Falling out of Hate with You: Hate - Love Duet Book One Rowe, Lauren (black books to read TXT) 📖

“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.

But, whatever. I don’t have the bandwidth to focus on Reed and his love life for very long. I’m too fixated on Laila and hers. Fucking Malik! When he walked into the greenroom at The Garden earlier tonight, I felt an almost primal desire to pummel his face. And the impulse has only grown as the evening, and my alcohol consumption, has worn on.

Unfortunately, the happy couple—Laila and her handsy MVP—is sitting immediately across from Kendrick and me at this long, crowded table, so I can’t avoid constantly staring at them. And guess what? The fucker never stops touching Laila with his huge hands. Ever. At any given moment, Mr. Basketball’s got his arm around Laila’s shoulders, or a hand covering hers. Or maybe he’s got his hand under the table, doing God knows what to her under there. Or if not any of that, he’s touching her hair or leaning in to whisper into her ear—oftentimes, immediately after glowering at me.

Actually, I don’t know if I’m imagining that last part. The glowering. Is Malik Wallace a mind reader? Or is the booze making my face a whole lot more readable than usual? Either way, the man clearly wants me, and everyone in this restaurant, to know the magnificent, sultry, talented Laila Fitzgerald is his.

The crazy thing is I don’t get jealous, except when it comes to Laila. Why should I, when there are unlimited fish in the sea? And yet, here I am, contemplating physically attacking a professional athlete, despite my brain knowing, logically, he’d almost certainly beat my ass. Also, logically speaking, I know Malik’s got every right to drape himself over his own girlfriend. I’m nobody to Laila, after all. If Malik were out of the picture, she’d be in Kendrick’s arms. Not mine. And yet, I can’t stop staring and plotting Malik’s untimely demise.

I think the part that burns me the most is knowing Laila hooked up with Malik after meeting him at Reed’s party. If I hadn’t left when I did that night, if I’d sucked it up and walked over to her to welcome her to the tour the way my bandmates did, would everything be different now? I thought I was stepping aside for my best friend, which is something I can stomach, though not happily. But it turns out, I was stepping aside for Malik Wallace. And realizing that feels like a special kind of torture.

Kendrick leans into me, just as Malik whispers something to Laila that makes her giggle. “Fuck my life,” Kendrick mutters. “Sitting across from them is my personal version of hell.”

“Sorry, brother. That sucks. Let’s drink another round.”

I flag a server—a young woman I’d guess is an aspiring actress or model or dancer, given that this is Manhattan and she’s lithe and stunning. And she immediately strides over to me with a big smile on her face.

“Another round,” I say, motioning to my empty glass and Kendrick’s. “Make ‘em both doubles this time.”

“Triples,” Kendrick says.

“You got it, boys,” she says with a wink. She bites her lower lip and leans into me. “If this is inappropriate, I’m sorry. But would you and Kendrick mind taking a selfie with me? I’m a huge fan.”

Kendrick agrees, of course, because he’s much nicer than me, and she pokes her head between us and snaps the photo. But when that task is done, she doesn’t leave. Rather, she turns her attention on me, specifically, in a way I’ve seen many times, and whispers, “I’m a huge fan, Savage.”

Well, that’s not subtle. If history has taught me anything, she’s telling me she’s down to sleep with me tonight. If I’m right about that, I’m not interested. However, I couldn’t help noticing, as we took that selfie, Laila was watching the interaction with blazing eyes.