by Emily Snow
Not that she would be able to hear a word I say anyway. The sounds of Trace’s name being shouted are so loud that you would think we are at a concert, not the most respected awards show in the music industry.
“It should have been you,” Ryder whispers from my other side and places his hand on my knee, rubbing his thumb back and forth. I shift slightly and his hand falls onto the edge of the chair. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his smile falter just for a second before he turns his lips up into that wide grin that makes all the girls swoon.
Ryder Black is my lead guitarist and has been with me for the past couple of years. Since we’re about the same age, we’ve bonded…I guess that’s what happens when you spend most of your time on tour buses. He’s always been flirtatious but lately I’m getting the I-want-more vibe, and I don’t want more. Not with someone from my band and definitely not with someone I consider a friend. True friendships are hard to find in this business, and I’m not about to lose his.
“I think they might disagree,” I whisper back as the crowd continues to holler. I avoid Ryder’s pity stare, because that’ll only piss me off at this point, and shrug my shoulders. Honestly, I’m not devastated that I didn’t win; I’m just surprised who beat me. The competition was freaking fierce this year and now I’m more than a little curious what made this guy’s album better than the rest.
I sigh and sit back in my chair, thankful that the cameras are safely turned away from me and now pointed toward the blue-eyed jerk standing on the stage.
Trace
Fuck. I’ve been so busy celebrating with my crew and offering my condolences to the other nominees that I temporarily forgot I still have a speech to make once I get up on that stage. Now I feel like I’m going to be sick. And once I get up there and look at the audience, I know I’ll be sick. I’ve never given a speech in my life, not unless you count high school civics class, which I don’t. That was only about thirty people I didn’t give a shit about, and this is about thirty million people that I don’t give a shit about.
Ten more steps to get it together. I wish I was performing because that I can do. It doesn’t matter how many are in the crowd, I can still tune them out and just do my thing. It’s all an act anyway, and I’m just an actor playing my role. I need to remember that these people want to see a show and that’s what I’m gonna give them. Do they care if it’s the real me or not? Hell-to-the-fuckin’-no.
I put my game face on and give my flashiest smile to the Hooker Barbie look-alike holding my award. All that plastic does absolutely nothing for me. Thank God, since it would be embarrassing as hell to get a hard-on in front of a live TV audience. Now that little Southern Belle I just met…well, that’s a totally different story. I could feel the innocence just pouring off that one, and damn if I didn’t want to be the man to make a woman out of her. Yeah, as if that would ever happen.
Stashing the piece of paper in my pocket that the synthetic skank handed me along with my award, I turn around to face the audience and take a deep breath—I can do this. Hell, most of them are so busy counting the minutes until they can hit the after-parties, they probably won’t listen to a word I say anyway.
“Yo, yo, yo,” I say, using my hands to quiet the crowd, even though I’ve got to admit it’s a rush hearing them chant my name like that. When the noise finally dies down, I continue, “Yo, I don’t even know what to say.” Actually I do, but there’s no way I could give that speech.
“I guess if I gotta say somethin’, I wanna thank all those brothas and sistas who made this possible. You know who you are. The ones who keep buyin’ my shit…aw, shit, can I say that on TV?” The audience laughs and I hear Xavier yell, “Just don’t say ‘fuck’!” The crowd roars even louder and I give them the best fake laugh I’ve got—the one that seals deals and charms interviewers’ socks off.
“’Aight, before they kick me off this here stage, I wanna thank my boys. Dre, Triple XXX, Marcus, Quinton, Cal, and yes, even you, Jay,” I say and point to him. He scowls at me but I know he isn’t mad because winning this award will translate into dollars, and that’s the one thing Jay cares about. “I also wanna thank the princess of our posse, Stella,” I continue, “for always keepin’ us in line. We give you a hard time but you know we love ya, girl. Who else? Oh yeah, I need to thank my record label,” I add while inwardly wishing I didn’t have to. Backlash has been a thorn in my side from day one, but this is not the time to let the whole world know how I really feel about them.
Now for the hard part. Damn, I gotta say it since there’s no telling if I’ll ever win anything again. Plus, I know better than anyone that you’re never guaranteed tomorrow. I sure as hell hope I can hold it together.
“And last, but certainly not least…Momma and Daddy, I hope I’ve made you just a little bit proud because I sure as hell am proud to be your son,” I say, pausing to collect myself before I cry like a damn fool. “What you did…you deserve to be up on this stage, not me. I know it’s not saying much, but I wouldn’t be who I am or where I am if it weren’t for you. So thanks, this one’s for you.”
I hold my hands up, one holding my shiny new Grammy and the other pointing to the sky, and walk quickly toward the wings, thankful it’s over—and that I didn’t bawl like a baby. I hear the audience clapping and yelling, but I don’t look out there. The only faces I’d want to see aren’t there and they never will be.
Instead of going back to my seat, I stand behind the curtain and enjoy a few moments of peace as I listen to the next performance. It’s some indie band that recently broke out onto the scene, and even though it’s not my kind of music, I’ve gotta give the guys props for making it on their own. There’s only one more award left anyway and then I’ve got to make appearances at God-knows-how-many after-parties before I can hightail it home for the night.
Home…what a joke. I’m not even sure I know where that is anymore, except that it sure as hell isn’t here. Living in Los Angeles is a trip, there’s no denying that. But would I ever consider it home? Fuck no. Here, it’s all about who you know, whose ass you’re willing to kiss, and more importantly, who you’ve pissed off. Not unlike the projects, now that I think about it.
Thoughts of my previous “home” in Chicago instantly make my heart race. Before my mind can go there, loud applause erupts throughout the building and I realize that I missed the announcement of the award that everyone wants—Entertainer of the Year. That one should be mine too, considering I put on a show every day of my damn life.
I look over in time to see a head full of strawberry-blonde curls emerging from below the stage. Well, what do you know? Girl got started the same time as me and is already taking home the grand prize. Hell, I’m pretty sure the other nominees are all old enough to be her grandparents.
Just before she gets to the podium, Little Miss Southern Belle looks my way, and I’ll be damned if she doesn’t cock her eyebrow and smirk at me before quickly turning to accept her award. Country chick’s got some sass, that’s for sure. And an ass, now that I’m getting a look at her from this angle. Baby has definitely got back. I better get out of here before I get arrested for even thinking about her most likely underage ass.
Taryn
“Considering my daughter just became the youngest recipient of the most coveted award in the music industry, I think you can do a little better than that…” I sigh and tune my mother out, trying to enjoy the calm before the impending storm. We hadn’t even stepped into the limo when the first call came in, and I’ve lost count how many different people she’s spoken to in the past fifteen minutes. I know I should be grateful, but I can’t help but feel a little disappointed that she couldn’t just wait and take care of this tomorrow. Then again, she would most likely just harp about the award that I didn’t win or tell me that my hair is out of place so I’m probably better off this way.
I hear the ringing of my phone from within my clutch, and as I pull it out to see who it is, I smile genuinely for the first time all day.
“Congratulations, sweetheart. You deserve to win after all the hard work you’ve put in over the years. I couldn’t be prouder,” he says with his familiar Texas twang.
“Thanks, Dad. It’s good to hear your voice.”
“I’m sure you’ve got a whole heck of a lot to do tonight. Is Savannah with you?” He stopped referring to her as my mother years ago, and since she’s always preferred her role as my manager, I probably should too.
“Yeah,” I respond, checking to see that she’s still occupied. I wouldn’t hear the end of it if she knew my father was on the phone. “She’s here.”
“Well, I’ll let ya go but just know that Scooby and I miss you.” The gentleness in his voice makes me wish I was there instead of here.
“Oh, give him a kiss for me. And…I miss you too,” I stutter slightly, trying to focus on thoughts of losing myself on a ride with Scooby so I don’t mess up my eye makeup.
“Remember, honey. Try to remain grounded and appreciative. When you start becoming full of yourself, you usually end up burying yourself,” he wisely advises me. He’s never steered me wrong before.
“I will, Dad, talk to you soon,” I say before hanging up. I lean back in the plush leather seat, happy to have a moment to myself just to think.
And that ceremony definitely gave me a lot to think about. Winning there at the end was so unexpected and thrilling that I don’t even remember what I said or who I thanked. It must not have been too bad or else I would’ve gotten hell about it by now.
I still can’t believe I lost that one award to a rapper. And what was with his speech anyway? He started off just the way I’d expected him to, and then there at the end he sounded sincere and surprisingly humble, which I did not expect. Especially after his little southern-style in-your-face. And that part about his parents…he just won a Grammy award, why wouldn’t they be proud of him? Oh, and wh—?
“Taryn!” My mom’s shrill voice abruptly yanks me out of my thoughts, which have clearly gone on a pointless tangent. I see the line of limos and realize that we’ve pulled up to the first after-party of the evening. Bony fingers grab my chin and force my head in the direction of my pinched-faced mother, who already has the blood red lipstick poised for the kill.
“I need you to focus on tonight’s schedule,” she says while re-applying color to my lips. “We have thirty minutes at each event, which is just long enough for you to smile, pose for the photographers, and shake hands with whoever I tell you to. Don’t leave my side and don’t deviate from the plan. Got it?”
“What if I need to go to the bathroom?” I ask because I really and truly do.
“Not part of the plan,” she says in all seriousness. Before I can argue any further, the door opens and my mother steps out.
Following her out of the sleek, black limo, I paste on my best smile and wave to the crowd. I make my way down the roped-off red carpet to the front doors, which are currently being held open by two huge bouncers. After grasping hands with a few fans lining the walkway, I am steered inside the Billboard Hits party, where the music from the live band is blaring and people are mingling. A sigh escapes my lips as I recall that I have five of these to attend tonight.
My mom grabs my elbow and leads me into the room. A few artists immediately approach, congratulating me on my win, and I keep the smile on as I thank them. When a waiter offers a tray filled with champagne flutes, I eagerly accept one but I don’t even get a full sip down before my mother snatches the drink out of my hand, placing it on a nearby table. She gives me a look that clearly says she hasn’t forgotten the one night that the media captured pictures of me stumbling out of a nightclub—forget the fact that it was my twenty-first birthday.
We continue to make the rounds but not for long since, according to my mother, there aren’t too many people here I need to impress. After working our way through three more after-parties in rapid succession, we finally head to the one hosted by my label, Backlash Records. All I want to do is shake hands, thank everyone who did their part, and then sneak out the back door. My feet are killing me and my bed has been calling my name for the past two hours. But I’ve been around long enough to know that is not going to happen.
The limo driver opens my door and just as I’m about to swing my legs out, I catch a glimpse of the guy who snaked my award. He and his entourage are working the carpet, though instead of keeping their distance from the masses who are screaming at them, they’re actually hugging and kissing everyone they come in contact with. You have got to be kidding me. “Ridiculous,” my mom says, distaste evident in her voice. “Couldn’t they have more class?”
Ignoring her, I continue to carefully exit the vehicle and soon the crowd collectively starts to call out my name. After waving, I start my walk and can’t help but notice when he stops just outside the doors and turns around…probably disappointed the crowd is no longer all about him. I happily sign a few autographs, all the while feeling his gaze on me. I continue greeting fans, waiting for him to make his way inside. “That’s enough,” my mom tells a young girl, who is eagerly holding a pen and paper out to me. Shooing my mom’s hand away, I smile and sign anyway before handing it back to the girl. Her ecstatic yelling and jumping is enough to make me giggle.
My mom, not willing to take any chance of me disobeying her again, firmly grips my elbow and leads me down the carpeted walkway. My laughter quickly quiets and my smile turns down when I spot him still standing there, staring directly at me. Other than a massive bodyguard at his side, no one from his group is around. Those mesmerizing blue eyes bore into me the closer I get. Swallowing hard, I will my heart to calm down before I reach him.
He places his hand on the door handle and opens it for me. I quietly thank him and enter with my mom following close behind. When the doors shut, he comes alongside me, saying, “I just wanted to congratulate you on the award.” He holds his hand out for me to shake and placing mine in his, I’m amazed once again at how soft his hand feels. I guess if I wasn’t plucking guitar strings all day, that’s how mine would feel too. Without warning, he pulls me into him and his lips brush against my cheek as he whispers, “But it should have been mine.” With a chuckle, he walks away, once again leaving before I have a chance to respond.
I am immediately enveloped by a throng of people in what is by far the largest party of the night. From what I can see, all of Backlash’s artists are present and accounted for. Everyone knows you have to thank the mouth that feeds you if you want to remain on top.
Just as I’m returning from a quick trip to the bathroom, I’m grabbed from behind. “There’s my number one girl,” a familiar voice shouts, spinning me around.
When I see Regina, a fellow artist and good friend, we exchange hugs like we haven’t seen each other in years. Gina and I met at a party similar to this one when I first arrived in Los Angeles. She stepped in during one of my mom’s tirades, pulled me to the dance floor, and we’ve been friends ever since. It helps that she sings R&B and my focus has been country, so we haven’t really been in competition with one another.
“Your performance was amazing tonight,” I tell her truthfully and she gives me a crooked smile. “The audience loved you.”
“Nothing new there,” she answers cockily. “But you, my friend, took home the top award. You should be drinking champagne from the bottle and shaking that little bitty white booty. You are way too put together for this being your last party of the night and I intend to change that.” Her eyes start to roam around the room. “Where is she? I know she’s here somewhere.”
“You know her...she’s making the rounds,” I tell Gina and she rolls her eyes, hooking her arm through mine. Our first encounter might have cemented our friendship, but it also ensured that there will never be any love lost between Regina and my mom.
“Well, what she doesn’t know won’t kill her…unfortunately,” she says with a wink. “Now come on.” Regina guides me toward the bar, where we grab a b
ottle of champagne and two glasses before making our way to a circular booth. Once we’re situated with drinks in hand, I look to see who is on the dance floor. Several of my band members are out there, including Ryder. They motion for me to join them but I shake my head and hold up my glass of champagne, which seems to appease them. Judging by the way they’re dancing, I don’t think they’ll remember to ask again and I doubt they’ll recall anything from tonight.
I continue scanning the packed dance floor. There he is again—of course he is, he seems to be everywhere I look tonight. Only this time, his hands are on some girl’s ass while he grinds her into his crotch.
“Ugh,” I mumble to myself. Instantly, Regina follows my line of sight and then turns back to me.
“Did I miss something?” she asks, cocking her eyebrow and staring at me questioningly. I know she and Trace sometimes run in the same circles so I try to make a quick recovery.
“What? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t know,” she says, looking thoughtful. “There’s something in your expression. You do know he’s pretty much a male whore, right?” Not that I need the reminder, based on what I’m seeing right now. Just the way he moves on the dance floor leaves little doubt that the tabloids are accurate when it comes to him. Well, there’s always a first time.
“Please, Gina. Give me a little credit,” I blow her off. Gina gives me a small smile but I see her bite the inside of her cheek, her tell-tale sign that she’s worried about something. “Let’s just drink this champagne and celebrate both of our successes,” I say, knowing alcohol will divert her attention.