I grin. “Yes, I do. I’m not sure it works that way when it comes to getting you to tell me the truth, but, yes, I know I don’t need a birthday dare to get you to do something for or to me.”
“Well, if ‘Truth’ is what you want, then you wouldn’t get that, even if we let you play. There’s no ‘Truth’ option in our game.”
“But it’s called ‘Birthday Truth or Dare.’”
“That’s a misnomer. We deleted the ‘Truth’ option years ago, when we realized truth is boring as hell.”
“I don’t think it’s boring. In fact, if you ask the right question, then ‘Truth’ is far more interesting—and scary—than any dare could possibly be.”
Savage considers that. “Huh.” He looks at me blankly for a long moment. And then, “Well, either way, you don’t need the game because I always tell you the truth.”
I snort. “No, you tell me whatever truth you’re ready to share. I’m not calling you a liar, babe, just saying I think I could get a whole lot more out of you if you knew you had no choice but to tell me the whole, unvarnished truth, so help you God, about a particular topic.” I raise an eyebrow. “You want to try it now—play a private little game of ‘Birthday Truth or Truth,’ just you and me?”
“I can’t think of anything I’d like to do . . . less.” He laughs. “But you know what I would like to do, as a private little game for your birthday? Can you guess?”
“Eat the Birthday Girl’s Pussy?” I ask coyly. Because I know that gleam in my man’s eyes. The swipe of his tongue over his lower lip. It’s what Savage always does when he’s got a boner and his tongue is craving the pleasure of a pussy well eaten.
“Ding, ding, ding!” Savage shouts. “We’ve got a winner!”
With that, my hot boyfriend stands, guides me onto my back on the piano bench, pulls off my panties, and with dark, burning eyes, proceeds to kick off my twenty-fifth birthday in the most delightful, toe-curling way imaginable. Happy birthday to me.
[Click here if you’re curious to hear 22 Goats’ original version of “Fireflies.”]
Thirty-Two
Laila
“What do you mean you’re not drinking?” Rhoda, the junior producer from Sing Your Heart Out who’s become my friend—the one who gave Savage and me a tour of our love nest on day one—gasps out. She’s just arrived at my birthday party and found out I’m drinking club soda tonight. I’m standing with Rhoda in the already-crowded living room of the reality TV mansion I share with Savage—and Rhoda is beside herself with exasperation to find out I’m not drinking tonight in solidarity with Savage. Rhoda yells above the din, “But it’s your own damned birthday party! You at least need to sip a glass of champagne on your own freaking birthday!”
I shake my head and hold up my glass. “I promised Savage I wouldn’t drink while he’s contractually not allowed to drink.”
Rhoda looks surprised.
“You don’t know that’s one of the terms of Savage’s employment?” I ask. “That he can’t drink during the season?”
“I had no idea.”
“Nadine doesn’t want to see Savage’s dick trending on Twitter again.”
Rhoda snorts. “It’s nothing the world hasn’t already seen.”
“Tell that to your boss.”
“I will.” Rhoda pulls out her phone. “With the ratings you two have been pulling in, Nadine should at least give Savage a one-night dispensation to get drunk off his ass, at his own fake house, to celebrate his very real girlfriend’s quarter-century.”
“Make it happen, Rhoda!” I shout. “I believe in you!”
“I’m going in!”
As Rhoda begins tapping on her phone, I look around the crowded party and notice a group coming through the front door: Fish and Alessandra, Dax and his wife, Violet, and Colin with a pretty date. I race over to the group and exchange greetings with everyone. I meet Colin’s date, who seems sweet. And, of course, everyone wishes me a happy birthday.
For a few minutes, I stay and chat with the group, glancing occasionally at Savage across the room. At present, he’s doing that thing I love the most: belly laughing with Kendrick and Kai. All of a sudden, a feeling of delicious déjà vu washes over me. I can’t believe my celebrity crush, whom I watched laughing with those very same bandmates across Reed’s crowded party months ago, has now become the great love of my life.
“Okay, Laila, I made it happen,” Rhoda, the producer, says, diverting my attention from Savage across the room. She says, “Nadine said Savage can have a one-night dispensation to get shitfaced for your birthday, as long as you personally guarantee his dick won’t make a single new appearance on Twitter.”
“Woohoo! Tell Nadine thank you and I accept her terms.” I turn and shout into my party, to no one in particular. “Somebody get Savage and me some booze! Savage!” Someone taps his shoulder and says something to him, and he looks at me from across the party, just as Rhoda is handing me a champagne glass. I hold it up and point, since the party is noisy, and then motion to him and me, him and me—and then to Rhoda. For her part, Rhoda holds up her phone by way of explanation and nods, and that’s all Savage needs. With a loud whoop, my boyfriend grabs a full drink right out of Kendrick’s hand, throws it back in one fell swoop, and shouts something I can’t make out above the loud music.