Collaboration (Backlash)

by Michelle Lynn

At the honky-tonk with guitar boy?

  I don’t know whether to be offended by his assumption that I would even be at a honky-tonk, or flattered that he is somehow threatened by Ryder, of all people. Which reminds me, what was with that pissing contest earlier between the two of them anyway?

  Before I can fire off a Regina-style retort—who, by the way, is still feverishly texting someone while impressively managing a set of chopsticks—another text appears.

  Kidding, girl. You enjoy yourself…we’re headed out. And when we perform together, I’ll hold that gorgeous hair back for you.

  I turn my phone off, fighting like hell to keep the smile in check this time. It’s a good thing, since Regina seems to have finished her conversation as well and is now watching me as she eats. I begin to devour mine as well and we resume our discussion about her flavor-of-the-week. Surprisingly, she doesn’t ask me about my love life, probably because she knows that dating and touring do not go well together.

  After we settle up the bill, Regina predictably tries to convince me to go clubbing with her, but since I legitimately can’t this time because of tomorrow’s insane first-concert-of-the-tour schedule, she seems satisfied. We say our ‘goodbyes’ at the table—the valets will have our cars all geared up so we can make a quick exit—and she walks out, turning to give me a final wink before she goes. While I wait for word that they’re ready for me, I drink one last sip of water before remembering to turn my phone back on. I’m surprised to see another text from Trace; he must have sent it before the plane took off.

  Glad you’re with my girl, Gina, by the way…

  That fox! She knew I was talking to him the whole time and didn’t say a word. Not that I ever doubted it, but no one could ever accuse Regina King of being unable to keep her mouth shut. I guess she saw who I was texting after all.

  The manager from the restaurant signals that they’re all set, so I shoot off one final text before I go.

  You bitch!

  I smile as I imagine her laughing her ass off. Her response appears before I’ve even left the table.

  We’ll talk soon ;)

  Chapter 6

  Trace

  The second I get offstage, exhausted and coated in sweat, Jay pulls me toward the back like I’m a child being sent to his fucking room. I shake out of his grip and stomp forward, swearing like a sailor so he knows that I can walk and talk and shit without his assistance. He follows me into my private dressing room, where I grab a bottle of water and down it in one sizeable gulp. All I want to do is head back to the hotel and rest up before I’ve got to get up to do this all again tomorrow, but I have a feeling that’s not going to happen or Jay wouldn’t be on me like white on rice.

  “You gotta half hour to shower ‘fore we roll out, Ace,” he says, removing any possibility of sleep in my immediate future. Doesn’t mean I have to like it though—hey, if he’s going to treat me like a child, I can sure as hell play the part.

  “Seriously, Jay? Did you see tomorrow’s schedule?” I ask petulantly.

  “I made the motherfuckin’ schedule. Now go get your sweaty black ass in the shower so we can hit the club where WKYS is sponsoring the kick-off party for your fuckin’ tour. We’re clubbin’, T…it’s not like you gotta go visit the ‘ol folks or somethin’,” he says, walking out and slamming the door.

  “I’d rather go visit the ‘ol folks, asshole,” I mumble to myself. Still needing my body to cool down before I shower, I check my phone to see if I have any new texts—just the usual bullshit. I was kind of hoping I’d hear from Taryn again, but then realize she might be waiting to hear from me since she texted me first last time. Damn, I do feel like I’m in grade school today.

  I chuckle when I think about the expression on her face when she realized I knew she was with Gina the whole time. I’d have loved to hear their conversation after she read that text. My laughter fades quickly fades though because, despite making a joke of it earlier, I do think she has something going on with country boy. In fact, I wouldn’t doubt if they are celebrating the completion of her first concert of the tour with a nice little fuck right about now. Well, there’s only one way to find out.

  So were my hair-holding services needed?

  I begin to undress while I wait—Jay will be on my ass if I’m not out of here on time. Looks like we both have someone running our lives. Taryn’s obviously got her mom and I’ve got Jay. On top of that, both of us have the label calling the shots. Sucks to be us sometimes. My phone buzzes, announcing an incoming message, and I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding before reading her message.

  Nope, everything went great. You?

  It’s good to hear that she wasn’t sick, but I find myself wanting to know more.

  Killed it. Celebrating?

  I tap my fingers against my leg as I await her response, which arrives a second later.

  The usual. You?

  What the fuck is “the usual” in her world? Finding myself irritated for no good reason, I fire off a rapid response.

  Gotta represent.

  And I do. In fifteen fucking minutes. I start toward the shower when another text buzzes in.

  Okay…need to go. Later.

  Well, shit. Now I’m wishing I hadn’t texted her in the first place, because that conversation certainly didn’t go as well as the last. Plus, now I’m all kinds of curious to know what she’ll be doing tonight…or who.

  I toss my phone on the bathroom counter, turn on the shower, and step in, not even waiting for the water to warm up. It’s not like I haven’t taken my share of cold showers in my life, and sometimes I’m in need of a good reality check—now seems to be one of those times.

  ***

  We arrive at the club and I do my thing, taking pictures with everyone and their mother and signing autographs until my right hand hurts like it did in junior high before I could get laid whenever I wanted. The completely fake but well-received smile stays plastered on my face, all the while Taryn is occupying my head. I know it’s ridiculous though since, just like it says in the song we’re collaborating on, there is absolutely no future for the two of us—not together anyway. Even if we did have something—and that’s a giant fucking ‘if’—I doubt we could make it work, not in this business. There’s one thing, however, that I have no doubt about—any attempt at anything with ‘America’s Sweetheart’ would destroy both of our careers.

  After all of the promotional stuff is done, I chill for awhile at one of the tables that have been roped off for our group. I shoot the shit with the guys but don’t drink, not looking for another ass-chewing again anytime soon. Not to mention, I’m pretty sure I’d fall asleep in this booth if I have even one glass of Courvoisier, my current drink of choice.

  A buzz in my pocket alerts me to an incoming text. When I pull my phone out, I see that it’s from Regina.

  Call me.

  Thinking it might be about Taryn, I excuse myself and motion to Cal. He quickly leads me to a nearby private room, no doubt on hand so that VIPs can get their fuck on. After I wave off Cal and close the door, I find Gina in my list of contacts, curious as to what might have warranted a phone call. I’m hoping that regardless of what it is she’ll give me the scoop on guitar boy, so I hit ‘send.’

  “Why the fuck you texting my girl?” she demands in her usual no-nonsense way.

  “Your girl? I didn’t know you two were tight, G,” I say.

  “We’re tight alright. Now what gives?” she asks again.

  “Just collaboratin’, you know how it is,” I say, deliberately being vague.

  “I know you better be talkin’ ‘bout the song and nothin’ else, Trace. Girl’s gotta enough shit, she don’t need yours too.”

  What the fuck’s that mean? Regina must be referring to her helicopter-from-hell mom because that’s the only thing Taryn doesn’t have going for her. I’d bet my new platinum Rolex that Lil’ Miss “Sweet and Sassy” has led a picture-perfect life.

  “You sayin’ I’m full of sh
it?” I ask jokingly.

  “Boy….you’re so full of shit, it’s a wonder those blue eyes of yours ain’t already turned brown,” she says and I laugh so hard I’m afraid I might bust a gut. Seriously, where does she come up with this stuff? I finally pull myself together, sobering only because I remember what I wanted to ask her.

  “So I met country boy….” I say, hoping she’ll fill in the blanks as to what’s up between the two of them.

  “Are you talkin’ about Ryder?” she asks and I can picture Regina arching her perfectly-manicured eyebrow.

  “Yeah, the one who was throwin’ some serious shade my way. Any reason why?”

  “Are you askin’ if he and Taryn are together? Well, not that you need to know, but last time I checked, they weren’t,” she says, all attitude.

  “And when was the last time you checked?” I question, trying to be patient but getting a little frustrated. This is like pulling teeth. No, fuck that expression, this is whole hell of a lot harder. But I know I have to play nice or risk pissing off my one solid source of insider information regarding Taryn Starr.

  “Well, let’s just say that I saw her lit up like a fuckin’ firefly while she was texting somebody, and that somebody sure as hell wasn’t Ryder,” she says. “But now I want you to answer my question. Why’re you texting Taryn in the first place? And don’t tell me it’s because of the song…”

  Shit. I’d say the cat’s out of the bag, but there’s really nothing going on...not yet anyway. Now that I know Ryder’s not in the picture, I might see about changing that.

  “G, we just talkin’, that’s all,” I answer. “How about you drop it so you don’t go gettin’ your designer panties all in a bunch,” I joke, hoping she will.

  No such luck—this is Regina King we’re talking about. “The only thing that’s gonna get dropped is yo ass if you mess around with my girl and break her heart. She doesn’t need it, you hear me, Trace?”

  “Yeah, I hear ya,” I respond, even though I don’t know what she’s talking about. But now that’s she mentioned it twice, I’m even more curious.

  “’Aight, well I gotta jump, you know how it goes. Catch ya later, T,” she says and damn if she doesn’t hang up on me. I can’t help but chuckle because that is exactly like Regina to say her piece, making sure she gets the last word in. Girl’s a trip.

  I put my cell in the pocket of my Balmain black leather biker jacket and head back toward the VIP table, where my crew is still consuming an outrageous amount of alcohol and attempting to get their game on. They shouldn’t have any trouble, with or without me. Since I’m not drinking tonight, nor am I in the mood for any of the girls hanging around—none of which are trying to hide the fact that they’re looking for action—I tell the guys I’m going to call it a night. Because we are leaving at the ass-crack of dawn, I have a good excuse and thankfully no one questions it.

  Cal’s instantly by my side again and I wait while he radios his team to clear a way out of here. After he gives me the go-ahead, I pull my ball cap down low, put on my shades, and follow the lead of the point man. We make it out of the club in record time and, although I wanted nothing to do with security this morning, tonight I’m thankful for it. Especially in a crowd where almost everyone is either drunk or high—it would be too easy for trouble to start, even if I’m not looking for it. As it is, I’ve got to listen to the catcalls a couple of motherfuckers are yelling my way, but I easily ignore them. It’s easy to hate what you don’t have, and I can’t fault them for not knowing what was lost along the way. If they did know, they wouldn’t envy me.

  A black super-stretch limo waits out front and I miss the Escalade already. It’s way more fun having the boys all piled up in that badass SUV than riding solo in this big-ass limo. As I approach the vehicle, I can’t miss the two scantily-clad females leaning against the door.

  “You want me to get rid of them?” Cal whispers as we walk.

  “Nah, I got this,” I say and he chuckles, probably assuming that I’m going to get some serious action night.

  “Hey, ladies,” I say smoothly, even though the term obviously doesn’t apply here. “A little cold out here for you to be waiting around for autographs.”

  They both laugh, and the one whose triple-D breasts are falling out of her top says, “Yeah, we forgot to bring a pen. Maybe you have one at your place?”

  Well, that was fucking forward. Then again, what did I expect? “Sorry babes, but I’ll have to take a rain check. Gotta fly out to the next stop,” I say, not bothering to mention that I’m not leaving until morning. Hopefully they don’t know that the rest of my crew is still getting their party on in the club.

  “Aww,” the other one pouts, “we could always go with you.” She brushes her long-ass fingernail across my cheek and Cal, who doesn’t take to people touching me without permission, steps in.

  “Yo, you heard the man. He’s leaving and it’s time for you to do the same,” his booming voice leaving no room for argument. They walk off, mumbling to themselves, using words that no “lady” would ever use. I toss a grateful look at Cal and he looks at me questioningly. I shrug my shoulders and point to the limo driver, who hurries to open the door for me. I crawl in, eager for the solitude, and sit back as the door shuts behind me.

  I’ve barely closed my eyes when we pull up to the hotel, where there’s a good-sized mob of people waiting outside. Once again I’m thankful for my security team, who pulled up the rear in a black SUV. My cell buzzes and I see that it’s a text from Cal. Damn, I was kind of hoping it was Taryn.

  Cal: Str8 thru, Ace?

  I’m so fucking tired from the concert and the club, and after already getting rid of one set of women for the night, I know my patience is shot to hell.

  Lead the way, bro.

  A minute later, the door opens and I’m surrounded by five linebacker-sized men. We move as fast we can through the crowd without knocking anyone down, and once we get to the elevators where the coast is clear, I slap a couple of hundreds in each of their hands by way of thanks. I know they’ve got girls back home and many of them have kids who won’t see their dads for months on end because of me. And even though I know they’re paid well, a little extra never hurts either.

  I climb inside the elevator with Cal, who pushes the button for the top floor. Just as I pull five Benjamins out of my wallet, he says, “Don’t even think about it.”

  “Please, bro. It’s just my way of thanking you,” I tell him.

  “And I’m telling you to put your fucking money away. You wanna spend it on someone else, go ahead, but you’re not givin’ it to me. I already get a paycheck and it doesn’t come from you.”

  “That’s why I wanna give you somethin’. I don’t know how much those tight-ass suits pay you, so I gotta know you’re being taken care of, ‘aight?”

  “No, not alright,” he says as the elevator doors open.

  I sigh and walk out, knowing that this is one battle I’m not going to win—today. But I also know that someday he might need me and when he does, I’ll be there. Cal is one of the good ones and I’m glad he’s on my team.

  I put the card in the slot to open the door and head inside the empty room, ready to hit the sack. I strip down as I walk and collapse onto the bed, not even bothering to set my alarm. No doubt Jay will have me up and moving whenever I need to be.

  I close my eyes, trying to clear my head, but the one thing that I can’t keep from thinking about is what Taryn’s “usual” celebration might be.

  Chapter 7

  Taryn

  Making my way backstage, I don’t stop to talk to anyone, but head straight to my dressing room. I know I’ll only have a few minutes to myself so I decide to check my phone while I wait. I smile when I see a text from Trace, essentially asking if I tossed my cookies before the show. After a little back and forth, he tells me he has to “represent,” and suddenly I’m not smiling anymore. What the hell does that mean? When I hear loud voices on the other side of the door, I
type a hasty reply and send it before shoving the phone into my bag.

  “Great show, doll.” Ryder walks over and kisses my sweaty cheek. All I want to do is take a nice, long shower and, even though I know it’s not going to happen right away, I’m thankful I can at least take it at home tonight.

  “Thanks, you were great out there,” I respond. Ryder is an incredibly talented guitarist and popular among the fans, particularly the girls.

  “Taryn, darling…what happened in that last song? I told you that you should have been working out during the break to keep your stamina up.” If she knew me at all, she’d know that I do work out, but I’d like to see her ass up there dancing and singing for over two hours.

  I glare at her and she smiles back to me while nudging Ryder’s elbow. He looks uncomfortable and it’s obvious he wants out of the conversation but she won’t relent. “We’ll work on it, Savannah,” he says to her and I want to run out of the room screaming. Would it kill him to stick up for me once in a while?

  Before I can tell them both where they can go, there’s a knock at the door and the tour assistant enters with a few backstage pass holders. It’s a group of younger girls, probably fifteen or so, accompanied an older gentleman—most likely a dad who was dragged here against his will. Of course, my mom instantly gravitates toward him.

  The girls squeal and giggle at Ryder and me, and the two of us smile at one another before we wave them over. Within seconds, Ryder’s casual demeanor has them eating out of his hand. The one short-haired brunette approaches and asks if she can hug me, and when she does, she practically knocks me over with her force. “I’m Kylie and oh my goodness…I can’t believe I’m hugging Taryn Starr right now,” she exclaims while squeezing me tight. Moments like this reminds me why I exhaust myself, night after night, and spend countless hours on tour buses, year after year.

  After reluctantly releasing me, she hands me her ticket stub to sign. After I finish, she smiles, staring at me, and I can’t help wonder what she’s thinking. Am I not as pretty in person or is it that I’m nicer than she thought I would be? I don’t have to wait for my answer when she asks, “Are you and Ryder like…together?”