Falling Into Love with You (The Hate-Love Duet Book 2) by Rowe, Lauren (grave mercy .TXT) 📕

handing me a champagne glass. I hold it up and point, since the party is noisy, and then motion to him and me, him and me—and then to Rhoda. For her part, Rhoda holds up her phone by way of explanation and nods, and that’s all Savage needs. With a loud whoop, my boyfriend grabs a full drink right out of Kendrick’s hand, throws it back in one fell swoop, and shouts something I can’t make out above the loud music.

Someone turns the music up, even louder, drinks are poured, and less than an hour later, I’m buzzed to perfection and dancing like a fool in the middle of my living room with Savage and a rowdy group of our best friends—Savage’s bandmates, some of my musician friends, and, of course, Aloha and her entire crew: her husband, Zander, and the guys from 22 Goats with their dates.

I can’t help noticing there’s been a complete lack of tension between Colin and Savage tonight, and I’m glad about it. In fact, I’ve caught the men sharing a laugh here and there. Perhaps, Colin showing up to my party with a date has put Savage at ease. Or maybe the therapist Savage started seeing last week, with plans to see her once a week, has already rubbed off on him. Or maybe Savage finally feels secure enough in our relationship to trust our love for what it is: rock solid.

When the current song on Alessandra’s party playlist ends, none other than “Hate Sex High” begins blaring. And of course, the entire party goes ballistic. When Fugitive Summer’s album released a few weeks ago, this particular song, which was released as its leadoff single, went straight to number one. And not just in the United States—in countries all over the world.

It was a first for Fugitive Summer to have a leadoff song capture that much global success, and Savage and his fellow band members have been thrilled about it. And not just for the pure accomplishment of it, but because of . . . the money. Oh my God, the money. Savage isn’t a particularly money-driven person, but, still, money means freedom, and it’s now clear Savage will be free as a bird for the rest of his life, along with his bandmates, provided nobody does anything too stupid. The one-two punch of “Hate Sex High,” along with Savage’s high profile on the show, has caused interest in Fugitive Summer and its entire catalog to skyrocket, which, in turn, has launched Fugitive Summer to a whole new level of success.

As “Hate Sex High” hits its first verse, the members of Fugitive Summer find each other on the dance floor and sing the song together loudly, throwing their heads back and jumping around like lunatics, while the entire party sings and laughs along with them. There are a whole lot of musicians and music industry types here tonight, so we all know the success Fugitive Summer is currently having is lightning in a bottle—quite possibly, never to be repeated, no matter how successful they might be in the future—and we’re all thrilled to celebrate this amazing time with them. Nobody more than me. The muse for the song. La La La Laila. The woman who came three times while chasing a “hate sex high.”

Fugitive Summer has never confirmed or denied the widespread belief that the song is about me. But it’s awfully hard to miss my name at the end of those “la la” lines, no matter what Savage has always stupidly insisted. And so, when the song blaring in the party gets to that part in the song, everyone in the room screams my name at the tops of their lungs, making Savage pick me up and spin me around, while singing along with his own blaring voice. “Laila, Laila.”

Even if someone hearing this song for the first time had never heard of Laila Fitzgerald, or had never seen that viral video of Savage and me fighting on a sidewalk or watched my interview on Sylvia, they’d know this song is about some chick named Laila. Some chick named Laila who wanted to “ride” Savage, and did. Some chick named Laila who came three times in hot pursuit of her “hate sex high.” And now, finally, by singing along with the recording at the top of his lungs along with all of our friends, Savage is finally tacitly admitting what the world already knows: yep, he’s most definitely singing “Laila” and not “la la” on those parts.

Of course, when the line “You came three times” comes up in the song, the party sings it even louder than anything else, and then goes ballistic around me. When Savage speaks that same line in the middle of the song in a smug, sardonic tone—“You came three times”—the entire party shouts it along with him, while looking straight at me, every single person playfully chastising me along with Savage’s snarky voice for claiming sex with Savage had meant “nothing to me.”

If my party guests think they’re going to make me blush by serenading me on that line, however, they’re dead wrong. I’m too drunk to be embarrassed about my sexual appetites at this point. Too in love. In fact, I’m so in love with the man dancing with me right now, the man who threw me this party and earlier today agreed to live with me at my condo when the show is over, I can’t do anything but raise my arms in victory and celebrate joyfully. Fuck yeah, I came three times with my hot boyfriend, bitches! And since then, I’ve come a whole lot more! What, you don’t come three times, or more, with your man? Well, that’s a pity, sis. I guess my boyfriend is a whole lot hotter, and a whole lot better at putting his fingers, tongue, and dick to use than yours. Ha!

When the song reaches its last, spoken lines: “Did he make you come three times? Yeah, didn’t think