“Can we get back to it?” Jay barks, bringing our attention back to him. “Now Dre here’s gotta point. Girl can sing and it fits the song, even though we’ll have to adapt it some. But Trace, you can take care of that.”
“”Aint like I got a choice,” I respond. I know I’m being a dick, but since I can’t tell Backlash to suck mine, Jay is the closest thing to them in my book.
Jay shakes his head. “Whatever, man—I’m gonna go make the call.” As he walks out, I hear him mutter something about how happy the suits will be when they hear I’ll be singing with ‘America’s fucking Sweetheart.’ I start to follow, impatient to go back to bed before this day gets any worse. But before I’m out the door, I hear Dre call out, “Which of the brothas gonna get him some white puss-say?”
I hear the others begin chanting my name in unison and I slam the door to drown them all out. Hell to the fucking no.
Taryn
I climb the narrow steps and enter the private plane. After greeting the flight attendant, I slump down in the cushioned seat and stretch my legs out in front of me. My sleep last night was restless, to say the least, but I should’ve expected it after drinking champagne with Gina. I either have to not drink a drop or consume enough to pass out in order to have a sound sleep.
“I’m assuming I don’t have to remind you what to say in the interviews. Keep them short, and don’t—“
“Mom, I know the drill,” I interrupt her before she can continue with the usual lecture before these appearances. I lean my head against the headrest, hoping I can get at least a catnap on the long flight to New York.
“Nothing personal…no relationship talk,” she adds and I release an annoyed breath.
“I know,” I answer, rolling my eyes. Not like there’s anything to speak of. Sure there was Maverick but that was short-lived. I’ve decided that there’s no way two people in this industry could ever make a relationship work. Besides the chaotic schedules, there’s also the intense competition to be the best. Though in the case of Maverick, it was him being photographed with a girl who was clearly not me that did us in.
Once my mom finally sits back and relaxes, as much as she ever does anyway, I let my mind shut off and my eyes drift closed.
***
The plane lands and I’m ushered into a waiting limo. My mom had already woken me an hour before we arrived so I could freshen up. I have no idea why she bothers since the makeup artists will just redo everything when I arrive.
Before I realize it, we are crawling through traffic in a bustling area of midtown Manhattan. In all the times I’ve been to New York City, I’ve never just walked around like a normal tourist. Sure, I’ve been to the best restaurants and a handful of shows. But it’s not like I can hop in a cab and say ‘take me here’ or stroll through the streets, perusing the shops. One day…maybe. I would like nothing more than to stand in the middle of Time’s Square on New Year’s Eve, admiring all the neon lights and big screens…preferably without my face on them. Funny how my hopes and dreams are probably the exact opposite of most girls my age.
It’s not like I don’t appreciate what I have or that I don’t enjoy entertaining people. It’s just that sometimes…it’s lonely. My chin rests in the palm of my gloved hand as I stare out the window, watching couples with their arms wrapped around one another, trying to stay warm. I wish I could switch spots with any one of them for just one day.
“Taryn!” my mom’s fingers snap in front of my face. It no longer takes me by surprise, so I slowly turn my head her way. “We’re here—stop daydreaming and get a move on it.” She exits the limo first and heads inside, not bothering to wait for me.
“The only thing I’m dreaming about is freedom from you,” I mumble to the emptiness around me. Some days I do think about what it would be like to fire her, but aside from the fact that she’s my mother, I’m pretty sure she’s been sleeping with one of the Backlash executives, ensuring her job security for the time being.
Taking a deep breath, I put on my smile and step out of the limo, ready to greet the numerous fans lining the barricaded walkway. I shake a few hands, sign a couple autographs, and even hug a few young fans before finally escaping the cold and heading into the heated building. Luck must be on my side because my first few interviews are in the same location.
I’m shuttled into the first studio and they plop me down in a chair, urgently applying my makeup and curling my hair. It still amazes me the way that they are able to transform my appearance in a matter of minutes. And people say I’m gifted…
The first two are daytime interviews—easy, breezy. I could do these in my sleep. No tricky questions or awkward moments. At the second one, the host asks if I’ll grace them with a song. Her assistant brings out my guitar, which was already waiting outside of camera shot. Although the audience thinks that it’s spur of the moment, I knew about it two weeks ago in order to prepare myself.
When we arrive at the famed Ed Sullivan Theater, my mom and I wait patiently in the green room. My stomach is rumbling and my mouth is dry from lack of fluids. Spotting their snack table, I slyly make my way over there, praying my mom doesn’t notice. I grab a bottle of water, wishing they had hot tea. After only one song this morning, my throat feels scratchy which does not bode well for my quickly approaching tour.
My eyes hungrily devour the donuts, bagels, and pastries. I glance at my mom, who still has her phone attached her head. Reluctantly, I grab some fresh fruit because, no matter how good it might taste, it won’t be worth listening to my mom the rest of the day about it. The fruit does nothing to satisfy my growling stomach, but maybe I can convince my mom to go to Ray’s before we head out of town. It’s doubtful, but just imagining one of their large, pepperoni-topped slices in front me has my mouth watering.
“Taryn, it’s time.” The young assistant peeks in the door and I stand up, leaving my fruit, water, and happily, my mother, in the green room. She never comes out to the stage, but watches it all on the television so she can critique my every word and movement when I return.
I’ve been appearing on the Late Show with David Letterman show for five years now. I still remember when I was a naïve sixteen year-old and how intimidated I was by Dave. Now I don’t even think twice before walking out when my name is called and waving to the applauding crowd.
“Good to see you, pretty girl,” he says in my ear, hugging me.
“You too, Dave. Looking pretty good yourself,” I tell him and he playfully waves his hand at me.
I take the seat next to him and wonder what crazy stuff he’ll be asking me about today. He starts off by congratulating me on the award and I politely thank him. We chat about my upcoming tour and he jokes about how I’m hardly ever in the tabloids, and even when I am, I’m never doing anything someone my age should. I hate to admit it but he’s right.
“Oh, I almost forgot, we have a clip from the award show,” he says with a smirk and I tense, since no one prepared me for this. I wonder if my mom knows because, if she doesn’t, the shit will hit the fan. The last time this happened, she got the poor assistant fired.
“Really?” I mimic my usual surprised expression, except this time it’s not an act.
“Don’t know if many of you know, but our sweet little Taryn got beat out by the infamous Trace,” Dave says, and the whole audience claps and cheers. “Hey, let’s remember who’s here,” he jokes, motioning his hands to quiet them down. My smile starts to falter but I press those corners up as high as I can get them. “Now, watch this clip.”
A screen is raised from the floor and I bite the inside of my cheek, worried what he’s going to show. The clip begins when Trace is announced as the winner, except this time, I’m able to see his reaction to the news—the way those breathtaking blue eyes close and his chest rises and falls, looking as if he’s quietly thanking someone. Anyone watching knows he’s genuinely appreciative of receiving the award. Then he stands up and starts fist bumping and chest slamming the other guys in his group. I
can’t help but smile when I see how happy he is.
“Now, this is where it gets interesting,” Dave says, showing the clip of Trace, whispering in my ear. Suddenly, I feel the heat rising up my neck and face when I see how flushed I was. Even worse, the cameras clearly show my eyes following Trace as he walks away from me. Oh God, I looked like a lovesick teenager. The television disappears into the ground again and I turn to face Dave, attempting to appear casual. He winks at me and I know this is not going to be good.
“So, my dear, what exactly did the playboy whisper in your ear to make you look…well, a lot like you look right now?” The audience laughs and my neck starts to itch from the warmth but I keep my hands clasped together in my lap, composed as always.
I wave my hand in the air as though it was nothing. “He just apologized for me not winning.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re going to be misconstrued.
“Well, isn’t he a cocky son of a—“ Dave starts, but the audience drowns him out with their laughter.
Uncrossing and crossing my legs, I struggle with what I should say. I don’t want to sound like a sore loser because I’m not. And despite my initial reaction, I’m not sure he truly was trying to rub it in. “No…no, really, he was being authentic,” I tell the crowd, but the laughter continues.
“Oh, are you sticking up for him?” He doesn’t wait for my answer, before continuing, “Well, I have a surprise for you all. Who loves Taryn?” The crowd hollers and whistles loudly. “And who here loves Trace?” The crowd cheers with equal fervor. I’m confused as to where Dave is going with this.
“I think they like me more,” I joke, winking at the audience. Flirting with the crowd gets them every time.
“Yes, but since they obviously love you both, they’re going to love the two of you together,” he says and my eyes scrunch, not understanding what he’s saying. Dave notices the confusion on my face and I see his apprehension to disclose news I’m clearly not aware of. I appreciate his reluctance but we both know he has to at this point, so I give him the go-ahead. “Taryn and Trace are collaborating on a new song,” he divulges to the crowd, who actually stand up, clapping and stomping their feet.
The fake smile remains on my face as my breaths turn rapid and my blood boils. How did I not know about this and why the hell would I collaborate with him? Trying to appear unfazed by the new revelation, I stay still as a statue, afraid if I move even an inch, I’ll lose it. The fact that I had to hear it from Dave in front of a live television audience has me completely enraged.
Dave quickly thanks me for coming and goes to commercial. He apologizes for surprising me with the news—I’m hoping I fooled viewers better than I fooled him. After he wishes me good luck working with someone rumored to be difficult in the music industry, he adds, “After his last stint, I’m not surprised they want to link him with you.” I pretend to understand what he’s talking about but I don’t—again.
By the time I hit the green room, my mom is standing up with her bag over her shoulder, ready to leave for the next stop. For once, I’m thankful she’s on the phone so I can sneak a donut before we go. I’m about to indulge in its sugary sweetness, when I hear, “Taryn, you know you have to watch it.” I look up to see her pointing her phone at the donut in my hand.
“Why was I just surprised on national television?” I ask, ignoring her remark. Resting the donut in my mouth, I pull my phone out to find out exactly what Dave was talking about when he said ‘Trace’s latest stint.’ The first picture to pop up is Trace’s mug shot, accompanied by a caption that reads, Grammy award winner arrested on the music industry’s biggest night.
This is so not going to happen. The donut plops onto the floor as both my hands scroll down the screen and I swiftly skim the article. The words ‘brawl’, ‘intoxicated’, ‘possible drug involvement’ immediately catch my eye. He and his entourage completely destroyed the place, or should I say places. Oh, I’ll be damned if they think I’m going to work with someone that does crap like that.
“What’s the big deal?” she asks, grabbing a water bottle. “It will good for your image.”
“You think this is good for my image?” I shove the phone in front of her face. When she cringes, I think I finally have her on my side, but then she recovers quickly and I am reminded of what is really important to her.
“Listen, Taryn, you are both at the top of your game. The label wants to capitalize on that and bring their two biggest bankrollers together. You should understand this,” she finishes condescendingly.
“We won’t be rolling in anything if he’s in jail,” I retort, sneaking another donut. The curse of being a stress-eater. She completely disregards my comment and turns around, making her way toward the door.
“We don’t have much time, we can talk while we walk. And the donut can stay.” With that, she’s out the door.
Keeping the donut in my hand, I follow after her. “How on earth could I ever sing with him? Our voices are nothing alike,” I say to her back. “And I doubt we’d ever be able to agree on lyrics for a song.”
“That’s the beauty of it, the song’s already written. You just have to sing it.”
“What?” I screech and she turns around, her hands on her hips. “I can’t even write my own words? Forget that, I’m not doing it.” I cross my arms, fully aware of how childlike I sound. Since the day I began my professional career, I’ve never once performed a song written by someone else. It’s the one thing I’ve always been able to control and my only outlet for the emotions that I would otherwise keep bottled inside.
“Just stop it, Taryn, there’s no choice here. You’ll go in there tomorrow, record the song in a session or two, and then you’re done. It’s not like you’re going on tour with him. Which reminds me, we need to finalize a few things on that front.” She starts going on about the tour, effectively ending our discussion.
We walk out the doors of the building and I smile and wave as we pass the fans on the walkway, but this time I’m seething inside. “Mom, I really don’t—“
“Taryn, you listen to me,” she says through a clenched smile as we slide into the limo. “Backlash has requested that you do this. They’ve shelled out a ton of money in the past for you. Taking a chance on a fifteen year-old isn’t something they do lightly. So I want you to put on that happy face, march in there, and sing. Geez, you would think I was asking you to murder someone.”
I roll my eyes and glance at his mug shot again. I’m in utter disbelief that the label would do this. They may have taken a chance on me, but I’ve filled their pockets enough through the years, repaying their investment, time and time again. When will I ever not be at the mercy of their requests?
***
Landing in LA, I find myself once again being shuttled hurriedly from one place to another. Why does his screw-up mean that I have to immediately come back on a red-eye from New York? On top of that, I didn’t even get my pizza, so I’m extra ornery. My only saving grace is that I see a familiar welcome face when the elevator doors open at Backlash.
“Hey, there she is. Ooh, I just want to celebrate. My two favorite people coming together,” Stella hollers out to me.
“Hi, Stella. How are you?” I ask, embracing her round figure. She’s the sweetest and most genuine person I know in this industry; I just wish she could manage me instead of this office. The fact that she likes Trace makes me hopeful I won’t want to ring his neck during this “collaboration.”
“Hangin’ in there, honey. You best be gettin’ in there,” she tells me, nodding her head toward the mahogany double doors through which my mom has already entered. I was annoyed being here in the first place but now I’m just pissed. Would it really be that difficult for her to wait so we can go in together?
“Thanks,” I sigh.
“Everyone’s waiting on you, babydoll. They’re not gonna bite, just go,” she says and I try to rein in my annoyance with the entire situation. Stella gives me a slight nudge before adding, �
�Then again, judging by the vibe you’re giving off today, I’d say the boys are the ones who I should be worried about.” She gives me a wink and I place my hand on the gold doorknob, trying to let the cool sensation seep into my overheated body. Taking a deep calming breath, I plaster a forced smile on my face and open the door.
Chapter 3
Trace
“Better late than never, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me that,” she responds tersely. The girl I see in front of me looks nothing like the dolled-up beauty queen I observed the night of the Grammys, but oddly enough, this version of Taryn Starr is much easier on the eyes. Now the words that are coming out of her mouth are another story…
“Why not? That’s their name for you, isn’t it? ‘America’s Sweetheart’? So everybody else can call you that, but I can’t?”
“How was jail, by the way? It’s a shame you didn’t have to stay there longer and then we wouldn’t have to do this today.”
I hear Xavier in the audio room, not trying to conceal his laughter. Hell, I’d probably be laughing my ass off too if I wasn’t so annoyed with the whole situation. “Don’t worry, darlin’, I don’t want to be here any more than you do.”
“Let’s just get to work, alright? I’ve got another appointment today.”
“Well, we’d better mosey this along then,” I say in my best southern accent. “Don’t wanna make you late to the spa, now do we?”
She rolls her eyes and pulls her guitar out of its case as I sit down in front of the baby grand, muttering, “Like I don’t have anywhere to be…” I start to play a few notes because music always settles me down. The piano sounds okay but needs tuning before we record. I glance up at where I know Xavier is sitting on the other side of the glass partition and he nods his head in acknowledgment. Hearing Taryn begin to pluck away at the guitar, I look over to see her jotting down some notes before I focus on the sheet Jay handed me earlier. This fucking sucks. Not the song itself, which isn’t half bad, if I’m being honest. What bothers me about it is that all they’ve got me doing is rapping, like they think I can’t actually carry a tune.
Collaboration (Backlash) Page 3
