He places his hand on the door handle and opens it for me. I quietly thank him and enter with my mom following close behind. When the doors shut, he comes alongside me, saying, “I just wanted to say congratulations on the award.” He holds his hand out for me to shake and when I place my hand in his, I’m amazed once again at how soft his hands feel. I guess if I wasn’t plucking guitar strings all day, that’s how my hands would feel too. Without warning, he pulls me into him and his lips brush against my cheek as he whispers, “But it should have been mine.” With a chuckle, he walks away, once again leaving before I have a chance to respond.
I am immediately enveloped by a throng of people in what is by far the largest party of the night. From what I can see, all of Backlash’s artists are present and accounted for. Everyone knows you have to thank the mouth that feeds you if you want to remain on top.
Just as I’m returning from a quick trip to the bathroom, I’m grabbed from behind. “There’s my number one girl,” a familiar voice shouts, spinning me around.
When I see Regina, a fellow artist and good friend, we exchange a hug like long-lost friends. Gina and I met at a party similar to this one when I first got to town. She stepped in during one of my mom’s tirades, pulled me to the dance floor, and we’ve been friends ever since. It helps that she sings R&B and my focus has been country, so we haven’t really been in competition with one another.
“Your performance was amazing tonight,” I tell her truthfully and she gives me a crooked smile. “The audience loved you.”
“Nothing new there,” she answers cockily. “But you, my friend, took home the top award. You should be drinking champagne from the bottle and shaking that little bitty white booty. You are way too put together for this being your last party of the night and I intend to change that.” Her eyes start to roam around the room. “Where is she? I know she’s here somewhere.”
“She’s making the rounds. You know her,” I tell Gina and she rolls her eyes, hooking her arm through mine. Our first encounter might have cemented our friendship, but it also ensured that there will never be any love lost between Regina and my mom.
“Well, what she doesn’t know won’t kill her. Come on,” she says and guides me toward the bar. Taking a bottle of champagne and two glasses, we make our way to a circular booth. Once we’re situated with drinks in hand, I look to see who is on the dance floor. Several of my band members are out there, including Ryder. They motion for me to join them but I shake my head and hold up my glass of champagne, which seems to appease them. Judging by the way they’re dancing, I don’t think they’ll remember to ask again and I doubt they’ll recall anything from tonight.
I continue scanning the packed dance floor. There he is again—of course he is—he seems to be everywhere I look tonight. Only this time, his hands are on some girl’s ass while he grinds her into his crotch.
“Ugh,” I mumble to myself. Instantly, Regina follows my line of sight and then turns back to me.
“Did I miss something?” she asks, her face etched with humored concern. I know she and Trace sometimes run in the same circles so I try to make a quick recovery.
“What? Are you crazy?”
“I don’t know,” she says, looking thoughtful. “There’s something in your expression. You do know he’s pretty much a male whore, right?” Not that I need the reminder, based on what I’m seeing right now. Just the way he moves on the dance floor leaves little doubt that the tabloids are accurate when it comes to him…for once.
“Please, Gina. Give me a little credit,” I blow her off. Gina gives me a small smile, but I see her bite the inside of her cheek, her tell-tale sign that she’s worried about something. “Let’s just drink this champagne and celebrate both of our success,” I say, knowing alcohol will divert her attention.
Regina pours more champagne and begins to fill me in on what happened with the guy she recently dumped. No matter how demanding her schedule is, Gina always finds time to date, though I use the term loosely where she’s concerned. We’re not much alike in that regard, since I can count on one hand how many guys I’ve dated since I’ve started in this business.
When my eyes betray me and glance in Trace’s direction, I’m surprised to see his glassy gaze directed my way. We lock eyes for the briefest of moments, but I swear I see him smirk at me before his mouth descends on the girl who is shamelessly hanging all over him. She then licks his sweaty neck while those blue eyes stay focused on mine, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was teasing me. Completely disgusted and annoyed with him, I turn my attention toward Regina, who is currently calling a few friends to join us.
I attempt to remain focused on my friends and acquaintances for the rest of the night, although my eyes occasionally disobey me. I watch as he and his rowdy group become more intoxicated and, for lack of a better term, amorous by the minute. An hour later, I say my goodbyes and find my mom to leave. God, you would think that I’m twelve, not twenty-one.
When I get home, I strip out of my borrowed designer gown and over-priced strappy sandals. After taking a quick shower, I shrug into my most comfortable pair of pajamas and nuzzle into my luxury pillow-top mattress—one of the few things I’ve splurged on. The last thing I see before I fade into exhausted oblivion is the unwelcome but not unpleasant image of cool blue eyes and creamy mocha skin.
Chapter 2
Trace
What the fuck happened last night? One minute I’m on top of the world, winning a goddamn Grammy award, and the next, I’m waking up face-down on the marble floor of my hotel bathroom. I’m not 100% sure, but I think I might have been in a jail cell somewhere in between. Since my head is pounding like someone stole a jackhammer and drove it into my brain, I guess my only option is to lie here until somebody tells me I have somewhere to be.
Right on cue, my cell phone goes off from somewhere in the vicinity of my pants. After locating it in my right rear pocket, I answer without bothering to see who it is.
“Holla,” I say hoarsely, while offering up an unworthy prayer that the person on the other end is in whisper mode.
“YOU DUMBASS MOTHERFUCKER!!!”
Shit, I think the jackhammer just drove all the way through my head and cracked the marble underneath. I hold the phone about a foot from my face, noticing for the first time that my knuckles are bleeding. What the hell?
“You done assed out, Ace,” Jay says at a thankfully lower decibel level. Jayden Gray has been my manager since day one, and as much as he seems to hate me, his job, and hell, the whole world, I never doubt his judgment or his trustworthiness. In my business, that means something. Not that it matters…I couldn’t fire his moody ass if I tried, since years ago I signed my life away to the label.
“What’d I do?” I ask, hoping the question doesn’t set him off again. I’ve got to ask though, because I truthfully cannot remember.
“Lemme break it down for ya. According to news reports…” he pauses and I cringe, which makes my head hurt even worse. “You and the crew apparently got shit-faced and partied your asses off, which I’d be totally down with if you hadn’t decided to get in a fucking brawl with another band of brothers at the party hosted by your record company. So yeah, the execs are going ballistic—“
“Shit.”
“Oh no, that wasn’t even the serious shit that hit the motherfuckin’ fan. From what I hear, ya’ll didn’t do enough damage so you decided to go clubbin’, where you got into yet another fight. And this time, they weren’t toy cops and busted all your drunk asses.”
Ah, that explains the fucked-up knuckles. Damn, what was I thinking?
“You know the ledge, Trace. You walkin’ a fine line. Gotta appeal to the brothas but not be one of them, ya know? You need to recognize that the label don’t like that shit.”
“Jay, you know I hate those nosy-ass mother—“
“You know what I hate? Do you, Trace? I hate being woken up in the middle of the fuckin’ night to bail your drunk ass outta jail, a
nd then having to spend the next ten hours working to clean up your mess while you sleep your sorry ass off. That’s what I hate.” I’ve never heard Jay so fired up, so the execs must have given him more than an earful this morning. That sucks, especially since he didn’t do shit to deserve it. The guy may be an ass but he’s as straight-laced as they come.
“Sorry ‘bout that, Jay…”
“Sorry? You gonna be sorry…you use a jimmy hat?”
What? Oh, hell no. “Not that’s it’s any of your damn business, but I woke up alone. You should know that since you apparently brought me here.”
“Yeah, but I don’t know what happened before I got to you or who might’ve shown up after I left. But I gotta say, that’s the best news I’ve heard all day. Don’t need no babymamas crawling outta the woodwork, do we?”
That’s the damn truth. “So what do we need to do?”
“What you are gonna do is lay low. I’ve got some more cleaning up to do and I don’t want you stumbling around in front of the cameras makin’ things worse. Plus, you better get yourself ready to meet with the suits first thing tomorrow morning. And no, in case you’re wondering, it’s not optional.”
“Say what?”
“The powers that be, and believe me, they do have the power, have scheduled a meeting to discuss your next project. And you might wanna prepare yourself that you may not like it, that’s all I’m gonna say.”
Shit.
My head hurts too badly to really care, so I ask the only question I need answered right now, “What time?”
“Be there at nine and not a minute later. I’ll send a driver; just make sure you’re ready.”
“Yes, Mom,” I say sarcastically and then end the call before any more directives come flying my way. Then my brain catches up with my mouth. I can’t believe I just said that. What I wouldn’t give to have my mom telling me what to do right now. And man, I’d sure as hell be getting a lecture after last night.
Last night…one minute I was missing them both, wishing they were here to see what I had accomplished, and the next, I find myself doing everything that they never would have wanted to see me do. That is so fucked up, it’s not even funny.
Whatever. It’s not like I can do anything about it now, except maybe get up off this damn floor. Might be a good place to start.
***
“Lordy, Lordy, would ya look at what the cat dragged in?”
“Hey, Stella,” I say, not quite able to look her in the eye. The early morning get-together with the execs did not go well, and even though I could give a fuck about pissing off my label, disappointing Stella is a whole other matter.
“Sugar pie, honey bunch…what in God’s green-and-brown earth have you been up to?”
I know she wants an explanation, but I don’t have one. Not a good one anyway. “Oh you know, a lil’ this, a lil’ that.”
“Boy, don’t you be jive talkin’ me,” she scolds.
I can’t help but laugh. It feels like the first time I’ve genuinely laughed in forever. “Jive talking? Stella, ain’t nobody been jivin’ since the 70s…”
“And look at the mess that happened in that decade!” she exclaims and then surprises me by grabbing my face in her pudgy hands, forcing me to look at her. “Here I was, proud as a peacock, you winnin’ that award and all. Then you go and mention my name in front of the whole ever-lovin’ world, and I didn’t think I could get any prouder. But, I gotta say—“
“Please don’t say it,” I whisper. I don’t want to hear how disappointed she is in me. It can’t be any worse than the way I already feel. After spending all day yesterday moping around the hotel as bits and piece of the previous night came into focus, all I could think about was what my parents’ reactions would have been. Stella is about the closest thing I have to one around here, so the thought of letting her down is even worse than the hangover I had.
“No, I don’t suppose you do need to hear it, now do ya?”
“No, ma’am,” I mumble, and she releases both my face and my eyes from her unyielding grasp.
“Well, at least you’ve still got your manners…that’s somethin’, I guess.”
Knife-to-the-fucking-heart. She didn’t even have to tell me she was disappointed—those words just said it all. How could things have gone so very wrong on what should have been the best night of my life?
“I don’t want to be late,” I say, indicating the closed door on the other side of her desk. I’m such a pussy. Here I am, trying to get away from the only person in this whole goddamn place who actually gives a shit about me.
“Yeah, your boys are in there, waitin’ on you. I best be gettin’ back to work anyway. You take care, Trace, ya hear?” she says, her concern obvious.
“Will do, Stella. And thanks…” I say as I stride toward the door.
“For what, Sugar?” she asks.
“For caring,” I say, then quickly open the door, put my swagger back on, and walk in.
“Ace…we done tore it up, brotha,” Dre calls before I’ve even had a chance to close the door. His real name’s DeAndre and he’s not actually my brother, but he is my cousin. We started off making music in a storage closet near my uncle’s apartment and, considering where we used to live, hanging out there instead of on the streets probably kept us alive and, for the most part, out of trouble. We came into this business together, and although I’ve been recognized from the beginning for my rapping and writing skills, Dre’s also made a name for himself as a guy who mixes killer beats. Unfortunately, he seems to have adopted his old man’s habit of mixing some killer drugs too.
“Fuck yeah, we did,” yells Xavier, also known as ‘X,’ or ‘Triple XXX’, as he likes to refer to himself. Hiring him as my sound engineer was the best decision I’ve made; the guy may be the biggest player in LA, but he is a fucking genius in the recording studio.
Well, this is a different reception than I got at the executive ass-chewing, that’s for sure. I look over at Quinton and Cal, who are both wearing looks that mirror those from the earlier meeting. Can’t say that I blame them though, since I just made their jobs a hell of a lot harder.
Quinton is my main media and marketing man and he has every right to be pissed, but I know he’ll get over it. He always does. Calvin, or Big Cal, is the head of my security team, and even though he’s annoyed we gave him the slip last night, he never stays mad for long. Guy’s bigger than any offensive lineman in the pros but he’s a gentle giant. Except when somebody’s threatening to cause me bodily harm and then he’ll put the fear of God in them.
My videographer/photographer, Marcus, looks about like they do, but he’s probably just worried about me since last night doesn’t affect his job. We don’t call him “St. Mark” for nothing. Doesn’t help that the guy is never with a girl. Hey, I don’t ask and I sure as hell don’t tell.
“’Sup,” I say, hoping they aren’t too riled up. Before I have the chance to apologize, however, the door opens again and Jay walks in. One look and there is no doubt that he is still pissed.
“’Aight, fuckers, let’s get started,” he says in his usual I-ain’t-got-time-for-small-talk manner of speaking. “T had his meeting with the big dawgs and now we got a collaboration to plan.”
“Wait, what?” asks Dre.
“Co-lab-o-ra-tion,” Jay answers slowly. “When two or more artists work together on something—“
“I know what it is, motherfucker,” Dre snaps. “I also know there is no way in hell Trace is collaborating with anybody.”
“Actually, he is,” Jay says, giving me a look, daring me to argue with him. “Aren’t ya, Trace?”
I sigh before responding, “Got to, no choice, cuz. You know how it is. The big boyz call the shots and they done fired their weapon my way today.”
“Now that’s outta the way, let’s continue. We got a song, now we just need a singer and then a video,” Jay says, glancing over at Marcus.
“You’ve got to be shittin’ me. The song too?” Dre ye
lls, but closes his mouth when he sees the frosty look Jay blasts his way.
“So let’s figure out who we’re gonna partner up with. Any ideas?” Jays asks, making himself comfortable in a leather chair and putting his feet up, obviously done now that he’s laid down the law. I sit up a little taller because there’s no way I’m not deciding this—I’m the one who is going to have to sing and perform with this chick.
“What about Ka’Mari?” Quint asks.
“Nah, man. You crazy?” I say.
“Carressa?”
“Are you for real?” I retort. There is no way in hell; that girl is all kinds of insane and everyone knows it. “Regina’s cool as shit, how about her?”
“Booked solid,” Jay responds without missing a beat.
“Makayla?” Xavier throws out, wagging his eyebrows suggestively.
“Man, she’s hot, I’ll give ya that, but she can’t sing to save her life. We need someone with pipes.”
“Ace, you’ve shot down every fuckin’ female singer on the charts. Who do you think it should be?” Xavier asks.
“What about that Taryn chick?” Dre offers to my surprise. “Now that girl can sing.”
“You listenin’ to white folk music now, Dre? How the hell do you know she can sing?” Quinton chimes in.
“Don’t even matter. Can you see me bangin’ her in a video?” I interrupt before they can argue this further.
“Actually, come to think of it, the song is about opposite’s attractin’ and shit. Well, there ain’t no one more opposite than you and that white girl,” Jay adds. I glare at him since he just now brings up what might have saved us the past ten minutes of discussion.
“And damn if she ain’t ghost white,” Xavier says and everyone laughs except me. This is ridiculous. We wouldn’t even be having this conversation in the first place if it wasn’t for the fucking record label.
Collaboration (Backlash) Page 2
