by Emily Snow
After the front door closes, I lean against the refrigerator, closing my eyes and releasing the sigh I’ve been holding in. Hopefully, that is the last I’ll see of Jaycee, since I have no intention of seeing her tomorrow—or ever again, if I can help it.
“You headed to the gym for real, cuz?” I snap my eyes open, having forgotten that Dre is still here.
“Yeah, bro…gotta burn off some steam. You down?” I ask, even though I’d rather work out alone. My cousin’s cool as shit, but I still need a break from him from time to time.
“Nah, I’m fucked up, bro,” he says. Before I can give him my usual lecture, he adds, “But you’re gonna need that workout when you hear what I gotta say,” he says.
“Aw shit, bro, don’t tell me your dad needs money again already,” I respond. There are a lot of great causes out there, but supporting my uncle’s habits isn’t one of them.
“Nah,” he says, not jumping to his dad’s defense. I’m not surprised—the man screwed around with Dre’s life way longer than he did mine. “Just that I talked to Jay before he left, and he’s squeezin’ in some studio time tomorrow with that country chick. Said we gotta get this shit done before you both head out of town. Turns out she had an opening in her schedule and you had a cancellation.”
I don’t even know what I was supposed to be doing, but regardless, I’m glad that I had a gap open up. The thought of spending a couple more hours with that girl doesn’t exactly turn me off. Dre cocks his head at me and I realize that I’m just standing here like a fool, not saying anything.
“Better to get it over with,” I say and quickly snatch my headphones off the kitchen counter.
“I know that’s right,” he says. “I missed the session earlier today, but I heard that Country was smokin’…for a white girl anyway.” He raises an eyebrow at me, obviously looking to get some kind of reaction.
“I’m hittin’ the gym,” I respond, feeling unwelcome irritation, especially hearing that my boys were discussing Taryn. Not sure why since she’s not my girl. I shake my head and move toward the door. As my hand touches the knob, I hear a loud moan and someone yelling, “Fuuuuuuck!” I’d forgotten about Quint and his latest flavor taking advantage of my spare room. I roll my eyes and call back to Dre, “Make sure they’re out of here before I get back, will ya?”
Without waiting for an answer, I put my cans on, turn the music up, and walk out the door.
Taryn
“Wanna Take You Home” by Gloriana starts playing and I groggily roll over to my side. Letting the music continue to blare, I push myself up and rub my eyes. That might have been the best night’s sleep I’ve had in months. I take a deep breath before checking my phone for messages. There’s one from my mom, letting me know that I’m recording with Trace in—crap! I’ve got one hour and LA traffic sucks even on the best of days. There goes my girl time with Gina.
I throw on a pair of skinny jeans and an off-the-shoulder, long-sleeved shirt, then quickly finish getting ready. Grabbing my phone and a breakfast bar, I race out the door. Rarely do I get to drive myself anywhere, so if I’m late, my mother will never let me hear the end of it.
I pull into the studio’s parking garage next to a brand-spanking-new black Escalade with more rim than tires. If that belongs to Trace and his entourage, then that means they’re already here. Shit.
Then again, why do I have to come running just because it’s a good time for him to record? The first day in forever I didn’t have anything scheduled, yet here I am. Regardless, I’m already here and the faster I get in there, the sooner we get this done.
“Day-um—this is who you’re singing with?” one of the guys remarks as I hurry in the control room, his eyes slowly roaming up and down my body. If I wasn’t flushed from trying to get in here so quickly, I am now.
“Give it a rest, bro.” Trace stands up and my stomach feels like a storm of flutters as he makes his way to me. Silently, I stand there, feeling uncomfortable but drawn to him at the same time. He licks his pouty pink lips while those piercing eyes stare intently at me.
“Don’t mind my boys. They’re…”
“Girl crazy?” I question and laughter fills the room.
“That’s one way to say it, I guess,” he chuckles.
“Hey, I’m Xavier, we met yesterday,” the flirtatious sound engineer calls over. “Where you from?”
“Texas, originally,” I proudly announce. I’m not ashamed of my country roots. “From a little town not too far from Houston.”
“For real?” The guy who was giving me the once-over cocks his eyebrow and I notice Trace gives him a sharp look. Not sure what that’s about.
“I’m Dre, this fool’s cousin.” He nods his head at Trace, who seems to relax a little. “I mix the beats around here.”
“Nice to meet you,” I tell him. As he walks toward the digital audio workstation, I spot my mom sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, urgently pressing buttons on her phone. When she raises her head, I see her throw on a smile I recognize as being one-hundred percent fake. She walks toward us, saying, “Well, hello Trace.” After they exchange pleasantries, she finally looks at me and says, “Taryn, you’re late.” She grabs hold of my elbow, pulling me toward her as though I’m five and just ran off from her at a store.
After a few minutes of a typical Savannah Starr bitch session, I hear someone clearing their throat and spot Trace out of the corner of my eye, holding open the door to the room where we’ll record. When my mom notices him standing there, she lets go of me and smiles brightly. “Good luck, guys,” she says in her saccharin-laced voice before returning to her chair.
“Your mom’s a trip,” he murmurs as I pass by. You have no idea.
After a few deliberations with the sound guys, Trace and I take our spots in the “live room.” It feels strange not having my guitar with me since the small space is set aside only for singing. I reach for the full bottle of water left beside my stool and straighten just as Trace strips off his black hoodie, revealing only a white wife-beater shirt underneath. And muscles…lots of muscles.
Fortunately, he seems to be concentrating on the sheet of music in front of him because I know I’m gawking right now. Trace’s body is nothing short of amazing. I knew from the video I saw last night that the guy’s ripped, but seeing it in person is a whole other story. His biceps bulge and his broad shoulders narrow down to his taut stomach, where I clearly recall a defined six-pack is hiding. I’d like to see that in person.
“Here you go.” He hands me a piece of paper and I attempt to conceal my obvious appraisal of his body. His cocky wink tells me I’m not doing a good job of it.
“What’s this?” I ask him, glancing at the sheet. There are lines scratched through lyrics and new ones replacing those that have been crossed out.
“Changed things up a little,” he shrugs his shoulders and chuckles. “Let’s call it artist overrule. You game?” he asks.
After I read it over, I look up to find those blue eyes watching me intently. He’s right, we should have a say in what we’re singing. Looks like neither of enjoy having the label tell us what to do. “Always,” I say and he gives me his signature wink.
Xavier comes across the mic, asking us if we’re ready. Trace nods, still staring at me, and I’m thankful the room behind the glass has emptied out—it’s only Xavier and Dre from the looks of it. My mom has disappeared, along with the other members of Trace’s crew. I laugh to myself at the thought of her out there waiting for me with all of them. She probably has her head glued to her phone anyway.
The sound of heartbeats fills the room and I focus on the words as Trace begins to rap, raising my eyebrows at the words “lil’ country girl.” Someone has been changing things up. I get through my part without any problems, although I know this is just the beginning—it’ll require several takes to get it right.
Just as I predicted, the guys stop us and ask us to start again from the top. When Trace gets going again, his eyes veer toward
mine as he starts to rap:
There ain’t nothing okay about this, I swear
The way I think about your body
your face, your hair
Every time you laugh
I wanna break down and cry
I know I’ll never be the one
To be by your side
The whole time he’s looking right at me, as though the words were written for me. I gulp around a large, golf ball-sized lump in my throat, unable to hide the connection I feel between us. By the time I notice him raise his eyebrows, it’s too late. I missed my part.
Flustered, I try to find where I’m supposed to be in the song and Xavier laughs through the mic. “Man, it’s gettin’ all kinds of hot in there,” he says and I can feel the flush on my face. “Alright, let’s start again. T, start with that verse. You ready, girl?” All I can do is nod my head, willing myself to get through this without embarrassing myself. After today, I probably won’t see him again anyway, except maybe at the next awards show.
A few hours later and a zillion butterfly flutters, we finally make it through to the end. After the closing instrumentals, Trace says softly, “But I still ain’t never seen a horse in the ghetto.” I have no idea if that was part of the song or not since it’s not on my sheet, but I forget about it entirely when he gives me a breathtaking smile, revealing a perfect set of pearly whites.
Xavier bursts into the room. “You guys killed it!” He embraces me in a tight hug, completely taking me by surprise. I stiffen slightly before eventually relaxing in his arms.
“Yeah,” Trace murmurs, and when I peek over Xavier’s shoulder, I see Trace looking at me strangely before he quickly diverts his attention toward the door.
“Shall we?” Trace gestures and waits for me to walk in front of him. I briefly wonder if he’s being chivalrous or he just wants to check out my ass. The fact that it could be the latter causes a surprising tingling sensation down low.
We walk through the control room where Dre is hard at work and then head to the waiting area. The rest of Trace’s team are all hanging out, some on their phones while others are sleeping. My mom sits with her laptop and phone out, and I’m automatically annoyed that she’s still here. Since I drove myself, I was hoping she would be gone but then again, what else does she have to do except run my life?
I turn around to say goodbye to Trace and see Xavier kick the feet of one of the guys who is resting. The guy rubs his eyes, groaning, “X, fucking stop it. I wouldn’t be asleep if it weren’t for your little private recording rules.”
Now that I think about it, it is odd that the control room cleared out. I’m used to singing in front of everyone and their mother watching from behind the glass. I’m astonished they would let Xavier make that decision.
“Not my rules, man,” Xavier tells him, glancing at Trace, who cuts a clear ‘shut the fuck up’ look his way.
“I don’t like to record with a lot of people watching,” he informs me.
“What? Since wh—“ the bleary-eyed guy starts before receiving another kick—this one much harder—from Xavier. “Yeah, no distractions.” His failed attempt to cover up the fact that Trace purposely wanted our recording session private makes me both curious and happy.
I see my mom check her watch and I know our time is up. “Well, I guess this is it for a while. I heard you’re going on tour too. Good luck with that.”
“Yeah, flying out tonight. Starting in DC tomorrow,” he says. All the other guys start making their way out of earshot but, always the eavesdropper, my mother stays put.
“Oh, I guess I lucked out since mine starts in LA.” The comfortable connection we had in the studio has now been replaced with awkwardness.
“Yup,” he mumbles. Just when I’m about to give him a hug goodbye, Trace’s lips turn down and I suddenly find myself being picked up in a great big bear hug.
Once I’m back on my feet, I turn around to see who it is, although I have my suspicions. “Ryder,” I say, playfully swatting at his arm. “Trace, this is Ryder—my guitarist. Ryder, this is Trace.”
Chapter 5
Trace
My guitarist, huh? I can’t help but wonder what else he is to her. Considering his close proximity and the way he’s looking at her, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he wants to be. Question is—what does she want? Or rather, who? And an even better question is why the hell do I care anyway?
“Trace?” Snapping out of my ridiculous thoughts, I realize that both Taryn and guitar guy are staring at me. I also don’t miss the curious look her mom is shooting my way, arched eyebrow included.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, using my most polite voice. It’s a good thing my boys aren’t listening in or they’d be giving me shit for sure. “You must be a hell of a guitar player to get to back up this girl.” Okay, that was a dig I just couldn’t help.
“I do what I can,” he says with a smirk, and I have the unexpected urge to knock that grin right off country boy’s face. I can’t even imagine how the execs would react to my starting a fight right here on Backlash property. “Oh, and congrats on the win, by the way, even if you did beat my girl. Then again, she did take home the grand prize so it’s all good, right?”
If Taryn was a fire hydrant, he just pissed all over her. Yeah, I better get the fuck out of here…and fast. “Look, it’s good to meet you, but I gotta jet...literally,” I say and notice the way the corner of Taryn’s perfect pink lips turn up at my words. “Tour starts tomorrow.”
“I heard about your tour,” he says. This should be interesting because I know this redneck doesn’t listen to my music. “What’s it called again?” he asks, and I see his eyes shift to the right where there is a newly-released tour poster covering half of the damn wall. This is Me, Motherfuckers is emblazoned across a life-sized version of yours truly, giving two middle fingers to anyone who sees it. Ironically, this poster doesn’t really represent me at all, but this asshole doesn’t need to know that. I’m not sure why exactly, but he is definitely trying to make me look bad in front of Taryn. Well, two can play at that game.
“I guess they don’t teach you how to read down where you’re from, huh?” I ask, indicating the poster. I don’t miss Taryn’s mouth drop open in shock at my words. So much for being polite.
“Actually,” he says, the ever-present smirk still firmly in place, “our home state is known for its high literacy rates.” And there he goes pissing again.
“Well, that’s nice to hear and if I had more time, I’d love a little lesson on the educational system in Texas. But I have a tour to start, so if you’ll excuse me…” Before I turn to walk away, I lean in close so only Taryn can hear me and whisper, “Talk to ya soon, Peaches.”
I smirk when I see that now-familiar blush consume her face and then strut past Stella’s desk, thankful she’s not currently behind it. I’m sure I’d get an earful after that little exchange and I’m not in the mood. Who the fuck does that guitarist think he is?
I throw open the door and it takes every ounce of my control not to slam it behind me. I sure as shit can’t let them know that he got to me. I cover my face with my hands and let out a low growl, only to find Stella standing in front of me when I uncover my eyes.
“What’s got your britches in a bunch, Sugar?” she asks.
“Nothin’, I’ve just got a lot to do before I leave and don’t have time for this sh—“
One look keeps me from finishing that sentence. Stella has no tolerance for our mouths; she reminds me of my mom in that way.
“Sorry, Stella,” I say, looking her directly in the eyes so she knows that I mean it. “I’ve just gotta go, that’s all.”
The look on her face tells me she knows there’s more to it than that, but fortunately she decides to leave it be. “Alright, honey bunches. You get along now and be good and safe on that tour of yours. And by that, I mean be good and be safe,” she says with a chuckle, laughing at her own not-so-funny joke.
I still can’t
help but smile though. Stella is the one person who can always lift my mood. “What, no Motown farewell for me?” I tease.
“Ah, mercy mercy me,” she says and I laugh, immediately recognizing the Marvin Gaye song. He was one of my parents’ favorites and, though I would never admit it to a single soul, “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay” is one of my favorite songs ever recorded. “You know I never can say goodbye,” she says with a wink and adds, “That’s from the Jackson Five.”
“You’re on a roll today, aren’t ya, Stella?” I ask.
“Aww, baby love,” she says and now I’m laughing out loud at the reference to one of the Supremes’ biggest hits. “You know I’m gonna miss you, but I’m always here so you call ‘ol Stella if you need me, alright?” She holds out her arms and I let her wrap me in her large, warm embrace. I may be a pussy for thinking it, but damn I need a hug.
“Will do, Stella. Thanks again and we’ll talk soon,” I say, pulling away. I start to walk down the hall toward the private garage where Cal will be waiting for me.
“Sugar?”
I can’t stop the smile, hearing her frequent term of endearment for me. “Yeah, Stella?” I ask, turning back around.
“When you’re out there with all of those hussies throwing themselves at your feet,” she starts to say, and I can’t help but roll my eyes at her outdated word for the ‘hos’ that will unquestionably be at every stop on the tour. “Don’t you forget that there ain’t nothing like the real thing.”
With that, she heads inside the office, leaving me to stare after her. Trying to not think of what she is really trying to tell me, I smile wider at the fact that Stella managed to get in two Marvin Gaye titles in one conversation. That has got to be a record.
I wake up in a cold sweat, the luxurious hotel sheets twisted around my legs, and a massive headache replaces my usual hard-on. No doubt another teeth-clenching nightmare is to blame for my less-than-perfect start to the day. It’s always the exact same one, and there’s never anything I can do to change the horrific and very real outcome. I’m just thankful I had the nightmare here in my private suite and not on the airplane, where one of the guys would have definitely questioned me about it. Only Dre knows about my past and I want to keep it that way.