by Emily Snow
Trace yanks open the door and ushers in his bodyguard. “Mornin’, Ace. Miss Starr,” he nods his head my way.
“Please, Cal, call me Taryn,” I tell him, but he remains focused on Trace.
“What’s it like out there?” Trace asks, moving toward me before wrapping his arm around my waist, pulling me into his body.
Cal stares at us curiously before his lips turn up slightly on either end. Of course, if you weren’t looking closely, you’d miss it. “Like I said, there’s a photo of y’all already plastered everywhere. Paps are waiting outside the gate to get the shot of you coming out of her house…they know that’s where the big money is. Wanna sneak out or face the music?” Cal asks Trace, who is now staring down at me.
I see the questions swimming in his eyes that I know are a reflection of mine. Are we ready for this? It’s not just what our family and friends think—it’s America. Hell, it’s the world. Will we be ridiculed? Will we become the headline joke on all of the late-night talk shows? How will it affect our careers? I don’t have any of the answers and although Trace doesn’t either, he surprises me by telling Cal, “I’m going out the front.”
He winks at me and a small smile creeps across my face. We’re actually going to do this. He bends over and kisses my lips. “Give us a second, bro,” he says after pulling away. “Why don’t you grab a quick drink from the kitchen?”
After Cal walks in the direction Trace indicates, he looks at me with concern. “Are you okay with this?”
I nod my head—I’m more than okay with this. I have never felt more ready to face the unknown.
“Taryn, if we do this, things have to change. This means a whole lot of fucking press and if we thought the paps were bad before, it’s going to be a nightmare now. You need security, babe. No more going places without it, understand?”
I nod again, wishing he was going with me to some of those places—or any of them, really. Not knowing when we’ll be together again is really starting to hit me hard.
As if listening to my thoughts, he says, “Good. Now give me some lovin’…it’s gonna have to last awhile.” Without another word, I kiss him with every ounce of the angst I’m feeling, and he kisses me back like he could never possibly get enough of me. After a heart-stopping five minutes, we finally part. “I won’t be forgetting that one anytime soon,” he tells me. Damn, the man always knows just what to say to make me swoon.
“I’ll call you tonight and we’ll compare schedules. I’m sure we can find some way to meet up,” he says, addressing another of my silent concerns. Before I can respond, Cal enters and stands at the door as Trace gives me a final chaste kiss. He then winks before putting his sunglasses on and walking out the door. I feel his absence immediately, but then my door opens back up and Trace peeks his head in. “Peaches, lock the fucking door,” he demands and then his lips curl up into a bright smile before he shuts the door again.
I rush over and lock the door. The longer he stands around out there, the more magazines he’s selling. As I walk upstairs, I think about the shitload of things I have to do before I head to the airport in an hour. When I enter my room, I hear my phone vibrating and it hits me that my mother is probably on the warpath—nine texts and six missed calls confirm it. At least there are some from Regina to break it up a little.
Mom: Taryn, you need to call me.
Mom: Call me NOW!
Gina: Details, babe…call me!
Mom: Answer your phone.
Mom: Are you with him?
Gina: Man, he must be really good???
Gina: Seriously Tar, come up for some air.
Mom: Taryn????
Mom: I’m on my way. Do NOT leave the house.
Shit, my mom’s last text was sent ten minutes ago—she’s already on her way. I might as well pack up so I’ll be ready. The less time alone with her, the better. I shoot Gina a quick text, letting her know that I’ll call her later. Not even three seconds later, she responds.
Gina: You better. I’m pretty mad that TMZ has more information than me. LOL
Thirty minutes later, I hear my mom’s heels clicking across the foyer. I haul my suitcases downstairs where I get my first look at my mother, who is standing with her hands on her hips, steam coming out of her ears. Only I would notice that she’s a little less put-together than usual, most likely after the rough night she had and an equally rough morning.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Here we go. “I do all that work to protect your image and now you’re going to screw it all up—again. And for what? Some guy who will be fucking some groupie by tonight?”
Even though her words make me want to scream at the top of my lungs, I clench my teeth and answer as professionally as I possibly can. “My personal life is really none of your business and it certainly isn’t theirs so they can say what they want. I don’t care.”
“You should care, Taryn, you are going to ruin everything.”
“I’m ruining everything? You’re the one who arranged for me to collaborate with him, and you’re the one who gave the thumbs up for me to film a video where I was in bed with him,” I remind her. “So, he’s good enough to have around to sell some albums and get publicity, but not good enough in real life?”
“Why do you fight me on everything? I’m only looking out for your best interests…like I always have,” she says, cocking her eyebrow. Why the fuck does she always have to throw my mistake in my face?
“Listen,” I say with as much confidence as I can muster, “I’m with him. You don’t have to like it but it’s not going to change so you’ll have to deal with it.” I stride toward the door, open it, and after she follows me out, I lock up and head directly to the waiting black town car. I don’t attempt to hide myself, even though I can hear the unmistakable sound of clicking cameras.
While my bags are being loaded, I look out of the heavily-tinted windows while my mom frantically texts someone—probably Dean, my PR rep. As we pull out of the gate, the paparazzi flock to the car, pounding on the hood and windows.
“Taryn, are you and Trace an item?”
“Is this just a publicity stunt?”
“Aren’t you worried he’ll cheat?”
“Don’t you know his reputation?”
The driver speeds off and my mom tosses the most recent gossip magazine in my lap. There, front and center, is a photo of the two of us, smiling at one another, as we were about to enter my house last night. I can’t help but grin when I see the picture, despite the current drama it’s causing in my life.
My mom’s phone rings and she immediately answers, “Hey, Dean. Sounds good to us. That was our response anyway.” She hangs up and stares at me.
“I guess your boyfriend is going with ‘no comment,’” she says, raising her eyebrows in question.
I rest my chin on my palm as I stare out the window. No comment, huh? How quickly things change in an hour.
Chapter 14
Trace
“I Heard It Through The Grapevine….”
Usually hearing Stella sing any one of her impressive collection of Motown hits puts a smile on my face—just not that one, and not today. Fuck the paparazzi for ruining a perfectly good morning.
“He’s in there?” I ask, indicating the door to which a no doubt nuclear Jay is behind. Better get this over with. Sure as hell can’t be any worse than the shit Taryn’s dealing with, and who knows what that mom of hers is saying right about now? I hate that I can’t be there to support my girl when she needs me, but unfortunately sending her off at the airport would have only made the media circus worse. At least she’s got some fucking security now—that’s one less thing I have to worry about.
“Yup, he’s in there alright,” Stella responds, looking a little worried about me. She can save it though; I’ll be fine—it’s Taryn I worry about. Our being together will affect her career more than mine…I think. The difference is that I don’t give a shit, but for all I know, she doesn’t either. I’ll have to feel that one
out later.
“Thanks, Stella,” I say, remembering my manners despite the fact that my head is all over the place. “See you on the other side. Wish me luck,” I say with a wink so she knows I’m okay and can quit stressing over me.
“Yeah, you’ve got Nowhere to Run, that’s for dang sure,” she says as I’m opening the door.
Now that one did put a smile on my face. My Momma loved Martha and the Vandellas, particularly that song. She and Stella would have been best friends, no doubt about it. They share an unparalleled love of Motown music and a faith in God that would put a preacher to shame.
“You can just wipe that fuckin’ grin off your face, boy.” I hate when he says that. I’m not his damn son, although the look on his face tells me now is probably not the best time to point that out. Usually I wouldn’t hesitate to call him out, but I know how much work I’ve just created for him—on top of the already all-consuming tour he’s in charge of—so I’ll let it go this time.
“Hey, Jay,” I say, entering the room and closing the door behind me. “Good to see you too.”
“You know what would be good to see?” he starts. May as well sit down for this, I think, plopping down in the first chair I see. “It would be good to see you with any ‘ol whore off the streets. Hell, I wouldn’t even care if you got busted with a hooker you picked up at the Denny’s on Sunset and 101. It’d be a hell of a lot better than sleeping with ‘America’s-fuckin’-sweetheart.’ You tryin’ to get yourself lynched, man?”
“Seriously, Jay? That’s what you’re worried about? This ain’t the 60’s, bro.”
“Hell no that’s not what I’m concerned about. Might save my ass a lot of trouble if they did,” he says, but the look in his eyes doesn’t match the words coming out of his mouth. “But protests and shit are not what we need at every tour stop from here to buttfuck Florida. Gonna cost us a shitload of cash in extra security. Not to mention, you ain’t exactly gonna make your fan base happy with this either, which could translate into lost sales and ticket returns.”
Should have known my safety wasn’t his concern, only the money—it’s always about the money.
“Hopefully, this will blow over,” he continues, “now that y’all are both headed out on the road and you get back to fuckin’ around—“
“Hold up, Jay. Who said anything about fucking around?” I ask, crossing my arms, pissed that he’s even implying it.
He just stares at me, not saying a word. Bingo, motherfucker—this shit’s for real. He closes his eyes and shakes his head, saying, “Aww, shit….”
“I’ll take that as a ‘congratulations,’” I say, getting up and turning toward the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta stop by my crib and pick up a few things ‘fore we take off again.”
“Trace,” he says, and I look back at him since the tone in his voice is one I haven’t heard before.
“Yeah, Jay?”
“I gotta warn ya because I’d be a fuckin’ lousy manager if I didn’t. She better be worth it, dawg, ‘cause this could be a game changer. And Ace, you know as well as I do, you don’t play and they ain’t gonna pay, and it don’t matter how much you hate the fuckin’ game. You and that girl together, well…let’s just say, you might be the one to lose, my man.”
“Thanks, bro, but losing her wouldn’t make the game worth winning. So I guess I’ll take my chances because she is worth it.” With those words I walk out the door, satisfied that Jay knows where I stand.
“Baby Love, how’d it go? You’re still in one piece so that’s a good sign.”
“It’s all good, Stella. Nothin’ to worry your pretty little head about.”
“You know I can’t help myself, Sugar Pie. And you with your sweet words, it’s no wonder that girl fell for you.”
“What makes you say that, Stella?”
“Son, I could see it in her eyes when y’all were in here together that one day.” I’m floored by her response but happily so. There I was thinking she had a thing for guitar boy, but Stella—who notices everything that goes on within these walls—saw something I didn’t.
“Yeah? Well, that’s good to hear ‘cause I sure as he—…uh, heck, fell for her,” I admit. Sad to say, but I can tell this woman things I won’t even say to my own damn cousin.
“That’s good to hear, honey, because you two got some rough terrain ahead of you. Just remember though that there Ain’t No Mountain High Enough….” she says, breaking into song. Aw hell, she’s never going to stop now—not with that one. A little of the load off my chest, I’m tempted to sing along, but I’ve gotta get back and pack before it’s time to jet.
“See ya when I see ya, Stella,” I call out on my way out the door, listening to her sing about how I can always call her, no matter where I am or how far apart we are. Even though it’s just a song, I know deep down that it’s true.
I sent a text to Taryn when I first got in the car but haven’t heard anything back. She’s probably already on the plane by now, hopefully not too bothered by the extra attention. Then again, if anyone knows how to deal in the spotlight, it’s Taryn Starr.
Walking into my hotel room, I’m surprised to see the whole damn crew making themselves at home. I figured they’d be visiting whoever they wanted to see while we’re in LA, not hanging in my suite, drinking beer, and – oh hell no. “Dre, why the fuck you gettin’ blunted in my crib?” I ask, not masking my anger. He’s been high more often than not lately.
“Ace, just be glad he’s only got the herbs. Fucker already hit the hard core shit ‘fore he got here,” Quinton chimes in.
“The fuck, Dre?”
“Hey, it’s been a rough day. You done got yo’self a white woman and now the rest of us gonna pay. ”
“Yeah, what gives, T?” Xavier asks. I look around, seeing the questioning and even accusatory looks on the faces of my so-called friends.
I’m pretty sure that’s a flash of red I just saw rocket across the room. So they’re going to turn against me faster than the fans, huh? Well, fuck ‘em. I’d turn right around and leave this second if my shit wasn’t here.
“So this is an ambush, is that what it is? Well, y’all can just get your Benedict Arnold-selves outta here. I gotta pack and I’ll meet up with ya on the plane, ‘aight?”
“Negative, Ghostrider. Change of plans,” Marcus says. At my confused look, he explains, “Since our next stop is in the fuckin’ heart of Dixieland, we’re not leaving ‘til tomorrow to give Cal time to set up some extra security.” Shit, that’s where Cal’s run off to—doing extra work I created. He’ll understand though. If anyone will, it’s Cal.
“Yeah, so we figured we’d just come here and get shitfaced since we ain’t goin’ nowhere,” says Dre, slurring more words than not. “Plus, we wanna hear all about country girl. What’s it like havin’ some white pus—“
Without a second thought, I charge over and grab my cousin by the shirt, yanking him to his feet. “You even think about fucking finishing that question and I’ll kill you before the drugs have a chance to,” I threaten, my voice surprisingly low but murderous.
“Woah, Trace…let’s just chill. You know Dre,” Quinton soothes, pulling on my arm. I’m not in the mood to let it go though. “He likes to hear details, no matter who it is. Like a fucking girl, if you ask me,” he jokes, but his voice is obviously strained.
“Yeah man, why don’t we all sit and have a drink,” Xavier adds. “We don’t gotta talk about anything you don’t want to. We just miss hangin’ with you, that’s all.”
Maybe having a drink is a good idea. Lord knows I need something to take this edge off, and I do miss spending quality time with my boys. Ever since the tour started, I feel like it’s been me and them, not us. And as much as I sometimes wonder whether any of them would be around if they didn’t make a shitload of money being a part of my crew, they’re all I’ve got. “Alright, but talkin’ about Taryn is off the table,” I state firmly, so they know I mean business. I release Dre with a warning in my
eyes and he wisely keeps his mouth shut. Then I accept a beer from Marcus and sit my overly edgy ass down.
An hour or so later, we’ve moved on to liquor and I’m feeling better about things—much better. Since it’s been a little while since I’ve drunk like this, I can feel it hitting me harder and faster than usual. I’m not complaining though. It’s nice taking it easy and I even find myself spitting rhymes, making up shit as I go along that has the guys rolling around on the floor, laughing their asses off.
I feel my own ass buzz and it takes me a minute to figure out that it’s my phone. “Gonna get this, be back in a sec,” I say, my words sounding slurred, even to my own ringing ears. I close myself off in my room and open up my messages.
Taryn: I’m assuming you made it okay?
Me: Nah, I’m still here. You?
Taryn: I’m good.
Even in my drunken state, I know that her response means she’s not good. I don’t think—I just call.
“Sup, Peaches?” I ask when she answers the phone.
“Do you really want to know, or should I answer with no comment?” she asks. Well damn, what did I do?
“Am I supposed to know what the fuck that means?” I ask angrily.
“Well, after you walked out my front door this morning, I kind of got the impression you weren’t ashamed of me…or us. Your response to the press seems to indicate otherwise,” she says, and fuck if I don’t hear the hurt in her voice.
“My response?” I ask, gentling my voice some because this can easily be sorted out. “Taryn, I haven’t said a damn thing to anyone. Now Jay does tend to talk for me, but babe, that’s his standard answer for everything. I’ll talk to him about it, but you should know that answering any questions they throw your way never works out in this biz. Just gives them a chance to twist your words around or add somethin’ or delete somethin’. You know that as well as I do.”