by Emily Snow
“That could work,” I respond and play a couple of notes and a chord to get us started. We sing the words together, watching one another closely so that our timing is right, and before we’re even done, I know that it won’t get any better than that. I’ve heard of movie magic before but that was fucking music magic. Before I can compliment her, the door to the studio bursts open and Xavier barrels in.
“Fuckin’ A—that was ill!” he exclaims.
“Uh, is that a good thing?” she asks, looking between the two of us in bewilderment.
“Hell yeah, it’s a good thing,” I assure her. “Did you get that, X?”
“Got it, Ace,” he says, “and I’d like to get it all now, but you know the drill. We gotta roll out.”
Shit. Just when things were starting to gel too. “Yeah, I know, dawg,” I reply, suppressing a sigh. Turning to Taryn, I say, “Hey, it’s not sounding half bad. We’ll let them figure out another time we can get together and get this thing done, yeah?”
“Sure, sounds good,” she says. Is that disappointment I hear in her voice or maybe just my own feelings echoing around in my head?
I grab the music sheets and turn to leave, but notice that she hasn’t moved from her stool. “Are ya headin’ out?”
“I will in a sec,” she says, looking up from her guitar. “I have a few minutes before I have to leave and I want to work on this a little more, if that’s okay. But if y’all need me to get out of here…”
“Nah, you’re alright. Take as long as you need,” I offer.
“Yeah baby, I’ll be here all night,” Xavier says suggestively. I slap the back of his head as I follow him out of the room.
“Bye,” I hear before the door slams shut. Damn, I feel like an ass—didn’t even say goodbye before I left. Too late now though. I’m late and the fucking execs are gonna ride my ass if I fall out of line for a split second. Plus, how would it look if I went back in there just to say goodbye now? All kinds of stupid, that’s what.
Taryn
I strum my guitar, jotting down a few notes to help the song flow better, trying to shake off the way the sound of his smooth-as-molasses voice made me feel. His usual music doesn’t hint at the thick and rich vocals I just heard flowing out of him with ease. Don’t get me wrong, he can rap with the best of them. On the way here from the airport, I downloaded his latest album—the one that beat mine out for a Grammy—and it really was amazing. And even though he sounded irate through most of it, I was surprised that the lyrics never once disrespected women. That’s more than I can say for the other rappers in the business.
As uncomfortable and angry as I was feeling before walking through these doors, once we sat down at our instruments, his presence instantly calmed me. Except the ‘America’s Sweetheart’ comment. I hate that damn nickname. My mom probably started it, since she’s always wanted me to portray an angelic goody-two shoes image. What’s ironic is that she never fails to remind me how imperfect I really am.
The ding of my cell phone pulls me away from the jumbled thoughts in my head. I place my guitar down and pick up my phone from off the table. I don’t recognize the number but slide the bar over to read the text anyway.
Trace: Look down when ur mom comes in
Me: ??
Trace: 3-2-1…
A second later my mom walks through the door, barking that we need to go. As she turns to walk back out, I see the trail of toilet paper clinging to the bottom of her high heel.
Me: LMAO
Trace: Did u tell?
Me: Hell no!
Trace: LMFAO
Me: Gotta go
Trace: Later ;)
I smile as I start packing up my notebook and guitar, wondering where on earth Trace could have gotten my number. As I pass through the lobby on my way to the elevator, the mystery is solved when Stella smirks at me as she speaks with someone on the phone. I playfully roll my eyes and then join my mother in the waiting elevator.
“What?” I ask as she taps her foot impatiently, the toilet paper still stuck to her shoe. “Places to go, people to see,” she says. Like I need the reminder. There’s always somewhere to go and someone to see.
We venture down to the ground level. With the exception of a few paparazzi milling about, the sidewalk is bare. Climbing into yet another limo, my mom gives the driver the address of wherever we’re heading next. I think I remember something about a photo shoot, but I sincerely hope not, since I’m sure I’ll have bags under my eyes from the lack of a good night’s rest.
Regardless, I’ll be thankful when it’s over so I can finally have some time away from my mother for the first time in three days. Getting my own place a few years back was the best decision I’ve made. And while I bought a small house in Studio Hills, my mom went all out with a five thousand square-foot mansion in Calabasas. I still think she overdid it with that purchase, but as long as she doesn’t live with me, I could care less where she lives.
Once I’m home and tucked in my bed, I grab the TV remote, not accustomed to the silence. Flipping through the channels, I pause when I see a pair of familiar blue eyes staring at me from the flat-screen. Trace’s new video, “Want Me,” is playing, and of course there are about six half-naked girls grinding against him while his flirtatious eyes and wandering hands roam their bodies. It’s hard to believe the man on the screen is the same one I was in the studio with this morning. I can’t seem to look away as the girls run their hands across his hard abs and through his short, dark hair. Right when it looks like they’re about to have a massive orgy, my phone rings, causing me to jump about a mile high. I quickly change the channel to CMT, where the soothing sound of country music calms my racing pulse enough that I can answer the call.
“Hi, Dad,” I answer. You would think I’d been caught watching porn by the way I feel my face heat up.
“Hi, sweetheart. Just checking in on you.” My dad’s tender and caring tone is like a warm blanket and I immediately relax.
I scoot up to lean against the headboard. “I’m good, just about to catch up on some sleep.”
“Take care of yourself. It doesn’t take much to overdo it. Make sure you eat and drink regularly. Water…drink lots of water.” I can’t help but wonder if all dads are like this or just ones that never see their daughters. Either way, I’m glad he cares so much…sure beats the alternative.
“I do, Dad. Don’t worry about me. How are things at the ranch?” I ask and his silence instantly worries me. “Dad?” I question.
“Oh, everything’s fine here.” The distant tone I detect in his voice does nothing to comfort me.
“You would tell me, right?” I ask. Ever since my mom brought me out to Los Angeles, my dad has never asked me for anything. After I received my first big check, I tried to give him some of it to help out with the expenses of the ranch, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Although I respect his independence, I’ve always wished he would take the money. My mom certainly has no problem taking more than her fair share.
“Of course. I checked your tour and looks like you’ll be around here in a couple of months,” he says, not-so-smoothly changing the subject. “You’ll come see me, won’t you?” My dad always keeps track of where I am, but rarely do I see him unless I go back home.
“I can’t wait. All I have left before the tour starts is a collaboration that the label has me doing with another artist,” I tell him.
“Oh yeah, who?” he asks curiously.
“Trace. He’s a rap—“
“I know who he is,” my dad interrupts before I can explain who Trace is. I’m surprised since my dad is as country as they come. “He did a benefit show down here a year or so ago. I forget what it was for, but it made big news.” How do I not know all of this stuff about him? Even my dad knows more than I do about Trace.
“Oh” is all that comes out of my mouth.
“Taryn, is he treating you nice?” my dad questions.
“Yes, why would you ask that?” I respond softly, pulling my knee
s up to my chest. The feeling of being exposed washes over me.
“I don’t know. You just have an unsteady tone in your voice. Wait,” he says, pausing briefly, “Taryn, do you like him?” The way he phrases the question, you would think my eighth-grade best friend just asked if I like him, like him. Not that I’m surprised. My dad has always encouraged me to talk about boys, joking that he needed to know who was going to be at the receiving end of his rifle.
“All I can say is that he’s different than I thought he was,” I answer, as honestly as I can at this point.
“You of all people should know not to judge someone before you get to know them,” he advises. Before I can agree with him, he continues, “Well, sweetheart, it’s been nice talking. I should head out to the stables before I tuck in for the night. Call me if you need anything or just want to talk.”
After assuring him that I will and a few ‘I love yous’ later, we hang up. Feeling content after our conversation, I snuggle deeper under my covers and close my eyes, not even attempting to battle the exhaustion that overwhelms my body. The last thought I have before I fall asleep is that my dad is absolutely right—I should be more optimistic about Trace.
Chapter 4
Trace
“Time to go,” I say, grabbing her bare ass as I walk toward the ensuite bathroom. I pick up a pair of basketball shorts off the floor on my way, not bothering to look back at the naked woman still lying on my bed. LaDonna or Shadonna or some name that sounds a hell of a lot like Madonna was a decent fuck, but that’s all she was to me. And I’m fairly certain that’s all she expects to be. Guess I’ll find out if she’s still around when I step back out.
After pissing what little alcohol I have in my system, I jump in the shower, grateful that this day is finally coming to an end. As the scalding hot water cascades down my tired body, I can’t help but recall the daily conversations I used to have with my folks over the dinner table where we would recount the best part of our day. If they were here right now, I would tell them that the highlight of my ridiculously long day was, surprisingly, collaborating with a country singer.
Despite the fact that I’m essentially being forced to do it, making music—whether that’s writing or performing it—has always and will always be my favorite part about all of this shit. And that’s exactly what the rest of my day entailed…a whole hell of a lot of shit.
Straight from the studio, I jetted over to LA’s most popular hip-hop/rap radio station for a live interview. From there, I was shuttled all across the city to film scenes for a new music video. Doesn’t sound too bad, right? It wouldn’t have been, except the label has apparently decided they want cameras following me every damn place I go, as if I don’t already have enough of that with those paparazzi fuckers tailing my ass every second of the day. Guess the execs think it’ll help keep me in line—well, not if my boys have anything to do about it.
I get back to my penthouse hotel suite to find the entire crew here with about a dozen groupies hanging around, no doubt waiting to see which one I’d pick tonight.
Not being conceited, just being real. And fuck if I didn’t give in to my biggest vice—women. Just thinking about any one of them gets my dick hard again, and even though I could easily walk out of here and find some instant relief, I decide a hand job will be quicker and give me the solitude I prefer.
Speaking of vices, I try to justify to myself that at least I’m not hell-bent on using. And although my recent night that ended in a side-trip to the slammer might otherwise indicate, I’m not a big fan of alcohol either. Seeing my uncle spend all of the money we had on smack and crack when Dre and I didn’t even have food to eat made me see that that shit’s not all it’s cracked up to be. I’ve also watched my boys make some dumb-ass decisions while loaded up on either one or the other, and there’s no telling how many kids they’ve got out there thanks to drugs and way too many drinks. It’s why I was so pissed off at myself after what happened the other night. I should be grateful that I got my ass thrown in jail, since it probably kept me out of far worse trouble.
And even though I know my revolving door of women isn’t the worse thing in the world, I also know that it would disappoint my parents as much as anything else I’ve done. Growing up, they showed me what love is supposed to look like and taught me that sex should be confined to a loving and monogamous relationship. All that was fine and fucking great while they were around, but the years I spent as a teen without them and living under my uncle’s roof, I learned a whole lot of other lessons about love and sex. And let’s just say that the two models of behavior couldn’t be more opposite.
Plus, unlike addictions to alcohol and drugs, I can do without women. I don’t physically need to fuck. And although I know that there are people who are addicted to sex, I’m not one of them. Despite the fact that I like the way it feels, I mainly do it because I’m expected to by everyone around me. It’s all part of the game, and I’m a fucking player—in more than one sense of the word.
After I’ve washed up, I reluctantly turn the water off and grab the ultra-soft hotel towel that hangs on the heated towel rack. I like it here, even if everyone does give me shit for not buying a place in LA like the rest of the world. But I’m not like everyone else. Not only can I afford to pay thousands of dollars per night to stay wherever the fuck I want, but I could probably buy the damn hotel if I wanted to. But that’s not going to happen because owning anything in this God-forsaken city would make it appear as if it’s home to me, and no matter how long I live here, this will never be home.
With that depressing thought, I suddenly feel the need to throw around some weights, regardless of the fact that I just cleaned up. Late at night is practically the only time I can go to the hotel gym anyway because that’s the only time no one’s there. Otherwise, I have to arrange for it to be “closed for cleaning” if I want a daytime workout, and that’s just too much trouble.
I throw on my sports shorts and toss the towel on the floor for housecleaning to pick up tomorrow. I grimace as I think about how my mom would kick my lazy ass for pulling that shit too. Walking out of the bathroom, I look around and sure enough, the tight ass from earlier is gone. Guess she knows the drill.
I hear the TV in the living area on at an outrageously loud volume so I throw open the door to find Dre watching SportsCenter, while Xavier’s on the other couch, practically fucking some chick. I grab the remote off the side table and turn off the TV, which results in a listless ‘what the fuck?’ from Dre. He must be stoned—again. X-man, on the other hand, doesn’t even notice.
“Go get your fuck on somewhere else, X,” I say and head toward the kitchen area to get a bottle of water from the fridge. When I look back and see that he has yet to disentangle his body from whoever is beneath him, I yell, “Xavier, seriously, man. There’s another room, ya know? Use it.”
“Quint’s in there with some ho, dawg,” he says, finally coming up for air and reaching down to button up his fly. I open the door to the refrigerator and dig around, trying to find water among all the bottles of beer.
“You got your own crib, go there,” I reply, more than ready for this place to clear out. Dre can stay—he’s family. But there’s only so much I can take of everyone else. Just as I locate a water bottle, I feel fingernails scratching their way across my bare chest, which appear to be connected to arms wrapped around my torso.
“What the f—“ I start, but then a high-pitched giggle tells me all I need to know. And although I don’t know who it is, I know without a doubt what she wants. I slam the door and turn around to face a pretty pair of chocolate-brown eyes. I give her a quick scan and although she’s got a kickass body, I’m sure as hell not going to tap some chick that is willing to settle for being sloppy seconds. As Sweet Brown would say, “Ain’t nobody got time for that!”
But of course, I’ve gotta walk that walk so I say, “Hey there, beautiful…where’d you come from?” She giggles again. That and the way she’s hanging onto me, I realize s
he’s probably high out of her ever-lovin’ mind. Fuck.
“I was in the bathroom,” she says in a high-pitched voice to match her high-pitched giggle. “I’ve been waiting for you, Trace.”
I’m not even going to attempt to get rid of this one myself. “X!” I yell, extricating myself from her clinging grasp. “Will you make sure…” I pause, unsure if we’ve been introduced before or not. “Jaycee,” she says helpfully, putting her hands back on my chest.
“Will you make sure Jaycee gets home, please?” I ask, turning my head and giving him a look that says this isn’t really a request, even if it sounds like one.
“Sure, bro,” he says, walking toward us while dragging his conquest for the night behind him. He fist-bumps me with his free hand and then takes hold of Jaycee’s hand, pulling her toward the door.
“Wait, hold up,” she says, yanking her hand away. Oh shit, here we go. “You were with that skank,” she says, pointing toward the front door where my latest conquest obviously walked out, “but you don’t want this,” she says, indicating her own body.
“Babe, that ain’t it,” I say, swallowing a sigh. “I gotta work out, that’s all. You know, keep all this,” I say, pointing to my hard abs, “tight and toned, for ladies like yourself.”
“So you’d rather work out than fuck me, is that what you’re sayin’?” Classy.
And yeah, that’s exactly what I’m saying, but since I’d like to avoid getting a knee to the nuts, I answer carefully. “Nah, sweetheart. Xavier here’ll get you home tonight, and tomorrow I’ll be good and ready for you,” I say, pointing to the space between her surgically-enhanced breasts. Yeah-fucking-right, I think.
He grabs her hand again with a huge smile on his face. “Sho’ enough, sweetheart,” he says smoothly, “I’ll get ya home alright.” Something tells me Xavier will be thanking me tomorrow. The wink he throws my way before turning around confirms my thoughts. “They don’t call me Triple XXX for nothing,” he says and I roll my eyes. Whatever—I’m just glad he’s getting her the fuck out of here.