by Emily Snow
Pushing up on my tippy-toes, I scan every part of the backstage that I can see, but there’s no sign of him or Cal. I’m assuming Cal would be with him and he’s definitely not one to be missed. I mean, a three-hundred pound linebacker-looking dude isn’t hard to spot.
“Let’s go, Taryn, they’re getting impatient,” Ryder says, placing his arm around my shoulders.
I bite my bottom lip, hesitant to go onstage without at least knowing he’s here. Trace has to be here when I sing it for the first time—he just has to.
Reluctantly, I make my way toward the stage with my guitar. “Change of plans. I’m not doing the new song,” I tell Ryder and he stares at me questioningly.
“The band is ready, Tar, we have to do that one.” He slowly takes his guitar off the stand and places it across his shoulders with ease.
“Change it. We’ll do ‘Memo to Self’ instead,” I state, attempting to put my foot down, which hasn’t always been easy with this group. They’re all older than me and refuse to listen to some starlet barely in her twenties, even if I do provide their current paycheck.
“No, we performed that one already tonight.” He shakes his head and I feel the pressure as the audience starts to get restless. “Just do ‘Fallin’ Into You.’ What’s the big deal?” Instead of answering, I look around one more time. No trace of Trace. If I wasn’t on edge, I might laugh at that thought. Where the hell is he?
Taking a deep cleansing breath, I make my way to the microphone. After thanking everyone for coming out and supporting us, I announce that I have a new song, never heard by anyone before. As I begin strumming my guitar, all I can think of is how wrong this feels—that the inspiration behind the song should hear it first. After one more swift glance backstage, I begin to sing, despite the numbness I’m feeling.
They say the eyes are a window to the soul
Well, that must be true
Cause baby one look from you
And for the first time in my life I feel whole
I stop playing after the first verse, unable to keep going. The band stops and then starts again, but I turn around and swipe my finger across my throat, signaling for them to stop. I nervously face the mic once again and say, “I’m really sorry everyone. I want to sing it for you, but it’s a very special song to me and the person who inspired it isn’t here. I’ve got something else that I think you might like it.” I turn back around toward the band, purposely not looking at Ryder.
As I’m communicating which song I’m going to play, the crowd unexpectedly starts chanting Trace’s name, obviously realizing the song is about him. Briefly, I think he must be on his way out and a smile spreads across my face, but when I look to the wings, I only see the backstage assistant standing there. She shakes her head ‘no’ and instantly my grin dissipates.
I quiet the crowd down—just hearing his name triggers a rush of heat throughout my body. Can he please just hurry up and get here already? I perform an acoustic version of my most popular song, hoping that satisfies the crowd, at least until Trace arrives.
Once I finish, I step offstage again and Ryder is instantly by my side. “Where the hell is your boy?”
I shake my head, wondering the same thing myself. Of course, my mind immediately jumps to all of the worst possible conclusions, most of which involve fiery crashes of some sort. Just then, my mom comes over and says that the show is over—Trace won’t be going on.
“What happened? Why isn’t he coming?” I’m scared shitless now and I know my voice is conveying that, but I don’t really care at this moment.
“Ask him for yourself, he’s in your dressing room,” she says, pointing down the hall. Say what?
As I make a beeline for my room, I hear the rustling of the crowd when the lights come back on. Yeah, the comments on the internet tomorrow are going to be lethal. I promised them something special and didn’t deliver, and there had better be a damn good reason why.
Ryder’s boots are stomping two steps behind me and I can hear my mom’s heels clicking two steps behind him on the cement floor. It’s a wonder I can hear anything though past the ringing in my ears.
I throw open the door to find Trace sitting down, looking relaxed in my makeup chair with one leg crossed over the other and his phone in his hand—God, he looks sexy as hell. He stares up at me—no smile, no hug, and no kiss. What the hell happened since I talked with him this afternoon?
Noticing that he’s all decked out in his usual stage apparel reminds me that he just deserted me on that stage. “Are you sick?” I ask, hoping the answer is ‘yes’ but knowing that it isn’t. He doesn’t look at me but rather at Ryder, who is now standing behind me. His eyes filled with rage, he jumps up and strides right past me, completely ignoring my question.
“You need to back the fuck off,” he says to Ryder, pushing him backward. Ryder catches his footing and steps up to Trace.
“Maybe you should learn to keep promises you make.” Their noses are almost touching as they push their chests against each other.
“You need to be respectful of what’s mine,” Trace spouts and I move to stand near them, placing my hand on each of their arms. Trace looks at my hand on his and the one on Ryder and then looks me in the eyes. What I see is not the man that I’ve come to know and respect, the one who has showered me with love and gifts these past few months—this man is a stranger.
“Yours? There’s nothing in this room that’s yours. Have some fucking respect for Taryn and quit claiming her like she’s some dog.” Ryder’s hands open and close into a fist while Trace’s breaths rapidly increase. It’s like the beginning of a storm and if I don’t stop this tempest of testosterone, it will turn into a hurricane in point-three seconds.
“Stop it, both of you!” I say through clenched teeth, shoving my way between them. Placing my hands on Ryder’s chest, I attempt to shuffle him toward the door, where my mother has been quietly observing—well, that’s a first. “Just give us a minute,” I tell him and nudge him out the door, shutting it behind him.
I release a breath and turn around to face a very angry Trace, who has started pacing back and forth—I’m starting to notice that this is a trend with him. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I ask, marching up to him. “People were expecting you.”
“It was a surprise, no one knew I was coming,” he says.
“I was expecting you, Trace, and so was my band. So you better tell me why you didn’t make it up on that stage,” I demand, hands on my hips.
“You want to know what the fuck happened? You grinding your ass all over country boy’s cock, that’s what happened.” He plops down into the chair, looking at me expectantly, as if waiting for me to give him an explanation. I feel like he’s a parent who is waiting on their teenager to confess that they snuck out in the middle of the night. Well, he’s sorely mistaken if he thinks I’m going to stand here and feel like I did something wrong.
“It’s called entertainment, Trace. You know, I entertain my fans.”
“More like entertaining him,” he scoffs. “I’m going to ask one more time, Taryn, and you better give me an honest answer. What is going on with country boy?”
“I told you, there’s nothing going on, Trace. We’re friends.”
“Fuck buddy friends?” he asks.
“No—just friends. You do know that guys and girls can have a platonic relationship, right?” He stands up and moves in close but stops just short of actually touching me.
“If you can’t see it, babe, you’re fucking blind. Country boy wants to fuck you, and after that little display, I’m thinking you want to fuck him too. Is he the one warming you up at night, Taryn? When I can’t get a hold of you, is it because his dick is inside of you?” I don’t think, I just react. His red cheek is proof of that reaction.
“Fuck you, Trace,” I yell. “How dare you say that to me? I have to see articles, postings, video clips, you name it—all talking about some girl in your bed or all the groupies that follow you and the guys aro
und. You told me to trust you, but you don’t trust me.”
“I told you, Taryn…I haven’t done anything—not since we’ve been together.” He’s so close that I can feel his slow, deliberate breaths, almost as if he’s trying to calm himself down.
“Well, I’m sorry if that’s a little difficult for me to believe. You don’t think I can’t hear the parties going on in the background every time we talk? And what am I supposed to think when the next morning there are half a dozen articles about wild nights with naked girls at your hotel rooms?” Needing space, I move away from him and pull my robe from off the rack. Suddenly I want to cover up my skimpy stage outfit, feeling dirty after his remarks.
“Well, I wasn’t fucking them! In fact, you should see the ass I’ve been turning down. Yeah, they want my dick, I’m not gonna lie. But I tell them to leave me the hell alone—because of you, Taryn.” He starts pacing again while I secure the belt on my robe.
“Am I supposed to feel grateful somehow? Should I get down on my knees and thank the almighty Trace for not fucking a groupie because of me? Is that what you want? Well, let me tell you something. I’m not going to kiss your ass, Trace. And let me make another thing clear. I don’t like you accusing me of something I haven’t done based on a performance.”
He paces a few more times and it’s obvious he’s contemplating something. Hopefully, it’s an apology. “I want him out,” he says softly, an eerie calm in his voice.
Surely I misheard him. “What did you just say?”
“Country boy. I want him out of the band.” He walks over and stares me boldly in the eyes. His intimidating stance won’t sway this decision, however.
“No way. That’s not happening,” I inform him.
“Then I’m out,” he responds without hesitation.
I don’t pause before stating, “Fine, go then.” I almost regret the words after they leave my lips—almost.
“It’s been fun, Peaches,” he says, making the nickname he gave me sound like a curse.
“While it lasted, I guess.” I shrug my shoulders, attempting to make him believe I’m indifferent to the pain he’s causing me. At least I can see that same pain reflected in his blue eyes.
“Guess we were just a powder keg waiting to explode,” he says, and without looking back, walks out the dressing room door. I pick up a makeup brush from the counter and throw it—I can’t believe he just referenced a fucking tabloid line.
What the hell just happened? Did we just break up? I think we did, but again—what the hell? Does he honestly believe I would kick Ryder out of the band because he thinks there’s something going on?
When I hear the soft knock on my door, I already know who it is. “Come in,” I say, my voice slightly shaky.
I roll my eyes when I see that Ryder is already showered and dressed to go out. It sucks when I think about what my night was supposed to entail. I had some new, sexy lingerie picked out, knowing we’d be rushing back to the hotel, unable to keep our hands off each other. Instead, I never felt so much as his fingertip on my skin.
“Just passed your boy,” he says, standing there in his faded jeans and cowboy boots. As much as I hate to notice, Ryder looks damn good in a blue V-neck t-shirt that perfectly outlines his ripped stomach and strong biceps.
“Yeah, well, I’m not sure he’s mine anymore,” I say, making my way over to the makeshift screen to change.
“Did you guys break things off?” He tries to mask the happiness in his voice, but it doesn’t work.
“Honestly, I have no idea.” It had to have been just a fight, right? No way could we fall so hard, just to end things like this.
“Come on, we need to unwind. Get away from all this for a bit. Have a drink with me?” He raises his eyebrows when I emerge from behind the screen in my tight, ass-hugging skinny jeans, t-shirt, and favorite pair of boots. “You look smokin’,” he tells me but all I can think about is how I picked these jeans out for Trace. The image of his large hands cupping my jean-clad ass causes a familiar tingling sensation to flow through me—one that only he seems to instigate. Then his inexcusable words echo in my head and I feel heat course through my body, though it’s not from desire.
“Let’s go.” I breeze past Ryder and walk toward the door. Ryder places his hand on the small of my back, escorting me out, and for once I don’t pull away from him.
Right before we can escape out the back, my mom appears in the hallway. The smile that forms on her face when she sees us together makes me cringe and instinctively, I move a good step away from Ryder. The last thing I need is her thinking that all her dreams just came true.
“Where are you guys off to?” I haven’t heard her voice this happy since I was in grade school.
“We’re headed out, but I’ll make sure she’s not spotted and get her back to the hotel safely.” Ryder’s sweet-talking-the-parent act is almost vomit-inducing.
“I know you will, Ryder. You kids go have fun,” she reaches over and kisses my cheek. I roll my eyes in annoyance—how different this scene would have played out if this was Trace.
After we exit the building, I’m surprised when Ryder walks up to a restored pickup truck parked outside.
“Where did you get this?” I ask him, sliding across the vinyl bench seat.
“It’s mine,” he says, smiling wide. “I picked it up when we got here—I’ve missed this baby.” His hand lovingly pats the red dash.
“Did you restore it?” I run my own hand across the red leather seats.
“Yeah, it was my dad’s,” he says and stares down at the steering wheel. I remember him telling me that his dad died right after he left for Los Angeles. From what I can tell, he’s always felt guilt for leaving him behind to pursue his dream.
“What year?” I ask in an attempt to distract him from the obviously painful memories.
“1970 Ford 100 Ranger XLT. I was going bring it out to LA, but you know…”
“It’s not exactly Texas,” I say, understanding perfectly.
“Yeah, imagine trying to park this puppy in those spots made for sports cars and Smart Cars,” he laughs and I join him. I’d almost forgotten how easy it is to be with Ryder. Our friendship has kept me grounded these past few years, and I’m embarrassed to admit that I haven’t been a very good friend lately.
He turns the radio on and “Southern Girl” by Tim McGraw is playing. “Isn’t this the truth?” he says, smiling over at me before rolling down his window. Following his lead, I roll mine down too, immediately comforted by the warm Texas breeze blowing my hair in every direction. Oh, I’ve missed this. As the smell of wildflowers wafts into the cab, I close my eyes, relishing the peaceful feeling that floats over me. Unfortunately, I can’t stop thinking about the fact that I wanted to experience this with Trace—show him what Texas is all about.
As the truck exits the freeway and we begin to drive along some backcountry roads, the dressing room fight replays in my head. What was I supposed to do, let him dictate who’s in my band just because he thinks Ryder is attracted to me? And even if he is, that doesn’t mean anything will happen. It takes two to two-step, right?
Sensing eyes on me, I turn to face Ryder, who is shamelessly staring at me. I smile at him before quickly turning back to look out the window. With just one look, I know Trace was right—Ryder does still want to be with me, even after I turned him down in the bus that night. Just as I’m beginning to think that maybe this was a bad idea, we pull up to a classic country bar, which Ryder tells me he used to hang out at with his buddies in high school because the bartenders “didn’t give a shit” and served them alcohol. The wooden exterior and limited number of old pickup trucks in the parking lot tells me that this place is perfect—no one will be looking for us here—so I decide that a little fun might be okay after all.
He tells me to wait while he exits the truck and then opens my door for me—God, I hope he doesn’t think this is a date. Taking his callused hand because it would be rude not to, I step out and the gr
ound crunches beneath our cowboy boots as we cross the gravel parking lot. As we enter, I see several couples spinning around the relatively small dance floor and the yearning to be one of those couples burns inside of me. I haven’t been dancing—not country dancing—in freaking forever. It always cracks me up how people in LA think that all we do is line dance in Texas, when really there’s nothing like a good two-step if you have the right partner. And I can’t help if I’m curious whether Ryder is any good.
He leads me over to the bar and I waste no time knocking back a beer before dragging Ryder to the wooden dance floor. He wraps one strong hand around my waist while I place mine on his shoulder before we clasp our free hands together. “Neon Moon” by Brooks & Dunn plays, which is probably one of the best two-step songs there ever was, and Ryder expertly leads me around the dance floor. I figured he’d be a pretty good dancer but damn, he definitely exceeded my expectations. The grace he possesses as he twirls me around has my heart racing and breath quickening.
After just one song, I’m ready for a drink—and it sure as hell won’t be water. As we belly up to the bar, I notice the older people who are standing around smile at us with admiration but not recognition. Ryder orders us both Budweisers and we take a seat in a booth in the back—no sense pushing our luck.
We talk about the tour some but mainly about Texas. Ryder grew up close to where we’re at right now and I tell him some about my small town. The only thing we don’t discuss is the proverbial elephant in the bar. Ryder hasn’t mentioned Trace at all, and I wonder if he’s trying to get my mind off of him or if he just doesn’t want to hear what I have to say. When the waitress comes over, Ryder orders another round, along with a couple shots of whiskey. I quirk my eyebrow at him and he laughs. “Hey, we’re in a Texas bar, might as well make ‘em proud.”