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

let me get this straight,” Savage says. “You shamelessly used me as click-bait on Sylvia to further your own career, and you want me to thank you for doing it?”

“Oh, you mean, kinda like how you used my name as click-bait last night, with that Instagrammer?”

Savage pulls a face like I’ve just barfed straight into his mouth. “I didn’t even mention your name to that Instagrammer last night! I said I needed to ‘lay low’ because of the show.”

“Sure, Jan,” I say, invoking a famous meme from The Brady Bunch.

Savage says, “If you think a single word of what that Instagrammer said was true, then you’re either crazy or projecting, or both.”

“Projecting what?”

“Your obsession with me onto me!”

I roll my entire head, not only my eyes. “Oh, please. I haven’t given you a moment’s thought since the tour ended.”

“Sure, Jan,” he says, throwing my comment back to me.

“Was last night some kind of a staged set-up?” I ask.

Savage’s features contort with disdain. “You’re asking if I conspired with a random Instagrammer I’d just met at a party to post a crazy story about you and me . . . for publicity?”

It sounds even crazier when he says it back to me. But I persist. “Maybe. You had to know she’s got a huge following.”

“I didn’t, actually.”

“And you also had to know she constantly posts about her infatuation with you. She’s practically president of your fan club! So, I don’t think it’s crazy to assume you knew she’d post about her interaction with you, however insignificant—see exhibits one through a million on Twitter—and you decided to give her something to post about. Something you knew would go viral.”

Savage shakes his head. “You know you sound like a deranged lunatic right now, right?”

He’s right. I do. I’m a stone-cold nutter. But I don’t care. I’m a runaway train. “It’s not any crazier than believing you told her you had to ‘lay low’ and she heard ‘Laila.” Come on, Savage. We both know you said my name. And you knew, with all the publicity we’ve had lately—we’re a freaking meme, dude!—that mentioning my name would be like throwing a lit match onto a puddle of gasoline!”

“I didn’t say your name, for the love of fuck!” he roars, absolutely beside himself with frustration. “Thanks to your stupid interview on Sylvia, she assumed we must be fucking—just like everyone else assumes it! Do you have any idea how many friends texted me after seeing that interview? They were like, ‘Dude, if you two aren’t already having sex, then buy yourself a huge box of condoms, pronto, because Laila’s gonna show up on your doorstep any day now, demanding to fuck you for a solid week straight!’?”

I gasp loudly.

“Don’t even bother fake gasping with me, Laila Fitzgerald,” Savage says. “I spent three months on the road with you. I know nothing fazes you.”

He’s right. That gasp was totally fake. And, unfortunately, a little over the top. But I don’t care. I gasp again and say, “Nobody sent you a text about me after Sylvia. You’re a liar.”

“Everybody did,” he replies.

“And by ‘everybody,’ you mean Kendrick and Kai?”

“Kendrick and Kai and lots more. C-Bomb . . .”

“And . . .?”

“Lots of people.”

“Bullshit.”

“Swear to God.

“Prove it.”

“I can.” He pulls out his phone and starts swiping angrily. “I saved all their texts, in case I’d ever have the opportunity to rub them in your smug little face.”

I snort. “Ha! That was a trap, Einstein, and you walked right into it. If your goal is to convince me you’re not totally obsessed with me, then admitting you saved a bunch of texts about us being secret fuck buddies isn’t helping your cause.”

“I didn’t save the texts,” Savage insists. “I never deleted them, because I didn’t get around to it.”

“Wow, shocker. Yet another thing I can’t stand about you. All your unread texts! Look at your inbox right now and tell me how many you have. I bet it’s more than a thousand.”

He looks down and makes a face that tells me I’ve guessed right. “They’re not all unread. Just because I haven’t clicked on them doesn’t mean I haven’t seen them in the preview pane or—"

“Hey, guys,” Nadine interjects on speaker phone, and we both freeze. She continues, “This is highly entertaining. Truly, it is. But I’ve gotta stop you now.” As Savage and I exchange a look I’d call, Well, that’s embarrassing, Nadine chuckles and says, “Damn, I wish I had a big bowl of popcorn right now. Or maybe a vibrator.”

Everyone on Nadine’s end of the call explodes with laughter, as Savage and I return to our seats and exchange angry looks that say, This is all your fault!

“You two really would be ratings gold,” Nadine says wistfully. “Great job, guys. If this ‘fight’ was your clever way of coaxing us to throw some more money into the pot for Laila, consider your tactic a success. We really don’t have another dime in the budget to offer, but in an effort to close the deal, we’re willing to offer Laila a performance slot in the finale.”

Whoa.

That’s the brass ring. The kind of publicity that catapults any song straight into the Top Ten, if not to Number One.

I look at Daria and she winks, yet again confirming everything is going exactly according to plan.

Eli interjects, “Savage would require a performance slot, as well.”

Nadine exhales with annoyance. “Hold, please.” She places the call on hold for an eternal moment, during which Savage and I exchange dirty looks to the beat of the elevator version of “Fuck You” by CeeLo Green. Finally, Nadine returns to the call and declares, “Okay. We’ll give Savage and Laila a shared performance slot in the finale. They can do a mash-up of their respective singles, or anything else they come up with. But we only have one performance slot to offer the happy couple, collectively. So they’ll have to learn to share.”

Savage and I look at each other, conciliation slowly passing between us. It’s not