Collaboration (Backlash)

by Michelle Lynn

  He turns the radio on and “Southern Girl” by Tim McGraw is playing. “Isn’t this the truth?” he says, smiling over at me before rolling down his window. Following his lead, I roll mine down too, immediately comforted by the warm Texas breeze blowing my hair in every direction. Oh, I’ve missed this. As the smell of wildflowers wafts into the cab, I close my eyes, relishing the peaceful feeling that floats over me. Unfortunately, I can’t stop thinking about the fact that I wanted to experience this with Trace—show him what Texas is all about.

  As the truck exits the freeway and we begin to drive along some backcountry roads, the dressing room fight replays in my head. What was I supposed to do, let him dictate who’s in my band just because he thinks Ryder is attracted to me? And even if he is, that doesn’t mean anything will happen. It takes two to two-step, right?

  Sensing eyes on me, I turn to face Ryder, who is staring at me, unashamed. I smile at him before quickly turning back to look out the window. With just one look, I know Trace was right—Ryder does still want to be with me, even after I turned him down in the bus that night. Just as I’m beginning to think that maybe this was a bad idea, we pull up to a classic country bar, which Ryder tells me he used to hang out at with his buddies in high school because the bartenders “didn’t give a shit” and would serve them alcohol. The wooden exterior and limited number of old pick-up trucks in the parking lot tells me that this place is perfect—no one will be looking for us here—so I decide that a little fun might be okay after all.

  He tells me to wait while he exits the truck and then opens my door for me—God, I hope he doesn’t think this is a date. Taking his callused hand because it would be rude not to, I step out and the ground crunches beneath our cowboy boots as we cross the gravel parking lot. As we enter, I see several couples spinning around the relatively small dance floor and the yearning to be one of those couples burns inside of me. I haven’t been dancing—not country dancing—in freakin’ forever. It always cracks me up how people in LA think that all we do is line dance in Texas, when really there’s nothing like a good two-step if you have the right partner. And I can’t help but be curious if Ryder is any good.

  He leads me over to the bar and I waste no time knocking back a beer before dragging Ryder to the wooden dance floor. He wraps one strong hand around my waist while I place mine on his shoulder before we clasp our free hands together. “Neon Moon” by Brooks & Dunn plays, which is probably one of the best two-step songs ever made, and Ryder expertly leads me around the dance floor. I figured he’d be a pretty good dancer but damn, he definitely exceeded my expectations. The grace he possesses as he twirls me around has my heart racing and breath quickening.

  After just one song, I’m ready for a drink—and it sure as hell won’t be water. As we belly up to the bar, I notice the older people who are standing around smile at us with admiration but not recognition. Ryder orders us both Budweisers and we take a seat in a booth in the back—no sense pushing our luck.

  We talk about the tour, but mainly about Texas. Ryder grew up close to where we’re at right now and I tell him some about my small town. The only thing we don’t discuss is the proverbial elephant in the bar. Ryder hasn’t mentioned Trace at all, and I wonder if he’s trying to get my mind off of him or he doesn’t want to hear what I have to say. When the waitress comes over, Ryder orders another round, along with a couple shots of whiskey. I quirk my eyebrow at him and he laughs. “Hey, we’re in a Texas bar, might as well make ‘em proud.”

  Our drinks are delivered a few minutes later and Ryder raises his shot glass, “To doing what we love.” I raise mine as well and he clinks it before tilting his head back and pouring it in. I mimic his motion and then he stands up, holding his hand out for me.

  We dance a few more songs, down a couple more shots, drink a few more beers, and dance some more. Before I know it, my body and my mind are both numb, and I’m enjoying not feeling a damn thing. All of the hurt caused by Trace might be still be there, but copious amounts of whiskey and beer have masked it marvelously.

  I plop down on the bench, exhausted and dizzy from dancing—or from the alcohol. I don’t know which at this point. Ryder follows suit a few minutes later with two water bottles, and the cool fluid is a relief to my sore throat. As I lean my head back to take a sip, I spot Ryder looking over at me from across the table.

  “Why him?” he asks and my half-drunken brain tries to figure out if we were in the middle of a conversation.

  “I’m sorry, why who?” I ask.

  “Trace—what made you want to go out with him?” Oh him…the past few fun-filled hours almost made me forget. Not quite, but almost.

  “I can’t really explain it; I just felt something,” I say, the alcohol making me honest.

  “Do you still?” His eyes are full of hope, but even in my hurt and drunken state, I know that I don’t want it to be over between me and Trace. And I hope to God he feels the same.

  “Feel something?” I ask and he nods. “Yeah, I really do.”

  “Jesus, Taryn, I just don’t get it. Ya’ll have nothing in common,” he says, his voice rising.

  “Maybe we do, maybe we don’t,” I say, growing defensive. “But it’s not really anyone’s business, is it?

  Ryder remains quiet, twirling his water bottle in his hand. “You never felt this with us?” he asks, motioning his finger between our bodies.

  “Ryder, please don’t do this,” I plead, knowing full well that I shouldn’t have put myself in this position in the first place.

  “Do what? Tell you I want my chance?” he asks and just like that, the words are out on the table and there’s no ignoring them.

  “Ryder, I’m with Trace,” I tell him, even though I’m not completely sure after the fight we had tonight.

  “He just broke up with you,” he reminds me.

  “My heart still belongs to him, Ryder,” I say, placing my hand over his. “I’m sorry, but I only see you as a friend.”

  “But Taryn, we couldn’t be more perfect for one another and you know it,” he says, the desperation clear in his voice. As much I hate hearing it, and even though I know what he’s saying makes sense on some level, his words only make me want Trace more than I already do.

  “I shouldn’t have come here with you. This was a bad idea, Ryder.” I stand up, wobbling slightly.

  “The only bad idea is you being with him,” he says coldly. I roll my eyes and turn around, ready to head out.

  Ryder grabs my elbow and spins me back toward him, saying, “I’m sorry, Taryn. I just don’t want to see you get hurt and it’s obvious he’s already done that. I wouldn’t be a good friend if I let him hurt you again, would I? So you can’t fault me for caring.”

  He’s right…about all of it. Trace did hurt me—badly. And Ryder is just being a good friend, bringing me here so I could get my mind off of things. And even if he does have feelings for me that I can’t return, deep down I know he cares and always has. So I thank him for caring and allow him to guide me back into the booth, where the waitress has dropped off another round of shots.

  I down both mine and his, and after several more drinks and—shit, I don’t know how many shots—I feel myself begin to slump down in the booth and the last thing I remember is feeling Ryder’s strong arms scoop me up before I pass out completely.

  ***

  Ugh…what the hell did I do? Rolling over slowly since my head feels like it’s going to fall off, I immediately spot a note on the pillow beside me. Thank God, since I wasn’t one-hundred percent sure that I wasn’t going to find Ryder lying there. The feel of my jeans rubbing together as I move my legs gives me a good indication that nothing happened last night, and again—thank God. I reach my hand out and pick up the note he left for me.

  Taryn, sorry I let you get so drunk last night. Good luck with Trace. ~ Ryder

  As much as I wish things could be different, they can’t—but at least he gets that now. I don’t know why, but I just get the feeling that
I’m convenient for Ryder, not that he actually feels for me the way I do about Trace. Shit, speaking of Trace how pissed would he be if he knew that Ryder tucked me into bed last night?

  Trying to shake the thoughts of both of them out of my head, I urgently make my way to the bathroom to relieve my very full bladder. In addition to the massive amounts of hairspray from the show, I desperately need to get the smell of smoke from the bar out of my hair before I do anything else.

  After I get out of the shower, I grab my cell, disappointed when I see that there are no missed calls or texts from Trace. As I quickly get dressed and throw my hair in a ponytail, I make a decision that I’m not going to let this go. We’re finally in the same city and I have no idea when—if ever—I would have the chance to talk to him again. I try calling his phone but he doesn’t pick up, and multiple texts go unanswered. I’m about to go harass the manager of the hotel to see if I can score his room number when a booming knock sounds out at my door. When I throw it open, I’m surprised to find Cal standing in my doorway.

  “Oh, good morning, Cal. I was just going to look for Trace.”

  “I thought he was with you. Didn’t he stay here last night?” he asks, his eyes scrunching in confusion.

  “No, we had a fight and—“

  “That fucker!”

  “What?”

  “He has his own car. He asked for one when we got here yesterday so the two of you could go somewhere after the show—without company.” Hearing Trace’s plans breaks my heart a little and I’m really starting to regret last night.

  “Crap, where would he go?” I ask Cal but he’s already got his phone out, pressing the buttons on the screen.

  “No answer, straight to fucking voicemail—I’m gonna kill him.”

  Where the hell would he go? “Cal, can you think of anywhere he could be?”

  “You lost ‘Pretty Boy’?” a young, attractive woman asks as she walks up behind Cal. I recognize her from some of the tabloid pictures I’ve seen on recent magazines.

  “Who’s this?” I can’t hide my annoyance as I point at the gorgeous brunette who’s now standing next to Cal.

  “This is Adriana. She joined the security team a while back,” Cal answers, continuing to punch away on his phone. “Adriana, this is Taryn, Trace’s girlfriend.”

  “Security?” I question. How the hell is she going to protect him?

  “Dre, Dre…DRE,” Cal screams in the phone. “Have you heard from your jackass cousin?”

  I start tapping my foot, impatient to know what Dre is saying on the other line.

  “Listen to me, motherfucker. Has. He. Called. You?” When it becomes obvious he’s not getting any answers, I hold my hand out for the phone and Cal looks apprehensive as he passes it to me.

  “Dre, it’s Taryn.”

  “Hey, if it isn’t ‘America’s Sweetheart,’” Dre chuckles, clearly slurring his words. “So how is my cousin? And just so you know, that was a general question. I’m not looking for any fucking details,” he says with a laugh, obviously enjoying his little play on words.

  “Dre, I need to know where he is...do you have any idea where he might possibly go in Texas?” I hear him sniff hard into the phone before releasing a deep breath and idly, I wonder if he has a cold. “Dre, please,” I plead.

  “You mean he never told you?” he says disbelievingly.

  “Told me what?” I snap impatiently.

  “Go to the Forest Park cemetery, he’ll be there,” he informs me.

  “Why would he be at a cemetery in Texas?” I question, more to myself than him, but Dre starts answering anyway. I whisper the name of the location to Cal and he takes me by my elbow, leading the way out of the hotel. Adriana follows close behind until we get to a waiting car, where I hear Cal tell her she needs to stay behind.

  With Cal up front next to the driver, I hug the phone to my ear while my heart breaks as Dre tells me what Trace should have told me himself. After we hang up, I stare out the window until we arrive at a small cemetery, which is attached to an even smaller church. I immediately spot Trace kneeling down in front of two beautiful granite tombstones that look out of place among the many plain, concrete ones.

  “Thanks, Cal, I’ve got it from here,” I say as I step out of the car, sounding more confident than I feel, considering I’m not sure exactly who the man is that I see in front of me—not anymore.

  Chapter 16

  Trace

  Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound

  That saved a wretch like me.

  I once was lost but now am found

  Was blind, but now I see.

  ‘Twas grace that taught my heart to fear.

  And grace, my fears relieved.

  How precious did that grace appear

  The hour I first believed.

  Through many dangers, toils and snares

  I have already come;

  'Tis grace that brought me safe thus far

  and grace will lead me home.

  Even though I could sing the rest of the song by heart, I stop when I hear the sound of sniffling behind me. With a sigh, I stand up and slowly turn around, finding myself face to face with Taryn and her tear-filled eyes. If I was looking for a sign that it’s truly over between us, I’m coming up empty. All I see in her eyes is compassion, and maybe something that looks a lot like love, shining back at me. I want to go to her and hold her and tell her everything will be alright, but I still don’t know if that’s true so I just continue to stand here, staring at her.

  “I had no idea, Trace,” she says with genuine hurt and sadness, “because you didn’t tell me. Why wouldn’t you share something this important with me? I can understand why you don’t want the world to know, but you don’t trust me enough to know who you really are?”

  I know she’s right, but I’m not sure if there is a logical explanation. What do I tell her, that I’ve been living a lie so long I don’t even know who I am anymore? Instead, I deflect. “How did you know where to find me?”

  “Dre, but I’m pretty sure he was higher than a kite or else he wouldn’t have said anything,” she says, rushing to defend him.

  I nod my head. Dre and I will have a good long sit-down the next time we’re together, but now is not the time to worry about it. The damage is done, although “damage” is feeling a hell of a lot like relief right now. I guess it feels good for someone to finally know my secret.

  “But why did I have to find out from him?” she continues. “You’re from Texas, Trace. You didn’t think I might want to know that?"

  “What do you want to know, Taryn? You asked me one time why I sound angry in all of my songs? Well, guess what? I am fucking angry! I’m angry that some jackasses decided to go on a shooting spree and my parents were caught in the crossfire, and I’m really fucking angry that whoever did it never had to pay for what they did and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. I’m angry at my parents for being in that ghetto in the first place, despite the fact that I know they were there helping people. We didn’t even live in the projects, Taryn! My dad was a preacher at this church,” I say, indicating the small, southern Baptist church where I spent so much of my childhood, “and my Momma was the leader of the choir and the best damn mother there ever was. This is where I first started singing and it sure as hell wasn’t songs like I sing now. So yeah, I’m angry because I know they’d be disappointed in me, but not as angry as I am that they’re not around to put me in my place.”

  I breathe heavy, relieved to have gotten that off my chest, to finally express how I’m been feeling for longer than I can remember. Taryn doesn’t say anything but stares at me as if looking at a stranger. “But what about Chicago?”

  “That’s the kicker,” I say, laughing humorlessly, “my mom and dad may not have lived in the ghetto but they didn’t have a whole lot of money and neither did anyone in their families. So what little bit they had went to my Uncle Roosevelt, the closest living relative, who just happened to be a drunk and an a
ddict living in one of the worst damn ghettos in the US. So as hard as my parents worked to keep me out of that environment, that’s exactly where I ended up. I don’t complain though, because as bad as my uncle was, at least I had Dre. He and I started making our own music…kept us out of the gangs which probably kept us alive. And here I am.”

  With tears now falling down her face, she begins to walk toward me. I put my hand up to indicate that I don’t want her to come any closer because, as much as I’m itching to wrap my arms around her and comfort her, I won’t—not after what I saw this morning.

  “Taryn, one of the boys sent me a TMZ shot of you and Ryder out last night. Now, I’m not blaming you because I practically pushed you into his arms, but I do need to know…”

  She’s already shaking her head as she says, “Nothing happened. I won’t lie and tell you he doesn’t want more because you were right, he does. He made it crystal clear last night.” I clench my hands into fists before she continues, “But I don’t want Ryder….I want you, Trace. I was pissed beyond belief last night and needed to let off some steam, but that’s all that happened. Ryder’s only a friend to me, just like I’ve told you from the beginning. I haven’t seen the photo, but I’m sorry if it looked worse than it was. I know how that feels…”

  Even if something had happened—but thank fuck it didn’t—I would be just as much to blame after the way I acted last night. After standing her up in front of all of her fans and then spouting off thoughtless words, I don’t deserve her apologies right now.

  “Taryn, don’t apologize—that’s on me. I’ve never felt like this before, and I just don’t know what to do, how to react, what to say. I’m not an insecure guy,” I say with a smirk, gesturing at my body, which garners a smile from her, “but I don’t have the first clue why you would choose somebody like me over him and I guess that was reflected in my reaction last night. I’m sorry though but I just don’t get it.”