Collaboration (Backlash)

by Michelle Lynn

  Ryder and I have been in and out of the gossip columns since he joined my band, but truth be told, we’ve never discussed the rumors. He comes alongside me and wraps his arm around my waist, making it seem as if we’re a couple. “No Kylie, we’re just best friends,” he tells her and then winks, causing the girls to practically melt to their knees in front of him. I’m ticked off for being put on the spot like this, but I give them a tight smile and go along with it—for now.

  All of a sudden, a flash hits my eyes and I blink to refocus. Max Benson, our press guy for the tour, chuckles and walks away. Kylie and her friends then want to take photos with us, all of which will probably be on the internet before I’m in bed tonight. Thankfully, the tour assistant soon calls an end to the meet and greet, and I slip out while my mom and Ryder continue to visit with our guests. I’m sure I’ll get an earful later for being “rude” but I’m so tired that I could care less at this point.

  ***

  I slide into my bed, not even bothering to turn on the television—I just want to sleep. My phone vibrates on the nightstand and, even though I’m already dead to the world, I grab it anyway. When Trace’s number appears, I automatically perk up and roll over to my side.

  Trace: So…it’s killin’ me. What is the usual?

  Although his text from earlier rubbed me the wrong way, it feels good to know that while Trace was “representing,” he was curious about what I was doing.

  Me: Hmm…not sure I can trust you ;)

  Trace: How about I share something with you?

  Hell yeah.

  Me: Hit me and we’ll see.

  The anticipation is almost too much to bear.

  Trace: I may or may not lip sync.

  Me: Do you really expect me to believe that?

  Trace: LOL…it was worth a shot.

  As tired as I am right now, this playful banter is making my night.

  Me: Alright, you tried. My usual is…

  I leave him hanging since I assume he’s expecting me to have big plans that don’t involve sleep.

  Me: …being curled up in my bed.

  Trace: I’m so envious right now.

  Really? I didn’t expect that, but then again, maybe he’s just being agreeable.

  Me: If you started your tour in LA, you could be in your own bed too right now ;)

  Trace: Who said I wanted to be in my bed?

  My heart skips a beat and I’m pretty sure there’s a three-ring circus going on in my stomach. Without a winky-face, it’s hard to tell if he’s being serious or not. Why isn’t there a winky-face? My fingers hover over the letters but I can’t think of one damn thing to type. After a minute or so, another text appears.

  Trace: You there?

  I want to ask how what his post-concert celebrations involve, but I’m not sure I want to know. I’m such a freakin’ chicken.

  Me: Yep, sorry…long day.

  Trace: I’ll let you get your beauty rest…not that you need it.

  Shit, there he goes again. Once again, I have no idea what to say. Thanks?

  Me: Goodnight—don’t let the bed bugs bite.

  I groan into my pillow, certain that I’m sounding like a hick—one that Trace will probably never be texting again. Just as I decide to go to sleep so I can put myself out of my misery, my phone vibrates again.

  Trace: Shit…why’d you have to say that? I’ll be feeling things crawling all over my body tonight LOL. Nite girl.

  The last thing I think about before falling asleep is that I’d give anything to be a bed bug if it means I could crawl all over his body tonight.

  ***

  I wake the next morning, dreading that I have to leave the house, despite the fact that it really doesn’t feel like a home and never has. The cleaning crew will come in once a week while I’m on tour, but other than that, it will remain vacant until the next time I’m back in LA. I turn on the television while I finish packing, and as I’m emptying out my drawers, one of the many “entertainment” shows comes on. Reaching for the remote to change the channel, I’m stopped by the sound of his name.

  “Trace’s tour debut wraps up with women—what’s new?” the anchor announces and my jaw drops. The accompanying clips show him exiting a private room at a nightclub with a smirk on his face and then skips to him greeting two barely-dressed girls leaned against his limo. Right as the clip cuts off, one of the girls reaches up and looks as if she’s caressing his face. I feel the vomit start to rise in my throat as I hear the announcer makes some snide remark about how it must be tough being Trace. I shut off the TV, seriously wanting to smack myself across the face for thinking he was flirting with me last night. Those comments probably just flow out of his mouth like water from a faucet.

  Trying to push him and his stupid texts out of my mind, I finish packing my bags and wheel them outside, where the limo is waiting—I’ve got a tour to begin.

  ***

  Five stops and a week into it, I’m already exhausted. My voice is hoarse and no amount of herbal tea seems to be helping. I stay holed up in my bus as much as possible, strumming on my guitar and playing around with song lyrics. It’s my favorite way to relax, especially before going onstage, which is where I have to be in a little over an hour.

  As I’m jotting down notes for a song that’s been floating around in my head, a knock at the door makes me lose my train of thought, and I let out an exasperated breath. I don’t mind living on a tour bus, but the constant interruptions are starting to grate on my nerves.

  “Hey doll, I brought you some tea with honey,” Ryder says as he walks in, making himself at home. “Still working on that song?”

  I accept the steaming hot mug and thank him before putting my guitar down with a sigh. “Yeah, I just can’t seem to get it right—something’s missing.” I lean back against the sofa and curl my legs under me.

  “Do you want me to help you tonight after the show?” he asks with a grin, making it obvious that there’s a not-so-hidden meaning behind that question.

  “Nah…it will come in due time,” I deflect, waving him off. “I know better than to force it.” I don’t miss the disappointed look on his face. There are way too many things that could go wrong if Ryder and I were to get together, and breakups among couples in my industry are just a matter of time. I hate the thought of that happening since, not only would I lose the best guitarist I know, but I’d lose a friend too.

  “Well…if you change your mind, let me know,” he says, standing up. As he leans in to look at my notebook, I close it as nonchalantly as possible. Ryder has helped me out in the past when I’ve struggled with certain parts of songs, but this time it’s different.

  “I will, thanks Ryder.” I hold up my cup of tea and he winks before leaving the van. The guilt hits me as soon as I hear the door close. Sometimes I think I should give him a shot—maybe it could work out for us. We’re both from Texas, though we didn’t know one another when we lived there, and we both love country music. That’s more than Maverick and I had in common, and a hell of a lot more than a certain blue-eyed rapper from Chicago who, despite the recent video clips I saw, still seems to be stuck in my brain.

  The sound of an incoming text pulls me from my thoughts; probably my mother with some last-minutes instructions. I set the cup of tea down to answer it. Well, speak of the player, which, by the way, is exactly the name I used when I saved his number—just so I wouldn’t forget that that’s exactly what he is. I am tempted to erase the message without reading it but curiosity gets the best of me. Trace hasn’t texted since the night we both began our tours, and I can only assume it’s because he’s had his hands full…literally.

  Hey, haven’t heard from you. How’s your throat feeling?

  Okayyy…I don’t hear from him in a week and this is what he asks? Unsure what to say, I respond with the truth.

  Shitty, actually. It’s raspy and sore.

  I don’t bother asking him about his voice because I don’t care—at least that’s what I keep tel
ling myself anyway.

  So my cure didn’t help?

  Cure? I scrunch my eyebrows, trying to figure out what the hell he’s talking about, but I’m coming up short.

  You lost me.

  While I wait, I drink some more tea. Almost showtime. His next text still has me scratching my head.

  Those fuck-ups. I’ll get it to you before your next show. Promise ;)

  He sent me something? I want to ask but I guess he would have said what it was if he wanted me to know.

  Me: Okay… but you didn’t have to get me anything.

  Trace: It’s all good. I know how hard it is performing every night when you’re on tour.

  Me: Well, thanks?

  Trace: Don’t mention it. I’m on in five so good luck tonight. Albuquerque, huh?

  Holy crap, he’s checked my schedule? I’m saved from responding by another text.

  You available to talk tonight?

  Um, yeah. Though do I really want him to know I’m a loser who doesn’t go out and party after my shows? Unlike Mr. Jetsetter, I have to hop back on my bus to get to the next city. I know my band usually parties it up in the bus behind mine but I never join them. My fingers flip from Y to N before I finally give up the fight.

  Yes

  The thought of talking to him tonight thrills and scares me at the same time. I pick up my tea again with shaky hands, and I know they aren’t from pre-concert jitters.

  Cool…talk to ya after the show.

  With a burst of inspiration, I toss my phone down and write the words that just popped into my head. You are so much more than I gave you credit for. It fits perfectly where I’d gotten stuck earlier. All of my creative energy vanishes though when the door to my bus flies open and my mom enters, hollering that it’s time to go. After hiding my notebook, I grab my guitar, check my appearance in the mirror, and walk toward the door.

  “Oh, I almost forgot. This came for you,” my mom says, exchanging my guitar for a large wrapped package. I tear off the paper like a kid on Christmas morning, hiding my smile when I discover that the mystery gift is a cool-mist humidifier. So that’s the cure he was talking about.

  “The record label must have sent it. How thoughtful,” my mother remarks before heading out. I wonder if she would use the same word to describe who really sent it. There’s a plain white envelope stuck to the side, which thankfully my mom didn’t see, and I quickly open it.

  I know how hard it is performing every night when you’re on tour—puts a strain on those chords. Hope this helps. – Trace

  I shove the card in my notebook, not bothering to contain my smile this time. I consider firing off a quick text to thank Trace but recall that he’s getting ready to go on as well. I smile wider when I remember that I can tell him how grateful I am when we talk on the phone tonight. Even my mom yelling for me to ‘hurry the hell up’ doesn’t damper my mood, and I run out the door and toward the arena, ready to put on a performance, one where I won’t have to act happy—because I truly am.

  Chapter 8

  Trace

  Whoever decided to name Detroit the “Motor City” obviously wasn’t hanging around me because my ass hasn’t moved from this hotel. Apparently, there are some people here that don’t think I’m “black enough” and are looking for any opportunity to start shit with me and my crew. So word came down, and now, aside from the stadium, the only view I’ve seen of the city is out of the limo and hotel windows. The concert was a blast though and the crowd one of the biggest I’ve seen, so I guess I’m more loved than hated in Detroit—nice to know.

  Not heading out on the town after the show wouldn’t be so bad…hell, I’d love it actually, except that the party decided to come to my hotel suite instead. I love my boys, and not to diminish what they do, but they have no fucking clue how tiring these concerts are on the one actually performing. I have the utmost respect for professional dancers because, whereas we rehearse for a couple of hours before each performance, I know they practice all day every day, and they don’t get near the money or respect that they deserve.

  Speaking of which, it looks as if the guys invited every backup dancer from the tour to my place, along with the usual out-for-celebrity-cock groupies. I scan the opulent and soon-to-be-trashed room, not missing the fact that there is a hell of a lot more girls than guys in here. I also notice that the extra thirty minutes I spent showering and changing after the show appears to have been enough time for everyone to get sufficiently sloshed, because I’m pretty sure I’m the only sober one in this room right now.

  As if on cue, I hear, “Trace, my man, help a brother out…” I roll my eyes at Xavier, thinking to myself that this is never a good start to a conversation with any of my boys.

  “What’s up, X?” I ask.

  “You good at gettin’ pussy, Ace,” he slurs. Oh good Lord, where is he going with this? “Why don’t you tell this lovely lady right here,” he says, indicating the “lady” on his left versus the one hanging on his right arm, “why she should join ‘ol T-Rex for a little midnight ménage à trois?”

  Not even justifying his idiocy, I begin to walk away but not before I hear, “Fine, motherfucker. You can have one of ‘em if you gonna be like that.”

  If I wasn’t so damn tired, I’d head to the gym to escape this drunk-ass crowd. Instead, I walk away, pushing through people to get to my room. On the way, I run into Quinton and remember something I’d wanted to ask him earlier.

  “Quint,” I call and motion for him to follow me into the room. There’s no way in hell he’d hear me over the beats blaring. It’s a good thing this suite takes up the entire top floor and my crew occupies the floor below, or I’m sure they’d kick our disorderly asses out of this high-class establishment.

  “Yeah, Ace?” he asks once the heavy bass is muted by the closed door.

  “What’s the name of that site where they talk shit about me?”

  “Which one?” he asks with a laugh. And although I get the feeling he isn’t joking, he quickly says, “Nah, I’m fuckin’ with ya, man. I think you’re talking about Perez Hilton. He’s the go-to guy for celeb gossip. But T, I done told you not to look yourself up, brother. It ain’t gonna do you no good, and will probably just piss you off.”

  “Good thing I’m not planning on looking myself up then, ain’t it?” I say and he cocks his eyebrow. “Just cover for me out there, will ya? I need ten and then I’ll be back in business.”

  “Dude, you ain’t been in business since this tour started. Don’t think the boys and I haven’t noticed either. What’s up with you? You missin’ your momma?” he asks jokingly. If he wasn’t a friend of mine, I would kick his ass right this minute. But it’s not his fault he doesn’t know. Only Dre does, and that’s the way it’s going to stay.

  “Nothin’, Q…just tired, that’s all,” I say through gritted teeth. “Gotta pace myself, you know how it is.”

  “Dawg, I ain’t never seen you pace yourself when it comes to women. I thought the more the merrier was your motto. But lately—“

  “Lately, I’m workin’ my ass off,” I snap defensively. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” I say, heading to the bathroom, not caring at this point if I’m being rude. I’m not sure if I’m irritated because I don’t want the stream of meaningless fucks that I could have at every moment along this tour or because I don’t know why I don’t want them.

  When I get out of the bathroom, my room is quiet and thankfully Quinton-free, so I grab the duffle with my iPad in it. Firing it up, I think about the conversations that I’ve had with Taryn over the past two weeks. Though both busy touring, we’ve texted a couple times a day, and each back-and-forth makes me want to get to know her more. We’ve spoken on the phone once or twice too, but that’s a little trickier since our schedules aren’t always in sync.

  We seem to have this unspoken agreement where we take turns texting first, and I messaged her after the concert in Indianapolis last night. Shit, maybe that’s why I’m so fucking irritable—I haven’t
heard from her today. I briefly wonder about the radio silence but figure I can get my fix seeing a picture of her instead.

  Pulling up the celebrity gossip site Quinton told me about, the first picture on the “news” feed tells me exactly what she’s been up to. There, in all its high-resolution, pixilated glory, is a photo of Taryn and guitar boy, flanked by two fans. I try to remind myself that she’s not my girl; we’re just texting for God’s sake. But it doesn’t stop the burn I feel in my chest—not a good feeling.

  Further cementing my masochistic tendencies, I click on Taryn’s name, bringing up any and all pictures and stories related to her in reverse chronological order. Among video clips from recent concerts, there are paparazzi photos of her leaving a charity event in St. Louis, another of her getting into a limo after a concert, and my favorite, her trying to sneak unrecognized into a coffee shop in Nashville. The braids-and-ballcap look is fucking sexy on her.

  The burn intensifies when I scroll down to the next picture, which is one of her and guitar boy by themselves, his arm around her. The date the photo was posted was the night of her first concert and I wonder if it was taken before or after we texted. “Curled up in bed, my ass,” I mutter to myself.

  Her ears must be ringing because, at that very moment, my cell buzzes, alerting me to an incoming text. Knowing I have absolutely no right to feel like I do, and not even certain what it is that I’m feeling, I pull out my phone to read what she wrote.

  Taryn: How’s Detroit?

  I’m surprised that she’s taken the time out of her busy schedule to pay attention to where I am.

  Me: Sucks

  I stare at the picture of the two of them as I wait for her response—not that I really invited one. Below the photo, I read what the self-proclaimed ‘Gossip Gangster’ has to say, and it’s not encouraging. Apparently, this isn’t the first time rumors have been swirling about the “cozy couple.” My phone buzzes before I get any further.