Chapter 1 Savage #2
“Reed’s more than ‘possibly’ interested,” I interject. “During my ping pong game with Georgina, I noticed Reed spying on her the whole time from behind a bush.”
Everyone laughs at the imagery, except for Titus, who’s shaking his head.
“No way,” Titus says. “Reed must have been standing near a bush, looking at his phone or talking to someone you couldn’t see.
I love roasting The Prick as much as anyone, but there’s no way Reed Rivers would hide behind a bush, at his own party, while surrounded by some of the world’s hottest women, in order to keep tabs on a summer intern at Rock ‘n’ Roll. ”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Georgina’s an intern at the magazine?”
Titus gestures to his pink-haired twin sister, Ruby, our keyboardist, who’s standing nearby talking to our manager, Eli. “When Ruby and I played cornhole with the reporter, she said she’d just graduated from UCLA and that her ‘internship’ with Rock ‘n’ Roll is her first professional gig.”
“I never would have guessed that,” I say.
Titus nods. “Georgina is just a baby. She said she’s turning twenty-two next month.”
I’m floored. I glance at her across the packed room, where Georgina is presently talking to the bass player of 22 Goats—a sweetheart of a guy named Fish.
“I never would have guessed she’s that green,” I say.
“With all that swagger, I would have thought she’s large and in charge at Rock ‘n’ Roll.
” I chuckle. “Well, either way, I know what I saw. Reed was definitely spying on Georgina, from behind a bush, like a goddamned stalker.”
Titus nudges Kai’s shoulder. “Did Reed spy on you when you talked to Georgina?”
“No. Not that I noticed.”
“And he didn’t spy on Ruby and me playing cornhole with her, either. Huh. I wonder why Reed felt the need to spy on her with you, Player.”
I wink. “I guess he’s only worried about the good lookin’ ones, eh?”
Titus flips me off as Kai flags down a cocktail server who’s walking by with a slew of margaritas, and we quickly relieve her of her entire burden.
His new drink in hand, our trusty manager, Eli, bids the group farewell, saying he’s going to “schmooze” for a bit.
Ruby joins our conversation, and we continue bantering and people-watching as a full band.
“So, have you decided on Savage’s birthday dare yet?” Kai asks his younger brother, Kendrick. Earlier tonight, Kendrick made Kai fanboy all over some blonde actor on a Netflix show I’ve never heard of. And ever since, Kai has been dying to watch me get equally humiliated.
For the past ten years, on each of our respective birthdays, Kendrick, Kai, and I have played a shitfaced game of “Birthday Truth or Dare.” Although calling it that is a misnomer by now, since we’ve long since taken the “truth” option off the table in our game.
Why waste the chance to inflict humiliation in order to ask some stupid question we probably already know the answer to?
Kai and Kendrick are brothers, after all, and I’ve known them both for well over ten years.
“Not yet,” Kendrick says, answering his brother’s question about my dare. “I’m still weighing my options.”
“Oh my gosh!” Ruby blurts. “Savage was right about Reed and the reporter! Look at Reed now, guys! He’s totally spying on her from across the room!
” We look to where Ruby is indicating and discover Reed covertly staring at Georgina while she chats with the guys from Watch Party.
Almost certainly, it’s Zach Rosendo—their frontman whom everyone calls Endo—who’s attracted Reed’s eagle eye this time.
That dude’s definitely got a reputation as a lady killer.
“I just decided on my dare,” Kendrick declares, his mischievous gaze trained on Reed. He looks at me, smiling wickedly and rubbing his palms together. And, instantly, I know what’s coming.
“Aw, fuck. No,” I mutter.
“You’re not allowed to say no,” Kendrick reminds me.
“I know the rules, motherfucker. Do you?” I’m referring to rule number one of our game.
Namely, that the birthday boy can’t pick a dare that’s likely to maim, kill, or send his victim to prison.
Rule number two is that the birthday boy is king—a deity whose dare can’t be refused, as long as it complies with rule number one.
And, finally, rule number three is that the dare has to be something that can be performed on the spot.
In other words, birthday dares can’t be some elaborate prank or hoax that would require weeks of planning.
Kendrick smiles. “Yeah, I know the rules. And I promise no bodily harm will come to you. The only thing that could possibly happen to you, in theory, is that you’d get onto Reed’s shit list. But you’re already there. So, really, there’s no downside.”
He’s right. I’ve been on Reed’s shit list for a while now, despite all the money my band makes him—powered in large part by me, personally.
All because, years ago, I hit on his little sister, Violet, at my first Reed Rivers party, without having a clue who she was.
This was long before Violet met her husband, Dax, the lead singer of 22 Goats.
And, frankly, she seemed pretty receptive to my flirting, as I recall.
And yet, Reed’s held it against me, ever since.
“I don’t get it,” Ruby interjects. “What’s the dare, Kendrick?”
Kendrick motions to me, like he’s inviting me to enlighten Ruby.
Rolling my eyes, I say, “I’m assuming he wants me to hit on the hot reporter in front of Reed.”
“Bingo,” Kendrick says. “Let’s test your theory that he’s been sleeping with her, or wants to.
I want you to hit on her, really obviously in front of him.
With enough fuckboy heat you’ll lure Reed out of his proverbial bush this time.
But not with so much heat he lurches at you like a cheetah and smashes your face against a wall. ”
I grimace, as everyone else laughs.
“Why on earth would you force me to walk this tightrope?” I say. “You were there when C-Bomb told us that crazy story about what Reed did to the dude who’d fucked his ex.”
“What did Reed do?” Ruby asks, her eyebrows shooting up.
But, unfortunately for Ruby, she’s asking her question as Kendrick is saying, “Reed would never beat the shit out of you, simply for flirting with his woman. Flirting is way less a crime than fucking. Plus, your face makes him way too much money to smash it into a wall, regardless.”
“What the hell did Reed do?” Ruby shouts, this time cutting through the din. She looks at her twin brother, Titus, who’s laughing along with Kendrick and Kai. “You know this story?”
Titus nods. “I heard it from C-Bomb.” He’s referring to the iconic drummer of Red Card Riot—Caleb Baumgarten—who’s a good friend to our band.
“Well, he didn’t tell me,” Ruby says.
“You weren’t there,” Titus replies to his sister.
“Well, tell me the damned story already!” Ruby blurts. “It sounds juicy.”
Without further ado, Kendrick launches into telling the tale, which, in summary, is that, in the earliest days of River Records, Reed went batshit crazy after discovering the lead singer of one of his earliest bands had fucked his unnamed ex.
Apparently, upon discovering the news, Reed beelined to a party at C-Bomb’s house, where the lead singer was hanging out, and promptly smashed the guy’s face into a wall.
Not content to stop there, however, Reed also dropped the guy’s band from his label the next day and permanently shelved their debut album, which, C-Bomb said, was due to release within weeks.
“And Reed did all this,” Kendrick says, “despite the fact that he’d already invested tens of thousands of dollars into developing the band’s music and marketing. ”
Ruby explodes with shocked comments and questions, which the guys answer with relish.
But since I’ve already heard this story, I let my mind and attention wander.
I check out the movie star, Isabel Randolph, for a bit, admittedly feeling star-struck.
As a guy with some fame myself, albeit not at Isabel’s level, I understand the inner workings of the cult of celebrity and consciously try not to let it seduce me.
But, still, I can’t deny it’s kind of cool to see such a world-famous face, in person.
After a bit, however, when my interest in Isabel flags, I continue surveying the packed, noisy room.
I check out several friends as they laugh and chat in nearby groups, noting, in particular, that my buddy, Fish, seems particularly smitten with his cute date.
And that she looks absolutely enthralled with him.
Good for Fish. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.
I keep scanning and people-watching. Sipping my drink. But when my gaze lands on Laila Fitzgerald, it stays put.
Laila Fitzgerald.
She’s another River Records artist. One I’ve been dying to meet for some time.
And by “meet” I mean “meet, seduce, and, God willing, fuck.” When I first saw Laila’s most recent scorching-hot music video, that sucker immediately went into my spank bank, where it’s been in heavy rotation ever since—and, surprisingly, it hasn’t lost a bit of its effectiveness on me over time.
In fact, repeat viewings have only made me more appreciative of Laila’s sex appeal.
At the moment, Laila is standing in a far corner of Reed’s palatial living room, chatting animatedly with two beautiful women.
One of them, I know—fellow artist, Aloha Carmichael.
The other one, I don’t. A Black woman with confidence and high cheekbones.
Someone I’d probably consider hitting on, if I hadn’t spotted Laila.
As it is, though, now that I know Laila is here, there’s no other woman in the room.
With her long, sandy hair, light eyes, and peaches-and-cream complexion, Laila isn’t my usual type. On paper, she’s far more Kendrick’s type than mine. Kendrick likes girls who look like they were cheerleaders in high school. Or maybe foreign exchange students from Sweden or Russia.