by Emily Snow
“Man, don’t let him get to you,” Dre says and Trace looks at me, though I can barely see him through the tears welling in my eyes. I’ve never shown any emotion other than the happy-go-lucky superstar that people always want to see, but I’m about two seconds away from losing it on the red carpet.
“You’re right,” Trace says to Dre while watching me closely. “Now you better get the fuck out of my grill,” he snaps at the guy, who looks visibly relieved. I feel Trace take my hand and lead us down the stairs toward the arena.
Before we reach the only safe haven in this shitstorm, my mom rushes over and yanks me away from Trace. Inches from my face, she whispers, “Taryn, they know.”
“Yeah, thanks for the heads-up,” I say, unable to keep the sarcasm from my voice. I pull away from her and she steps back, glaring at me. Trace is speaking in hushed whispers with Jay and meanwhile, the cameras are clicking while accusatory words are being tossed at us from every direction. Abortion. Teen pregnancy. Babymama. Blackmail. Payoff. I can’t even see straight and my body starts shaking uncontrollably.
My mom jerks me toward her again and doesn’t even attempt to be discreet when she yells, “I’ve worked too hard for you to destroy everything for love, Taryn. You really think he’s capable of love? I’ve read the papers and seen the pictures…he sure as hell doesn’t love you.”
“Can we talk about this another time?” I ask with a low, unsteady voice. Not that she can hear me above all the shouting right now. I seriously feel sick and I’m not sure how much more I can take at this point.
“I’m sorry, Savannah, but we’re leaving,” Trace declares. That must have been what he was talking to Jay about. “Taryn doesn’t need this and she sure as fuck doesn’t deserve it,” he says, glaring at her. He steps in front of me protectively, ensuring that she can’t grab me again.
“The hell you are,” she sneers, unwilling to back down.
“Could you for once give a shit about your daughter?” Trace asks through clenched teeth. Everywhere, cameras are continuously clicking and flashing.
Ignoring Trace, she focuses on me. “This could be the end of you, Taryn. You’ll be marked as undependable and no one will want to work with you.”
Anger boils and I place my hand on Trace’s arm as I move forward to look her in the eye—I don’t want her to misunderstand what I’m about to say. “I’m done, Mom. I’ll finish the tour and then I want out.” As soon as I say the words, I know that they’re the truth. I do want freedom from the constant, often ruthless scrutiny of her and the world, freedom from Backlash telling me what to do and how to do it, and freedom to make the music I want to make, when I want to make it.
“Will you ever stop being so ‘me, me, me’? That’s ridiculous, Taryn, you can’t just quit.”
“I can and I will. We can announce it after the tour is over.” With that, I turn away, not wanting to deal with her anymore. A flood of relief flows over me until I run smack into more paparazzi.
“So, ‘America’s Sweetheart’ isn’t so sweet and the ‘Bad Boy of Rap’ isn’t so bad. The son of a preacher man, huh?” Trace tries to ignore him and push past, but we are soon swarmed from all angles with cameras in our faces. Not able to handle anything else, especially after the confrontation with my mom, I begin to shut down. I cover my face with my hands and Trace pulls me into his chest, shielding me from the cameras as he places one hand in front of the lenses, attempting to block the shots.
“CAL!” Trace screams. The big guy is instantly in front of us, creating a path for us to escape. Once we break away from the masses, Dre stands on one side of me and Trace on the other, while the other guys and a team of security surround us. As we wait for Cal to bring the Escalade back around, nonstop flashes overwhelm my already blurry vision and the invasive questions continue in a relentless fashion.
Once the vehicle is in front of us and we’re all in, Cal speeds off. Trace whispers to me that everything will be alright, and though my mind is numb, I can’t stop my body from shaking.
The further away we get, however, the more I begin to relax. He kisses the top of my head, holding me tight against his body. “I’m gonna kill that fucking weasel,” Trace says, though it’s unclear who exactly he’s talking about.
“Oh, don’t worry, that fucker from Texas will be taken care of,” Cal adds, continuing to stare at the rearview mirror. Ah, that weasel… “Shit man, they’re trailing.”
“Lose ‘em,” Dre instructs from the front seat, where he’d climbed in to serve as Cal’s point man. Trace’s head quickly rotates back, then left and right, as he assesses the proximity of the cars that are chasing us. Unfortunately, the size of the vehicle we’re in won’t allow a quick getaway.
“Man, just get us the fuck away from them,” Trace yells.
The large vehicle accelerates quickly and begins to weave in and out of lanes, causing those of us in the back to hold onto anything we can. I begin to feel even more panicked than I was on the red carpet. One of the cars, a nondescript blue one, manages to make it alongside us and Dre lowers his window, screaming for them to ‘back the fuck off.’ As expected, they completely disregard him, only appearing more determined as the car comes closer than it was before. The out of control situation has me on edge, gripping Trace’s hand as hard as I can.
Taking a tight corner, I wonder if it’s possible for a vehicle this size to flip. Before I can ask, Cal shifts over three lanes with unbelievable speed, and one of the cars who has been on our tail the entire time bumps us in the back, making the Escalade’s rear sway to the right. Cal attempts to correct but instead of going straight, we tailspin, straight into the path of an oncoming truck. All I can hear is the screeching of tires and the sound of our screams before darkness envelops me.
Chapter 20
Taryn
Four Months Later
It’s been a year since the last time I sat in these uncomfortable seats. A year since I first stared into those strikingly beautiful blue eyes. A year since my life changed forever. I still feel the chills as I remember the way he leaned down to whisper in my ear. I hurt as I think about everything we had to endure in the past twelve months, but then smile when I consider who I am now because of it all.
The room darkens and the audience quiets as the large screen slowly descends from the ceiling. Regina takes my hand and looks over at me with sad, sympathetic eyes. I try to fix my face to assure her I’ll be fine, but I’m not as good at faking it as I once was. I’ve always hated the memorial segment at award shows—all the talented artists being recognized because they’re now dead. Seeing faces filled with life because they were able to wake up every day and do what they loved has the tears flowing down my face.
The pictures scroll by with the years of the births and deaths of those being honored. I cringe when I see the many whose time on earth was cut short, which is exactly what happened—he had so much more to give. When the picture I’ve been waiting for appears, one of him looking relaxed in the recording studio, I close my eyes. Gina squeezes my hand before passing me a tissue, and I blot my eyes just as the lights turn back on.
“Excuse me, Miss Starr.” One of the show’s assistants taps me on the shoulder and I twist around, swiping my finger under my eyes. Already knowing why he’s here, I slowly rise and straighten my long gown, thanking him as I leave my seat, which is immediately occupied by an overeager seat filler.
I walk down the aisle, oblivious to the chatter in the room indicating that the show’s on a commercial break. When I arrive backstage, I’m greeted by the usual flurry of activity— individuals with earpieces and clipboards rushing around while appearing to talk to themselves, no doubt trying to keep the event on task.
Watching my feet as I walk, my forward progress is suddenly stopped by a hand on my arm. My eyes travel up a well-built body in an overpriced black tuxedo until they rest on a pair of familiar caramel eyes.
“Ryder,” I softly say.
“Hey, doll.” He looks uncomfort
able, as if he doesn’t know quite what to say. That’s fine—there isn’t really anything to say. Probably sensing that I want to be alone right now, he quickly says, “Good luck out there, you’ll knock ‘em dead.”
Immediately, he realizes his poor choice of words, adding, “Sorry, girl, you know what I meant.” Giving me a kiss on the cheek, he says, “I’ll see you after the show” before striding away. I smile a little when I spot the cowboy boots he’s wearing with his tux. Ryder may be a huge star in his own right after having recently released his highly successful debut album, but I’ll always see him as the guitar-playing, truck-restoring guy from Texas. It’s only fitting that my mom is representing him now, and even though she and I hardly speak at all anymore, I wish her only the best. I sober though when I think about the fact that, as well-deserved as Ryder’s fame is, I fear he doesn’t truly understand how harmful it can be. There’s always a price to pay—and some even pay the ultimate price.
I change into my performance outfit as my stomach begins to churn with anxiety. It’s been a while since I’ve performed in front of anyone, and I don’t plan on doing it again after tonight. At least I can be comfortable in what I’m wearing—a western-style Balmain minidress with my favorite pair of Lucchese boots. Once I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, I work my way toward the wings, the sound of my boots echoing throughout the long hallway.
The sound of an immensely popular rap song, the one that the radio stations can’t get enough of right now, fills the auditorium. The venom in his voice still surprises me every time I hear it. My shock is quickly replaced by amazement though, because despite the anger-laced lyrics, he’s definitely showcasing his talent tonight in front of all these people. The crowd’s earsplitting response is evidence of why he’s currently at the top of the charts. I stop short so I can watch. As his body paces back and forth across the stage, he rests the microphone against his lips as he spits rhymes at a breakneck speed. The familiarity of the image isn’t lost on me. If people didn’t know better, they’d think he was—
Applause resonates throughout the large room, and I quickly turn around and head to where I’m supposed to be. The butterflies begin as I get closer and the first authentic smile I’ve had all night spreads across my face when I notice him leaning against a pole, waiting exactly where he told me he would be. The casual smirk across his lips has my feet moving at a faster pace and I’m thankful to be wearing boots instead of heels.
“Hey, beautiful,” he whispers, taking me in his arms and kissing me on the cheek.
“How are you doing?” I ask. Seeing Dre in the memorial couldn’t have been easy.
“Better now that you’re here,” he says, but sorrow is still evident by the shine in his eyes. The truck hit the front passenger side where Dre was seated, killing him instantly. Trace had two broken legs, three cracked ribs, and a concussion. He remained in the hospital for two weeks and recovered at home for another two months. I suffered a pretty serious head injury of my own, along with a broken arm and numerous scrapes and bruises. The rest of the guys were luckier and walked away with only minor injuries.
Although we are grateful to be alive and our bodies have healed physically, it took some time for Trace to grieve the loss of his cousin. Though I couldn’t help but feel guilty, since the reason we left in a hurry was because of me, Trace, his friends, the label, and everyone in between put every ounce of anger and effort into making sure the paparazzi responsible for causing the accident paid heavily. And it wasn’t just that tabloid that paid the price…they’ve all taken a hit and have fortunately backed off in fear of the possible repercussions if they don’t. We’ll see how long it lasts though.
“It’s time, you two,” a woman informs us and Trace’s warm hand envelops mine.
“Ready, baby?” he asks and kisses me quickly on the lips. We walk toward the stage but before we get there, Eli comes up from behind and pulls me in for a quick hug.
“Hey, hands off my girl,” Trace jokes and fist bumps him. I know he’s teasing because Trace’s protégé finally seems a little more comfortable around me and we’re both happy about that. Now known to the world as ‘Storm-E,’ Eli is the guy Trace and I met on the Promenade that fateful day when we walked the streets of Santa Monica together. I guess after he hit rock bottom, he took my man up on his offer to help out, and it turns out that Eli is even more insanely talented than either of us previously thought.
Not only can he write and rap with the best of them, but his live performances are in high demand and venues have been selling out as fast as concerts are announced. And even though he’s just barely gotten started, Eli’s projected to win tonight in the ‘Best New Artist’ category, beating out some amazing competition from various musical genres. Now if he’ll just get over whoever made him so enraged in the first place. Then again, I guess he wouldn’t be ‘Storm-E’ without the anger issues.
Eli ignores Trace’s remark but looks him in the eye, saying, “Man, I can’t thank you enough. Really and truly. This is all you, bro, and I look forward to working with you.”
“Good to hear since you signed a contract with us, E,” Trace says with a laugh. Eli smirks and then struts off with some serious swagger, ready to take on the world.
Trace and I continue, hand in hand, until we have to separate to find our respective spots on the stage. Nerves and anxiety don’t seem to bother me now, knowing he’ll be right by my side.
The audience screaming can be heard from the darkness below, while two spotlights shine down on us. We rehearsed this over twenty times this afternoon but I still pray I don’t screw it up, since this will be the first and last time we perform the song that brought us together.
Trace’s eyes remain focused on me from across the stage. His microphone moves to his lips when the sound of the heartbeat comes over the speakers.
You hear that? It’s the sound of my heart callin’ out
Never felt this way, there ain’t no doubt
Didn’t know I was lost
‘til you I found
Hearin’ your voice
Is the sweetest damn sound.
But friends and family alike they say
We don’t go together, there’s no fuckin’ way
My lil’ country girl,
You done roped my heart
But I’ll be needin’ it back
‘Fore this tears us apart.
‘Cause there ain’t no future for the two of us
Can’t do what we want, only what we must
Back to our own kind,
It’s where we belong
No, there’s no happy ending
In this love song
Finishing his part, he begins walking closer as I move down a few steps, bringing my own microphone to my mouth and singing slowly—
Please baby, I need you
I don’t care what they say
Only you
Can make me feel this way
I don’t know where we’re going
I just want you to stay
Please don’t leave me
I promise, it’ll be okay
The instrumentals kick in and we stare at one another as we move closer while the spotlights follow us. A sexy smirk appears on Trace’s face before he brings the mic to his mouth again.
There ain’t nothin’ 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
Girl, don’t you know the way that I am strugglin’
Everyday now, I’m fightin’ and I’m jugglin’
The choices I make
Every single damn one
For all the world to see
To judge and poke fun
It’s always been about me and where I’m goin’
But I can’t ignore the way the winds are blowin’
I can feel the p
ower
It’s like a hurricane
The forces too strong
Gonna drive me insane
I start my next verse as I descend the last of the stairs, stopping just short of where he’s standing.
Please baby, believe in us
I can’t keep you at bay
Give me all of your trust
I won’t throw it away
I don’t know where we’re going
I just need you to stay
Please don’t leave me
I promise, it’ll be okay
As he sings his next line, Trace puts his hand up as if pushing me away and I want to smile, since I know that’s the opposite of what he wants to do.
But the forces pullin’ us apart are far too strong
I reach out my hand as I sing my response.
Are you saying we’re not strong?
He sings and, as planned, clenches his hand into a fist.
I’m sayin’ we can’t fight what’s goin’ on out there
My outstretched hand moves over my heart and I sing—
Well, what about what’s in here?
He surprises me when he places his hand over mine before we continue our back and forth.
Trace: No one’s more surprised than me
Me:Except maybe me
Trace: Could’ve used a warning or two
Me: Yeah, me too
Pausing, we stare into each other’s eyes as our fingers intertwine, and then our joined hands fall between us while the instrumentals take over once again. The realization hits that we made it—we proved them all wrong. With the music slowing down, Trace takes control of his microphone again.
You’re my kryptonite, my Achilles’ heel
I can’t believe the things that you’re makin’ me feel