by Emily Snow
So were my hair-holding services needed?
I begin to undress while I wait—Jay will be on my ass if I’m not out of here on time. Looks like we both have someone running our lives. Taryn’s obviously got her mom and I’ve got Jay. On top of that, both of us have the label calling the shots. Sucks to be us sometimes.
My phone buzzes, announcing an incoming message, and I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding before reading her message.
Nope, everything went great. You?
It’s good to hear that she wasn’t sick, but I find myself wanting to know more.
Killed it. Celebrating?
I tap my fingers against my leg as I await her response, which arrives a second later.
The usual. You?
What the fuck is “the usual” in her world? Finding myself irritated for no good reason, I fire off a rapid response.
Gotta represent.
And I do. In fifteen fucking minutes. I start toward the shower when another text buzzes in.
Okay…need to go. Later.
Well, shit. Now I’m wishing I hadn’t texted her in the first place, because that conversation certainly didn’t go as well as the last. Plus, now I’m all kinds of curious to know what she’ll be doing tonight…or who.
I toss my phone on the bathroom counter, turn on the shower, and step in, not even waiting for the water to warm up. It’s not like I haven’t taken my share of cold showers in my life, and sometimes I’m in need of a good reality check—now seems to be one of those times.
We arrive at the club and I do my thing, taking pictures with everyone and their mother and signing autographs until my right hand hurts like it did in junior high before I could get laid whenever I wanted. The completely fake but well-received smile stays plastered on my face, and all the while Taryn is occupying my head. I know it’s ridiculous though since, just like it says in the song we’re collaborating on, there is absolutely no future for the two of us—not together anyway. Even if we did have something—and that’s a giant fucking ‘if’—I doubt we could make it work, not in this business. There’s one thing, however, that I have no doubt about—any attempt at anything with ‘America’s Sweetheart’ would destroy both of our careers.
After all of the promotional stuff is done, I chill for a while at one of the tables that have been roped off for our group. I shoot the shit with the guys but don’t drink, not looking for another ass-chewing again anytime soon. Not to mention, I’m pretty sure I’d fall asleep in this booth if I have even one glass of Courvoisier, my current drink of choice.
A buzz in my pocket alerts me to an incoming text. When I pull my phone out, I see that it’s from Regina.
Call me.
Thinking it might be about Taryn, I excuse myself and motion to Cal. He quickly leads me to a nearby private room, no doubt on hand so that VIPs can get their fuck on. After I wave off Cal and close the door, I find Gina in my list of contacts, curious as to what might have warranted a phone call. I’m hoping that regardless of what it is she’ll give me the scoop on guitar boy, so I hit ‘send.’
“Why the fuck you texting my girl?” she demands in her usual no-nonsense way.
“Your girl? I didn’t know you two were tight, G,” I say.
“We’re tight alright. Now what gives?” she asks again.
“Just collaboratin’, you know how it is,” I say, deliberately being vague.
“I know you better be talkin’ ‘bout the song and nothin’ else, Trace. Girl’s gotta enough shit, she don’t need yours too.”
What the fuck’s that supposed to mean? Regina must be referring to her helicopter-from-hell mom because that’s the only thing Taryn doesn’t have going for her. I’d bet my new platinum Rolex that Lil’ Miss “Sweet and Sassy” has led a picture-perfect life.
“You sayin’ I’m full of shit?” I ask jokingly.
“Boy….you’re so full of shit, it’s a wonder those blue eyes of yours ain’t already turned brown,” she says and I laugh so hard I’m afraid I might bust a gut. Seriously, where does she come up with this stuff? I finally pull myself together, sobering only because I remember what I wanted to ask her.
“So I met country boy….” I say, hoping she’ll fill in the blanks as to what’s up between the two of them.
“Are you talkin’ about Ryder?” she asks and I can picture Regina arching her perfectly-manicured eyebrow.
“Yeah, the one who was throwin’ some serious shade my way. Any reason why?”
“Are you askin’ if he and Taryn are together? Well, not that you need to know, but last time I checked, they weren’t,” she says, all attitude.
“And when was the last time you checked?” I question, trying to be patient but getting a little frustrated. This is like pulling teeth. No, fuck that expression, this is whole hell of a lot harder. But I know I have to play nice or risk pissing off my one solid source of insider information regarding Taryn Starr.
“Well, let’s just say that I saw her lit up like a fuckin’ firefly while she was texting somebody, and that somebody sure as hell wasn’t Ryder,” she says. “But now I want you to answer my question. Why’re you texting Taryn in the first place? And don’t tell me it’s because of the song…”
Shit. I’d say the cat’s out of the bag, but there’s really nothing going on...not yet anyway. Now that I know Ryder’s not in the picture, I might see about changing that.
“G, we just talkin’, that’s all,” I answer. “How about you drop it so you don’t go gettin’ your designer panties all in a bunch,” I joke, hoping she will.
No such luck—this is Regina Savage we’re talking about. “The only thing that’s gonna get dropped is yo’ ass if you mess around with my girl and break her heart. She doesn’t need it, you hear me, Trace?”
“Yeah, I hear ya,” I respond, even though I don’t know what she’s talking about. But now that’s she mentioned it twice, I’m even more curious.
“’Aight, well I gotta jump, you know how it goes. Catch ya later, T,” she says and damn if she doesn’t hang up on me. I can’t help but chuckle because that is exactly like Regina to say her piece, making sure she gets the last word in. Girl’s a trip.
I put my cell in the pocket of my Balmain black leather biker jacket and head back toward the VIP table, where my crew is still consuming an outrageous amount of alcohol and attempting to get their game on. They shouldn’t have any trouble, with or without me. Since I’m not drinking tonight, nor am I in the mood for any of the girls hanging around—none of which are trying to hide the fact that they’re looking for action—I tell the guys I’m going to call it a night. Because we are leaving at the ass-crack of dawn, I have a good excuse and thankfully no one questions it.
Cal’s instantly by my side again and I wait while he radios his team to clear a way out of here. After he gives me the go-ahead, I pull my ball cap down low, put on my shades, and follow the lead of the point man. We make it out of the club in record time and, although I wanted nothing to do with security this morning, tonight I’m thankful for it. Especially in a crowd where almost everyone is either drunk or high—it would be too easy for trouble to start, even if I’m not looking for it. As it is, I’ve got to listen to the catcalls a couple of motherfuckers are yelling my way, but I easily ignore them. It’s easy to hate what you don’t have, and I can’t fault them for not knowing what was lost along the way. If they did know, they wouldn’t envy me.
A black super-stretch limo waits out front and I miss the Escalade already. It’s way more fun having the boys all piled up in that badass SUV than riding solo in this big-ass limo. As I approach the vehicle, I can’t miss the two scantily-clad females leaning against the door.
“You want me to get rid of them?” Cal whispers as we walk.
“Nah, I got this,” I say and he chuckles, probably assuming that I’m going to get some serious action night.
“Hey, ladies,” I say smoothly, even though the term obviously doesn’t apply here. �
�A little cold out here for you to be waiting around for autographs.”
They both laugh, and the one whose triple-D breasts are falling out of her top says, “Yeah, we forgot to bring a pen. Maybe you have one at your place?”
Well, that was fucking forward. Then again, what did I expect? “Sorry babes, but I’ll have to take a rain check. Gotta fly out to the next stop,” I say, not bothering to mention that I’m not leaving until morning. Hopefully, they don’t know that the rest of my crew is still getting their party on in the club.
“Aww,” the other one pouts, “we could always go with you.” She brushes her long-ass fingernail across my cheek and Cal, who doesn’t take to people touching me without permission, steps in.
“Yo, you heard the man. He’s leaving and it’s time for you to do the same.” Cal’s booming voice leaves no room for argument. They walk off, mumbling to themselves, using words that no “lady” would ever use. I toss a grateful look at Cal and he looks at me questioningly. I shrug my shoulders and point to the limo driver, who hurries to open the door for me. I crawl in, eager for the solitude, and sit back as the door shuts behind me.
I’ve barely closed my eyes when we pull up to the hotel, where there’s a good-sized mob of people waiting outside. Once again I’m thankful for my security team, who pulled up the rear in a black SUV. My cell buzzes and I see that it’s a text from Cal. Damn, I was kind of hoping it was Taryn.
Cal: Str8 thru, Ace?
I’m so fucking tired from the concert and the club, and after already getting rid of one set of women for the night, I know my patience is shot to hell.
Lead the way, bro.
A minute later, the door opens and I’m surrounded by five linebacker-sized men. We move as fast we can through the crowd without knocking anyone down, and once we get to the elevators where the coast is clear, I slap a couple of hundreds in each of their hands by way of thanks. I know they’ve got girls back home and many of them have kids who won’t see their dads for months on end because of me. And even though I know they’re paid well, a little extra never hurts either.
I climb inside the elevator with Cal, who pushes the button for the top floor. Just as I pull five Benjamins out of my wallet, he says, “Don’t even think about it.”
“Please, bro. It’s just my way of thanking you,” I tell him.
“And I’m telling you to put your fucking money away. You wanna spend it on someone else, go ahead, but you’re not givin’ it to me. I already get a paycheck and it doesn’t come from you.”
“That’s why I wanna give you somethin’. I don’t know how much those tight-ass suits pay you, so I gotta know you’re being taken care of, ‘aight?”
“No, not alright,” he says as the elevator doors open.
I sigh and walk out, knowing that this is one battle I’m not going to win—today. But I also know that someday he might need me and when he does, I’ll be there. Cal is one of the good ones and I’m glad he’s on my team.
I put the card in the slot to open the door and head inside the empty room, ready to hit the sack. I strip down as I walk and collapse onto the bed, not even bothering to set my alarm. No doubt Jay will have me up and moving whenever I need to be.
I close my eyes, trying to clear my head, but the one thing that I can’t keep from thinking about is what Taryn’s “usual” celebration might be.
Chapter 7
Taryn
Making my way backstage, I don’t stop to talk to anyone but head straight to my dressing room. I know I’ll only have a few minutes to myself so I decide to check my phone while I wait. I smile when I see a text from Trace, essentially asking if I tossed my cookies before the show. After a little back and forth, he tells me he has to “represent,” and suddenly I’m not smiling anymore. What the hell does that mean? When I hear loud voices on the other side of the door, I type a hasty reply and send it before shoving the phone into my bag.
“Great show, doll.” Ryder walks over and kisses my sweaty cheek. All I want to do is take a nice, long shower, and even though I know it’s not going to happen right away, I’m thankful I can at least take it at home tonight.
“Thanks, you were great out there,” I respond. Ryder is an incredibly talented guitarist and popular among the fans, particularly the girls.
“Taryn, darling…what happened in that last song? I told you that you should have been working out during the break to keep your stamina up.” If she knew me at all, she’d know that I do work out. I’d like to see her ass up there dancing and singing for over two hours.
I glare at her and she smiles back to me while nudging Ryder’s elbow. He looks uncomfortable and it’s obvious he wants out of the conversation but she won’t relent. “We’ll work on it, Savannah,” he says to her and I want to run out of the room screaming. Would it kill him to stick up for me once in a while?
Before I can tell them both where they can go, there’s a knock at the door and the tour assistant enters with a few backstage pass holders. It’s a group of younger girls, probably fifteen years old or so, accompanied by an older gentleman—most likely a dad who was dragged here against his will. Of course, my mom instantly gravitates toward him.
The girls squeal and giggle at the sight of Ryder and me, and the two of us smile at one another before we wave them over. Within seconds, Ryder’s casual demeanor has them eating out of his hand. The one short-haired brunette approaches and asks if she can hug me. When she does, she practically knocks me over with her force. “I’m Kylie, and oh my goodness…I can’t believe I’m hugging Taryn Starr right now,” she exclaims while squeezing me tight. Moments like this remind me why I exhaust myself, night after night, and spend countless hours on tour buses, year after year.
After reluctantly releasing me, Kylie hands me her ticket stub to sign. After I finish, she smiles, staring at me, and I can’t help wonder what she’s thinking. Am I not as pretty in person or is it that I’m nicer than she thought I would be? I don’t have to wait for my answer when she asks, “Are you and Ryder like…together?”
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 hi
m 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 what his post-concert celebrations involve, but I’m not sure I want to know. I’m such a freaking 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.