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

“Put that thing out!” she screams. “Kill yourself, if you must. But leave me out of it!”

I drop the cigarette onto the sidewalk and stub it out angrily with my shoe. “Your boyfriend is the one who attacked me, Laila. Not the other way around. He’s convinced you’ve been sleeping with me.”

She looks genuinely concerned. “Are you hurt?”

“Not at all, unless you count the fact that I’m pained you’ve got such bad taste in men.”

Her chest heaves sharply. “Why do you care, Savage? You want me to break up with him, so you can pimp me out to Kendrick?” She waits a beat for my reply and when it doesn’t come, she turns into a goddamned demon before my eyes. “You’d sleep better at night knowing Kendrick was the one fucking me, instead of Malik? Huh? Is that what you want? Or is there someone else you’d prefer to do the fucking?”

Oh, God, I want her. I want to pull her to me and press my lips to hers and claim her right here and now. I want to take her back to my hotel room and rip off her clothes and eat her pussy and do every filthy thing imaginable to her. But before I’ve figured out if I’m willing to betray Kendrick, without first speaking to him about it, a group that includes Kendrick emerges from the restaurant. Besides my best friend, there’s Ruby and Kai, Reed and Georgina, the guys from 22 Goats and their dates, and more.

“Come with us, Laila,” Kendrick says. “We’re going to Times Square to see a billboard of Colin in his underwear.” He’s talking about Colin Beretta, the drummer of 22 Goats—a tatted badass who hates my guts because I fucked his on-again-off-again girlfriend last year while they were on a break.

“I can’t make it,” Laila says curtly. “But, thanks.”

Kendrick looks at me. “I didn’t bother asking you because I know you’ve got plans with the waitress. Have fun!” With that, he jogs to catch up to the group, and when I return to Laila, or at least, to the spot where she was standing a minute ago, she’s gone—angrily stomping toward the front door of the restaurant.

“Laila!” I shout at the top of my lungs. And she turns around in front of the doorway, breathing hard.

“Break up with him.”

She swallows hard. “And then what, Savage? You’d fuck me like one of your groupies? Like that waitress inside? Wow, lucky me! Or would you pimp me out to Kendrick? Either way, no thanks.” With that, she turns on her heel and marches into the restaurant. And the minute she’s gone, some fans who’ve been standing on the sidelines of our screaming match descend on me, apparently unbothered by my obvious personal turmoil.

The bodyguard assigned to me appears, out of nowhere, and helps me negotiate the onslaught. With his help, I briefly go through the motions, giving a few selfies, until Laila emerges from the restaurant with Malik in tow, both of them looking somber. Quickly, they dip into a dark SUV that’s been awaiting them at the curb. And just like that, they’re gone. Heading back to the hotel to fight or fuck or both.

And I’m distraught.

I mumble my goodbyes to the remaining fans and quickly take off down the street, with my bodyguard keeping pace behind me. A couple blocks into my journey, I dip into a liquor store and buy a large bottle of vodka, which I drink like Gatorade throughout the remainder of my journey.

Not surprisingly, by the time I arrive at my hotel, I’m not only blitzed out of my mind, I’m also beside myself with rage and regret. By now, I’ve relived my fight with Laila a hundred times, each time wishing I’d played it differently. Let down my guard. Figured out my feelings in time to say them out loud to her. Whatever those feelings might be. Honestly, I’m still not entirely sure.

I slide the keycard in my door and hurtle myself into my suite and immediately do the thing I’ve been aching to do all night: I punch a hole in the wall. Because that’s what rockstar clichés do, right? They have drunken temper tantrums and trash their hotel rooms.

I can’t believe I’ve been jacking off, alone in my room, every night of this goddamned tour, foregoing every woman who’s slipped me her number, all because I’ve been waiting like a puppy for Laila to be single. For Kendrick to grow tired of waiting for Laila to be single. For Kendrick to do what he always does on every tour—slide into a tour “relationship” with some staffer or crew member—and thereby leave me to finally seduce Laila, boyfriend or not, without worrying that I’m betraying my best friend. The guy who believed in me, when nobody else did, changing my life forever.

My knuckles throbbing from punching the wall, I grab my phone and swipe into my contacts, looking for that waitress’ number. But, quickly, I realize I don’t want her. If Laila hadn’t been sitting there tonight, watching me flirt, I never would have bothered to get that number at all. The waitress was too thirsty for my taste. Just like that model in Barcelona who fucked me and kissed me and said all the right things on a night when I was feeling particularly lonely . . . and then took off with my wallet and made my dick an internet star.

I toss my phone onto the nightstand with a loud grunt, just before a wave of nausea seizes me. I stumble into the bathroom and wash my face with cold water, trying to stave off the inevitable. But it’s no use. Fuck.

I drop to my knees at the toilet and lose my fancy dinner and drinks into the bowl. When I’m finally empty, I wash my face again, brush my teeth, strip off my clothes, and stagger, naked, into the