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

Laila: Is that a red flag? Nah. Couldn’t be, despite its red color and uncanny “flag” shape.

Narrator: And then she fucked him. Only to find out later, yes, it was, indeed, a red flag.

Well, no more. Starting now, and for the foreseeable future, but especially for the remaining month of the tour, I’m sending myself to bad boy rehab. I’m going cold turkey, bitches! Thanks for the unsolicited advice about knowing my self-worth, Savage. I promise I’m not going to forget it, ever again.

Eighteen

Laila

Six weeks later

Los Angeles, California

“You clean up nice, yourself!” the woman onstage says brightly to her co-presenter. She’s a longtime country star who won this same award last year, and he’s a young buck with his first hit this year—an up-and-comer in tight jeans and a cowboy hat whose ass should be in a shadow box. And as the pair continues their scripted banter, aided by the teleprompter, I can’t help craning my neck around a nearby production assistant, searching the backstage area in vain for any sign of my co-presenter, Adrian Savage—who, true to form, is ridiculously late. This time, cutting it so close, I feel like I’m going to have a heart attack.

It’s the Video Music Awards and I’m standing in the wings, as instructed, right on time, awaiting my turn to present the next award with my assigned co-presenter. After the current duo finishes their thing, there will be a commercial break, thank God, which gives us a tiny margin of error. But then, whether Savage has arrived or not, I’ll have to walk out there and present this damned award, one way or another. If he doesn’t show up, I’ll have to disregard all the scripted banter on the teleprompter, everything I practiced earlier today at the rehearsal Savage didn’t attend, and I’ll have to wing it. Which is something I hate doing, ever. But especially on live TV.

I haven’t seen Savage since the tour ended two weeks ago, and barely saw him throughout the entire last month of the tour. I certainly didn’t ask to be paired with him today. Apparently, the producers, like the rest of the world, saw that viral video of Savage and me screaming at each other in front of that restaurant and decided we’d bring in the ratings as co-presenters. It’s fine, though. I got good at ignoring Savage for the final month of the tour, after seeing him for exactly who he is in Las Vegas. So, I can certainly summon my superpowers, once again, and ignore him while reading off a teleprompter.

I’m told Savage didn’t make it to the quickie rehearsal earlier today, thanks to a flight delay out of Chicago. But now that he’s not here, and the seconds are ticking down, I’m wondering if his supposed “travel delay” earlier was a flat-out lie. Is he standing me up, on purpose, to get back at me for ignoring him for the last month of the tour?

I look down at myself—at the dress I decided to wear tonight. If Savage doesn’t show up and see this gorgeous work of art on me, I’ll be so pissed. It’s basically form-fitting netting with well-placed swirls that artfully, but barely, hide my most scandalous lady bits. I wouldn’t have worn such a naughty dress for an awards show, typically. Even one as raucous as the Video Music Awards. But knowing I was going to see Savage for the first time since the tour ended spurred me on and made me want to remind him what he missed out on.

That nearby PA suddenly exhales with relief, the same way I’ve seen so many others do before her while awaiting Savage. And that’s how I know Mr. Rockstar has arrived, approximately three minutes before we’re set to walk onstage on live TV.

The air shifts and electrifies. And then, there he is. Rounding a corner.

Casually, he sidles up to me, like he’s got all the time in the world. His eyes wide, he looks me up and down and says, “Damn, Fitzy. That’s quite a dress. Fuck.”

“Hello, Adrian,” I say curtly, pretending not to notice the way his eyes are popping out of his head. His cologne and charisma, the intensity of his gaze . . . all of it is hitting me like a ton of bricks. But I ignore it all.

The superstar onstage says, “And the award goes to . . .” She opens the envelope and immediately stiffens at whatever she’s seeing inside. She looks out at the crowd and smiles thinly. “Hugh Delaney.”

Savage, the production assistant, and I simultaneously snicker, as the audience in the theatre collectively does the same. There’s some scattered, half-hearted applause before the woman onstage finally chokes out, “I’m told Hugh can’t make it tonight, so Taggert and I accept this award on his behalf!”

Savage leans into my ear, making my skin tingle at his proximity. I feel his warm breath as he says, “Yeah, no shit Hugh couldn’t make it tonight. Ha.”

I can’t help snorting with him, totally contrary to my strategy of ignoring him. “Yeah, Hugh’s a little busy tonight . . . imploding spectacularly.”

It’s an understatement. Four days ago, the world found out the fifty-three-year-old, iconic country star who’s been the elder statesman on Sing Your Heart Out since the beginning, has been cheating on his world-famous actress-wife with their kids’ Brazilian nanny—a twenty-year-old who claimed, once the sex tape of them leaked, she’d been “coerced” into having a long-running affair with Hugh.

In response to the shocking allegations, Hugh went on an epic bender, drove his Range Rover into a tree, and promptly got arrested for DUI. Right after that, Hugh’s wife filed for divorce, while the nanny filed a civil lawsuit and sold her story to a gossip rag. The day after that, as in, two days ago, Sing Your Heart Out announced Hugh’s termination, two weeks before shooting on the new season is set to start,