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

continues singing in my ears . . . about me. And whatever Savage sees on my face in this moment prompts him to say, quite obviously, the word “Fuck.” I can’t hear him saying the word, but I can sure as hell read his lips, as Savage’s voice launches into the second chorus of “Hate Sex High” in my earbuds:

You’re falling, falling, falling, falling, falling in hate with me

I’m feeling, feeling, feeling, feeling something I don’t want to feel . . .

Savage begins walking toward me, and when he mouths the word “Laila” before me, it’s coincidentally at the exact same time he sings my name in the song, in the post-chorus section where Savage sings, repeatedly: “La la la la la la la la la Laila Laila.”

I rip out my earbuds, just in time to hear Savage asking the hair and makeup artist to leave. As the woman scurries out the front door of the casita, the song continues wafting from the earbuds in my hand, now sounding compressed and tinny, but otherwise clear as a bell.

Savage’s voice in the earbuds sings: “And I’m feeling, feeling, feeling, feeling . . . something I don’t want to feel.” And Savage before me inhales sharply and jolts in response.

“It’s not about you!” Savage blurts, his face flushed. “I know how it must seem, but it’s, you know, creative license. Pure fiction. Not about you.”

Pure fiction? That seems highly unlikely. Partial fiction, maybe. But there’s just too much obvious truth, too much coincidence in the verses, for the entire song to be pure fiction.

I say, “Pure fiction?”

“I mean, there might be kernels of truth in the verses,” he acknowledges. “Here and there. Tiny kernels, which I then spun into popcorn lies in the chorus.”

“I get it,” I say, my heart crashing in my chest. But I’m not sure I get it. It’s interesting he felt the need to single out the chorus, without me mentioning it. The part where someone is falling into hate with Savage and he’s feeling something he doesn’t want to feel for someone.

“When I wrote the chorus,” Savage says, his features tight, “I chose words that went together well. I liked the way ‘falling’ and ‘feeling’ sound together, that’s all.”

“Yeah, that was a cool word choice. When I write, I like putting words together that sound good, too. I’m often motivated by the sounds of words more than their meanings.”

“Exactly,” he says. “The meaning is secondary. Not even important.”

There’s a long, awkward pause between us, during which he looks remarkably flustered.

Savage shifts his weight. “Maybe, subliminally, the night of the hot tub played a small part in inspiring the song. I think I remember writing that song shortly after we got together. So, I’m sure it’d be fair to say that night gave me the initial spark of an idea for the song, but then I ran with it and it became something totally fictitious.”

Totally fictitious? That’s what I’m thinking. But what I say is, “I totally get it.”

“By the time I got done writing it, it was almost pure fiction.”

“I write the same way sometimes. Something real gives me an idea, and I run with it.”

“I know you get it. You’re a fantastic songwriter, by the way.”

“Thanks. So are you.” My heart feels like a jackhammer. “I love the songs I’ve heard so far. I’ve only heard the first three, but they’re all amazing.” I swallow hard. My mouth is dry. “I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but I’d personally make the bassline a bit higher in the mix on the first song. Just the tiniest bit.”

“I thought the same thing. Great feedback. Thanks.”

“Sure. I’ll keep listening carefully to the rest, if—”

“Yeah, please do. Thanks.”

“Sure.”

He shifts his weight again. “Cool.”

The song ends in my earbuds and a new one begins. So I grab my phone and press pause. “I’m honored to get to hear the album early, by the way. Thanks for that.”

“We like having trusted people—people with good ears . . . ” He trails off and takes a deep breath. “I only ran down here to talk to you because I didn’t want you thinking—”

“I don’t. I understand the writing process.”

“The song isn’t some kind of . . . confessional or anything. Don’t read too much into it.”

“I don’t. I get it.” But, still, I’m not sure I get it.

Savage breathes a huge sigh of relief and his shoulders soften. “Cool.”

I bite the tip of my finger. “I mean, why on earth would I think you were ‘feeling’ something you ‘didn’t want to feel’ . . . for me?”

His shoulders stiffen again.

“Especially back then,” I add. “I know you’ve discovered I’m a tasty treat nowadays, and kind of fun to hang out with, if you’ve got no other option, but back then, we hated each other’s guts. Right?”

“We still do, as far as I’m concerned,” he says.

“Good. Me, too.”

“Good.”

My eyes are locked with his as I try to discern if this feeling in my belly is delusional or not. “I mean, back then, you were way too busy mowing through groupies in every city of the tour to be feeling ‘something’ you ‘didn’t want to feel’ about me. Right?”

He pauses, briefly, before saying, “Right. Absolutely.”

We stare at each other for a long beat, the only sound the crashing of my heart in my ears.

“Okay, well . . .” Savage finally says. “I’m glad we talked about this. It’s a good thing you’re so familiar with songwriting and the creative process, or this could have created a huge misunderstanding. Especially going into our . . . arrangement.”

I press my lips together. “It’s a good thing, indeed.”

He motions toward the door. “So . . . should I tell the makeup artist to—”

“Yes, please. We’re running tight on time, apparently, and she’s got quite a bit more to do to make this shit stain look halfway decent.”

“Actually, I would have thought she’s already done. You look great.”

“Thanks. Zander’s hangover cure worked, exactly as promised. I feel