by Emily Snow
“What was that all about?” I ask my dad, never one to pull punches with him.
“Ah, you know, a dad’s gotta put the fear of God into the man who loves his daughter.” Wow, that was some conversation. Just as I’m about to ask what exactly was said, my dad adds, “Speaking of putting fear in someone, I don’t want you to worry about Weston anymore, sweetheart.”
“Dad, I’ll just pay…” I insist, wanting the whole thing over.
“Taryn, that boy Weston is a piece of shit and it will get handled. You won’t hear from him again,” he assures me. I sit back in my seat and relax, secure in the knowledge that my dad has always been a man of his word.
Chapter 18
Trace
“Cal, good to see you, man,” I say, not even attempting a bro-hug since the guy is as wide as a fucking refrigerator, and even though I’m a pretty good size, I feel like I’m David to his Goliath—not good for my ego.
“Anytime, Ace, you know that. Now where is this little fucker? I ain’t gonna lie, I’m gettin’ all kinds of antsy in this one-stoplight shithole…kind ‘a place every man and his fucking wife carry guns. And these are the kind that’ll shoot first, ask questions later, know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I hear ya, dawg, but you’re packin’ too, right?”
I laugh out loud at the look he gives me. Guess that was a stupid question. He climbs into the driver’s side of the black Benz he drove here, a clear indication that it’s time to roll. I slide into the passenger seat and hand him the directions Taryn’s dad gave me, along with his blessing to shut this motherfucker up—guess nobody messes with Pops’ little girl.
We speed away from the gas station where Cal and I had agreed to rendezvous this morning, leaving the shitty-ass car in the dust. Not sure where it came from and don’t really care what happens to it, just glad to be back with my boy and in a Benz. Damn, I may be getting a little too big for my britches.
It’s nice that the windows are heavily tinted so I can look out at the passing “downtown” without all these rubberneckers seeing in. So this is where my girl grew up? Cal’s right, it is a shithole. I must have a dopey grin on my face because when I look in the rearview mirror I can see a smirk on the big man, and any expression other than serious is few-and-far-between on his face.
A minute or two later we pull into the parking lot of a feed store—a fucking feed store—and Cal cranks up the beats playing on the satellite radio to near ear-splitting decibels. When I look at him in question, he explains loudly, “Let him know we’re here.” I nod my head and we listen to the music some before he turns it back down, saying, “And now we wait. Gotta make him sweat it out some first.” Damn, what did this guy do before he joined my team? Shaking my head, I wait until he says, “You go in and ask him to step outside. I’ll stay here by the car while you talk to him.”
“Good idea. We want him to piss his pants, not shit a brick,” I laugh and then get serious again. “No really, I gotta thank you, man. I appreciate your discretion in helping me take care of all this. There aren’t many I trust, hell, not even Dre these days,” I lament, “but I trust you and…well, thanks.”
He nods his head in response and bites his lip as if he wants to say something, but it’s probably better he doesn’t. I don’t know what else to say to express my gratitude and I’ve probably already made him feel uncomfortable. I would never admit this—to anyone—but I like having Taryn to talk to…as in really talk to. I don’t have to put on a front with her, I can say exactly how I feel, and she always lets me know where I stand. It’s like in those military movies where the cadets have to ask their commanding officers, “Permission to speak freely, sir.” When she and I are talking, whether it’s long-distance or we’re together, I don’t look for those cues to see if I can say what’s on my mind. I just say it and there’s never any judgment, giving me a freedom I haven’t known in…well, probably ever.
Even as great as my parents were, I always felt some expectations and judgment growing up, though I was far from unruly at that time. Could have had something to do with my dad’s numerous ‘fire and brimstone’ sermons, which I always felt were directed my way, even though he spent most of the time looking at the gossipy old ladies on the front row when he was preaching. If I really think about it, that upbringing impacted the choices I made, though I would never place blame on anyone other than myself. But I did always feel like I could never measure up, and after my folks weren’t around to keep me in line, I didn’t even try. Figured if I was going to Hell anyway, might as well make mine a first-class ticket.
“You ready?” Cal asks, interrupting my stream-of-consciousness. Thank God, I could probably sit here all day picking apart my jacked-up psyche. I nod once and he hands me an envelope saying, “Here’s the cheddar.” We both get out of the car, and as I tuck the money into the back of my waistband and under my shirt, Cal lights up a cigarette and leans against the Merc.
“That shit’s gonna kill ya, Cal,” I say, shaking my head at him as I start to walk away.
“Not before these skinheads do,” he jokes…or at least I think he’s joking. “Go wreck that boy so we can get the fuck outta here.”
“’Aight, shorty,” I call out and chuckle when he flips me off.
When I enter the store, I immediately know who Weston is by the look on his face—it’s obvious he knows who I am and why I’m here. Before he can open his pie hole, I say, “Outside—now. This won’t take long.” I don’t wait to see if he’ll follow. As we step out under the store's awning, I see him glance nervously over at Cal, assessing the situation and probably his odds of survival.
“Don’t worry, half the damn town saw me drive over here so you’re safe—for now, anyway.” I want him to know I’m serious, and based on the way his Adam’s apple just bobbed up and down when he swallowed, I have a feeling he does. “Now I’m gonna make this short and sweet. I don’t have time for this shit, and I won’t be back to reiterate what I’m tellin’ you today…I’ll just send Cal,” I say, nodding my head in the direction of the brute of a man who is watching us closely, “and he can do the talkin’ for me. You catch my drift?”
The little shit doesn’t even have the nerve to speak, just gives me a nod. That’ll work for now, but he will agree to what I’ve got to say before it’s all said and done. “So here’s the deal. You will not contact Taryn, her mom, her dad, her friends, not even her fucking hairdresser. And you sure as fuck won’t talk to anyone in the media. That includes bloggers, paparazzi, reporters, gossip rags…do I need to go on?”
“No, but—“
“But nothing. You just let me finish. Now you asked for 100K, and that’s a hundred Gs you didn’t earn and you sure as hell don’t deserve. While I’d love to just tell you to go fuck yourself and watch while you do it, I’d rather give you a little fuckin’ money and never hear from your sorry ass again. If I do hear a peep out of you…well, let’s just say that no amount of money will survive the kind of heat where you’ll be going.”
I pause, letting my message sink in before continuing, “So are we clear? And don’t be a fuckin’ pussy…I want to hear you say that we’re clear.”
“Yeah, I hear you,” he says, his voice slightly shaky. Aw, hell no.
I move my body as close as I can possibly get without touching the fucker and state in a deadly calm voice, “Are. We. Fucking. Clear?”
“Yes, we’re clear. You won’t hear from me again. Th-th-thank you.” Good, now he’s shaking in his shit-smelling cowboy boots.
I grab the envelope from where I have it stashed, shove it into his filthy—literally, they are filthy—hands, and quickly walk away. If I spend another second with this dumbass, I’ll probably end up doing something I’d regret. And my list of regrets is already piled up high enough…anything else and the damn thing might topple over.
We walk into the green room at the American Airlines Center in Dallas and I march over to where everyone is sitting around on their asses, knocking back drink
s even though we haven’t even rehearsed yet. Before I can open my mouth, Dre hops up and says, “Ace…where ya been? Man, we’ve got an after-party like you would not believe tonight. Q here’s gone and hooked us up with a sure shot, and we know you’re all pussy-whipped and shit, but the whole world don’t need to know that. Speaking of which, how is that fine piece of country a—“
My fist is in his face before my mind catches up. Not that it matters…my mind would have told me to do exactly what I did. I only wish it were that feed store fucker’s face from earlier that I’d busted instead of Dre’s.
“One, I already warned you. Don’t talk about Taryn…ever. Two, don’t drink or get high before my shows again. Three, don’t talk to Taryn again…ever. We will discuss that after the show, and you ain’t goin’ nowhere ‘til we do.”
With those words, I leave my speechless crew and head to my dressing room to get ready. I cannot fucking believe my cousin is high right now, and I saw it the second I looked in his eyes. At least he’s in the rush and not on the nod, or tonight’s concert would be a disaster.
As it turned out, that’s exactly what it was. Dre was definitely off and the usual “chemistry” we have onstage wasn’t there. Even though it was obvious to me and everyone on the tour, the audience still seemed into it—for that, I’m only going to tear my cousin one new one instead of two.
Dre walks into my dressing room where I’m trying to cool off from that shitty-ass show, and I’m overheated in more than one way tonight. Cal is with him and though he usually serves as my security, I have no doubt that he’s here for Dre’s protection this time. But I’m not about that…I just want Dre clean and back to his old self. After giving me a look that says to go easy on him, Cal steps outside and closes the door, most likely standing on the other side of it—just in case.
I don’t bother getting up but continue to down a big-ass water bottle as Dre throws himself onto a black leather couch across from me. Fine with me—he can sweat it out here all night or just man up.
“Look, Ace, I’m sorry,” he starts. Good choice. “I know tonight sucked and I ain’t gonna lie because we both know it’s my fault.” I appreciate his apology, but that’s not what I want from him.
“Dre, I want you to drop the dope. We both know that shit is addictive and it’s got you, bro. I know you ain’t like your old man, but you sure as hell are actin’ like it these days.”
“T, you know I’m just havin’ a little fun. The smack ain’t got me—I got this. Why you buggin’ about this, Ace?”
“I think you were just havin’ fun, but it’s gotten out of control—and now it’s affecting my tour. So even if you weren’t my cousin and I didn’t care about you like I do, that makes it my concern.”
“Aww, I’m getting’ all warm and fuzzy inside,” he teases.
“You can joke all you want, but I ain’t laughin’, Dre. This has become a problem and I want it to stop. I know you were all kinds of out of it when you told Taryn about my mom and dad so I’m gonna give you a free pass, but what if next time you tell the wrong person and it ends up on every newsstand in the country?”
“Dude, you know I wouldn’t do that. That was Taryn and it was obvious she needed to talk to you. Hell, I did you a favor since you were too chick—“
“Don’t even finish that sentence, Dre. Regardless if I’m glad she knows, that was for me to decide whether or not I wanted to tell her—not you. Got it?”
“Yeah, I got it…and I am sorry, cuz. You know I’d never hurt you on purpose,” he says sincerely.
“I know, bro,” I say, sighing. I’ve never liked fighting with my cousin and now is no exception. Usually we just duke it out, but this isn’t one of those issues that’ll just go away or that can be solved with a good fistfight. “Look, you’ve already done enough damage for one day, so how about we just hang at the hotel tonight? We’ll let the others go out and tear up the town and it’ll be like old times—except we’ll have room service instead of scrounging up scraps to eat. What do you say?”
He smiles and says, “Yeah, that sounds good, especially the eating part. I’m hungrier than a motherfucker and I know Texas has some kick-ass barbecue. You think the hotel’s got some of that?” I groan, thinking about the ridiculous amount of ribs that I inhaled at Taryn’s dad’s place last night. Shit, that stuff was good.
She and I talked before the show and I’ll call her again after Dre passes out, which by the looks of his droopy eyelids won’t be long. Better get some food in him, since there’s no telling how long it’s been since he’s eaten a decent meal. I reach out and pull him up by his hand, drawing him into a hug before releasing him, saying, “If the hotel doesn’t have barbecue, then we’re staying at the wrong damn place. Let’s get going and I’ll call on the way so it’ll ready when we get there.”
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about,” he says and just like that, I feel as if all is right in the world for the first time in a really fucking long time.
And things have only gotten better. Not only does it seem like Dre has cleaned himself up, but the tour has been selling out in every location with multiple requests for more dates and venues. Jay has even been talking about touring overseas, which means the demand for the music we’re making must be high. Of course, Taryn and I being in the same time zone would be ideal, but regardless of the distance, I feel like we are closer than ever. I’ve also been inspired to write songs like never before, and I know it’s because I have the best fucking musical muse in the world.
That girl has turned me into such a sentimental shit, too. Last week she sent me a CD single of the song she serenaded me with at the ranch, which is now at the top of the charts—and not just the country ones. Because of the song’s bluesy sound, Taryn’s sweet voice can be heard on all of the Top 40 and R&B stations. The dedication on the inside cover also left no question as to who the song was written for, and I had to fight like hell to hold back the tears that threatened when I read it.
I don’t give her a hard time about guitar boy anymore either. I’m the one she took home to see her dad and had the guts to tell the whole fucking world that she’s fallen for. Even more importantly, I’m the one she talks to on the phone every night as she’s falling asleep. And based on some of the things we’ve been saying and doing, I know he hasn’t been anywhere around. Turns out, my little country girl can talk dirty with the best of them.
It doesn’t hurt either that there have been rumors that Ryder is talking about going solo, and I have no doubt it’s because Taryn chose me over him. Still, I’d pay good money to see his face at her concerts when she sings her new hit, written for and about me. And I’m sure I’ll run into him here soon, since Taryn and I are scheduled to sing our duet live at the upcoming MTV Video Music Awards (VMAs). I have never counted down to anything in my life, but I know that I am exactly seven days, four hours, and thirty minutes from having my girl in my arms. Damn, life is good.
I remember the day my parents died like it was yesterday—everything was perfect in my little corner of the world. My mom and dad were helping those who needed it most by delivering boxes with kids’ clothes and shoes and God-only-knows what else. Knowing them, they were probably giving away stuff we actually used and even needed. I was having a good ‘ol time horsing around with the kids outside, throwing a football instead of helping my folks carry those damn boxes in. If someone had taken a snapshot of that scene and then compared it with the photos of the crime scene taken in the aftermath of the shooting, those pictures would have looked nothing alike. The first was the calm before the fucking storm and after, only devastation lay in its wake.
Today I finally get to see Taryn again, and per my usual luck, it’s also the day that all the shit hits the fan...
After arriving in LA late last night, I feel like I’ve just closed my eyes when I hear a loud banging and someone yelling at my hotel room door. I’m surprised to see it’s already light out, but a glance at my phone tells me I’m not late for anything.
I leisurely walk over to the door despite the apparent fire and Jay bursts in the room, throwing copies of magazines at me as he marches past. Vibe and Hip Hop Weekly, the two biggest sources of entertainment news in my world, both have pictures of me front and center on the covers. Jay helps himself to a drink, and instead of teasing him because it’s too early in the day, I’m seriously thinking about joining him.
One glance tells me that Vibe somehow managed to find out the secrets of my past. My first thought is that Dre might have let it slip, but I instinctively know that he didn’t. Since I know for damn sure it wasn’t Taryn, I’m at a loss for who else could have known—and beyond that, who would have sold me out. Cal? No way, the guy’s too loyal and plus, what would be in it for him? He won’t take a penny extra from me, no matter how many times or different ways I try to give it to him. Quinton, Marcus, and Xavier don’t know—to my knowledge anyway—but even if they did, they wouldn’t squeal. And based on the string of curses Jay’s letting loose in my living area, I take it he didn’t know either.
“What the fuck, Trace? You mind tellin’ me what the hell this is all about? And while you’re at it, why don’t you tell me why I’m finding out from Vibe-motherfucking-magazine and Hip-fucking-Hop Weekly?”
“Jay, don’t everybody need to know everything about me. A man has a right to keep his past to himself, whether that past was good or not. You think I wanted my parents’ gravesite to turn into some fuckin’ tourist attraction? Hell no. My life in Texas was over the day they were shot and killed, and I don’t care what anybody says—that was my secret to keep. Nobody else’s.”
My words must have softened his hardened heart because his response is not what I expect. “I get ya, man. ‘Course, I wish I’d known so I wouldn’t have gotten blindsided by it. And it sure as shit could spell disaster for your career,” he says, and I can’t help but roll my eyes. “But I am sorry about your folks. I hate that for ya, Ace.”