caused quite a stir when it came out a few days ago. In the shot, Savage is particularly drool-inducing. His jaw looks like it was forged in steel. His dark eyes look particularly penetrating and soulful. And, of course, his famously chiseled abs are on full display, peeking out of an unbuttoned shirt.
“Isn’t he gorgeous?” Sylvia coos, her eyes trained on the screen behind us. She turns to the audience. “For anyone who’s been living under a rock, this is Savage of the rock band, Fugitive Summer.” She fans herself. “How is someone so talented, also so gorgeous? Those abs could grate cheese! That jawline could sharpen my knives! And those lips.” She touches my forearm again. “Please, Laila, tell me you’ve at least had the pleasure of kissing those lips, if only for a chaste little peck!”
Well, that’s a lucky break. The way Sylvia has worded her question, I don’t even have to lie. “I’m sorry to disappoint you,” I begin. “But, no, I swear on my life my lips have never touched Savage’s. Not even for a chaste little peck.” I mean, yeah, my lips have been wrapped around his thick, juicy cock. In fact, I’ve sucked that man’s dick like I was sucking an orange through a watering hose. But that wasn’t the question, now was it?
Sylvia grips her chest dramatically, like I’ve shot her with an arrow. “Noooo!”
I nod. “It’s sad but true. All those rumors about Savage and me having a secret romance are categorically . . . false.” It’s yet another true statement, if you ask me. Nobody in their right mind would characterize one drunken, meaningless tryst as an actual “romance.”
“Well, I’m heartbroken,” Sylvia declares. “Is there any hope of you two getting together in the future?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Well, that seems awfully final.”
“Because it is.”
“Again, you surprise me. If I were you, I’d take a big ol’ bite of that apple, if given half the chance.” She arches an eyebrow. “Weren’t you two on tour together pretty recently—for several months?”
Cheese on a cracker. The woman is relentless. “Yes, we were—for three months. But, to be honest, our personalities didn’t really mesh.”
Sylvia’s face ignites. “Oooooh. Now, we’re really getting some exclusive dirt!”
I shrug. “Not really. You’ve all seen the video. It certainly wasn’t a secret during the tour that we didn’t get along. If Savage were here, I’m sure he’d say I was as infuriating to him as he was to me.”
Sylvia’s face is positively on fire now. “Infuriating? My, my. Such a passionate word.”
“Annoying,” I correct, quickly, feeling my cheeks redden. “I’m just saying we got under each other’s skin.”
“Under each other’s skin. Oh, Laila. Freud would have a field day with you.”
Fuck! How did I lose my grip on this tiger’s tail so quickly?
Sylvia smirks. “Speaking of that video . . . Hey, Tom, can we put that up now? Thanks.”
And there it is. The famous video of Savage and me that’s been making the rounds—the one where we’re screaming at each other in front of that restaurant in New York.
“You’ve seen this, right?” Sylvia asks.
“I have.”
“It’s impossible to hear what you two are saying, unfortunately. Can you fill us in?”
“I don’t remember. It wasn’t anything important. We constantly annoyed each other, so . . .”
“Constantly? Does that mean you two had more fights than this one during the tour?”