I start to play the chorus, and as always, lose myself in the feel of the keys as my fingers fly over them. I don’t even have to look at the notes so I close my eyes and just play. It feels like there’s something missing, so I sing the first thing that pops into my head. Hmm, not too bad. I quickly scrawl down the words I just sang before glancing up to the funniest damn sight I’ve seen all day. Guess country girl didn’t think I could sing either.
“Good thing there aren’t any flies in here or you might’ve choked on a few by now,” I say and she quickly snaps her mouth shut. The peach flush that paints her pale face makes me laugh out loud. I knew white people could blush both pink and red, but the color covering Taryn’s cheeks is definitely peach.
She shoots steely daggers in my direction, which only makes me laugh harder. Make that feisty country girl. I look back down at the sheet music, but not before I catch a glimpse of her lips tilting upward on one side.
Good—maybe if she lightens up a little we can get some work done. Because as much as I hate the idea of collaborating or being told what I have to sing, I sure as hell don’t want to put out music that sucks ass. I’m about to suggest that we try a run-through when I hear:
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
Holy shit. I’ve heard voices described as ‘angelic’ before, but I never knew what they were talking about before now. She sounds like pure honey when she sings, all syrupy and so sinfully sweet—I’m pretty sure I could go to Hell based solely on the thoughts I’m having right now.
Now I’m the one staring. Fortunately, she is completely oblivious, her eyes closed while she strums her guitar.
“But the forces pullin’ us apart are far too strong,” I sing, not sure where I’m going with this but it feels right. Taryn’s eyes open and she looks at me in surprise. She plays a few notes and then sings, “Are you saying we’re not strong?”
“I’m saying we can’t fight what’s goin’ on out there,” I counter.
“Well, what about what’s in here?” she returns.
We both stop playing our respective instruments and scribble down the words we just sang. If I don’t get it on paper, it’ll be gone and something else will pop into my head. The second I get the last line down, that’s exactly what happens.
“How about this?” I ask, pointing to my sheet.
She brings her guitar to where I’m sitting so she can look over my shoulder. “Yeah…yeah, I like that,” she says, but I’m not listening anymore. Her sweet scent is just as incredible as her voice.
“Let’s see if we can’t work some harmony in there too,” I say, hoping she’ll sit back down where she was before. “I mean, the song is supposed to be about two very different people coming together, and right now, there’s not a whole lot of coming together.”
“That’s a good point,” she agrees and thankfully, sits back down on her stool. “Let’s give it a shot. What were those words you were singing again earlier?”
I take a sip of water and look at her, trying to figure out if she’s just appeasing me or not. She looks at me expectantly and it seems like she’s being sincere so I begin playing. “I won’t let you go,” I sing, dragging out the ‘o’. “Yeah, I want you to know. Baby I can see, you’re the one for me, and I love you so.”
“I like that,” she says, “but how ‘bout we try it a cappella?”
“That could work,” I respond and play a couple of notes and a chord to get us started. We sing the words together, watching one another closely so that our timing is right, and before we’re even done, I know that it won’t get any better than that. I’ve heard of movie magic before but that was fucking music magic. Before I can compliment her, the door to the studio bursts open and Xavier barrels in.
“Fuckin’ A—that was ill!” he exclaims.
“Uh, is that a good thing?” she asks, looking between the two of us in bewilderment.
“Hell yeah, it’s a good thing,” I assure her. “Did you get that, X?”
“Got it, Ace,” he says, “and I’d like to get it all now, but you know the drill. We gotta roll out.”
Shit. Just when things were starting to gel too. “Yeah, I know, dawg,” I reply, suppressing a sigh. Turning to Taryn, I say, “Hey, it’s not sounding half bad. We’ll let them figure out another time we can get together and get this thing done, yeah?”
“Sure, sounds good,” she says. Is that disappointment I hear in her voice or maybe just my own feelings echoing around in my head?
I grab the music sheets and turn to leave, but notice that she hasn’t moved from her stool. “Are ya headin’ out?”
“I will in a sec,” she says, looking up from her guitar. “I have a few minutes before I have to leave and I want to work on this a little more, if that’s okay. But if ya’ll need me to get out of here…”
“Nah, you’re alright. Take as long as you need,” I offer.
“Yeah baby, I’ll be here all night,” Xavier says suggestively. I slap the back of his head as I follow him out of the room.
“Bye,” I hear before the door slams shut. Damn, I feel like an ass—didn’t even say goodbye before I left. Too late now though. I’m late and the fucking execs are gonna ride my ass if I fall out of line for a split second. Plus, how would it look if I went back in there just to say goodbye now? All kinds of stupid, that’s what.
Taryn
I strum my guitar, jotting down a few notes to help the song flow better, trying to shake off the way the sound of his smooth-as-molasses voice made me feel. His usual music doesn’t hint at the thick and rich vocals I just heard flowing out of him with ease. Don’t get me wrong, he can rap with the best of them. On the way here from the airport, I downloaded his latest album—the one that beat mine out for a Grammy—and it really was amazing. And even though he sounded irate through most of it, I was surprised that the lyrics never once disrespected women. That’s more than I can say for the other rappers in the business.
As uncomfortable and angry as I was feeling before walking through these doors, once we sat down at our instruments, his presence instantly calmed me. Except the ‘America’s Sweetheart’ comment. I hate that damn nickname. My mom probably started it, since she’s always wanted me to portray an angelic goody-two shoes image. What’s ironic is that she never fails to remind me how imperfect I really am.
The ding of my cell phone pulls me away from the jumbled thoughts in my head. I place my guitar down and pick up my phone from off the table. I don’t recognize the number but slide the bar over to read the text anyway.
Trace: Look down when ur mom comes in
Me: ??
Trace: 3-2-1…
A second later my mom walks through the door, barking that we need to go, and as she turns to walk back out, I see the trail of toilet paper clinging to the bottom of her high heel.
Me: LMAO
Trace: Did u tell?
Me: Hell no!
Trace: LMFAO
Me: Gotta go
Trace: Later ;)
I smile as I start packing up my notebook and guitar, wondering where on earth Trace could have gotten my number. As I pass through the lobby on my way to the elevator, the mystery is solved when Stella smirks at me as she speaks with someone on the phone. I playfully roll my eyes and then join my mother in the waiting elevator.
“What?” I ask as she stands, tapping her foot impatiently, the toilet paper still stuck to her shoe. “Places to go, people to see,” she says as if I need the reminder. There’s always somewhere to go and someone to see.
We venture down to the ground level. With the exception of a few paparazzi milling about, the sidewalk is bare. Climbing into yet another limo, my mom gives the driver the address of wher
ever we’re heading next. I think I remember something about a photo shoot, but I sincerely hope not, since I’m sure I’ll have bags under my eyes from the lack of a good night’s rest.
Regardless, I’ll be thankful when it’s over so I can finally have some time away from my mother for the first time in three days. Too bad most of it will be spent catching up on sleep. Getting my own place a few years back was the best decision I’ve made. And while I bought a small house in Studio Hills, my mom went all out with a five thousand square-foot mansion in Calabasas. I still think she overdid with that purchase, but as long as she doesn’t live with me, I could care less where she lives.
***
Once I’m home and tucked in my bed, I grab the TV remote, not accustomed to the silence. Flipping through the channels, I pause when I see a pair of familiar blue eyes staring at me from the flat-screen. Trace’s new video, “Want Me,” is playing, and of course there are about six half-naked girls grinding against him while his flirtatious eyes and wandering hands roam their bodies. It’s hard to believe the man on the screen is the same one I was with this morning. I can’t seem to look away as the girls run their hands across his hard abs and through his short, dark hair. Right when it looks like they’re about to have a massive orgy, my phone rings, causing me to jump about a mile high. I quickly change the channel to CMT, where the soothing sound of country music calms my racing pulse enough that I can answer the call.
“Hi Dad,” I answer. You would think I’d been caught watching porn by the way I feel my face heat up.
“Hi, sweetheart. Just checking in on you.” My dad’s tender and caring tone is like a warm blanket and I immediately relax.
I scoot up to lean against the headboard. “I’m good, just about to catch up on some sleep.”
“Take care of yourself. It doesn’t take much to overdo it. Make sure you eat and drink regularly. Water…drink lots of water.” I can’t help but wonder if all dads are like this or just ones that never see their daughters. Either way, I’m glad he cares so much…sure beats the alternative.
“I do, Dad. Don’t worry about me. How are things at the ranch?” I ask and his silence instantly worries me. “Dad?” I question.
“Oh, everything’s fine here.” The distant tone I detect in his voice does nothing to comfort me.
“You would tell me, right?” I ask. Ever since my mom brought me out to Los Angeles, my dad has never asked me for anything. After I got my first big check, I tried to give him some of it to help out with the expenses of the ranch, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Although I respect his independence, I’ve always wished he would take the money. My mom certainly has no problem taking more than her fair share.
“Of course. I checked your tour and looks like you’ll be around here in a couple of months,” he says, not so smoothly changing the subject. “You’ll come see me won’t you?” My dad always keeps track of where I am, but I never see him unless I go back home.
“I can’t wait. All I left before the tour is a collaboration that the label has me doing with another artist,” I tell him.
“Oh yeah. Who?” he asks curiously.
“Trace. He’s a rap—“
“I know who he is,” my dad interrupts, before I can explain who Trace is. I’m surprised since my dad is as country as they come. “He did a benefit show down here a year or so ago. I forget what it was for, but it made big news.” How do I not know all of this stuff about him? Even my dad knows more than I do about Trace.
“Oh” is all that comes out of my mouth.
“Taryn, is he treating you nice?” my dad questions.
“Yes, why would you ask that?” I respond softly, pulling my knees up to my chest.The feeling of being exposed washes over me.
“I don’t know. You just have an unsteady tone in your voice. Wait,” he says, pausing briefly, “Taryn, do you like him?” The way he phrases the question, you would think my eighth-grade best friend just asked if I like him, like him. Not that I’m surprised. My dad has always encouraged me to talk about boys, joking that he needed to know who needed to be at the receiving end of his rifle.
“All I can say is that he’s different than I thought he was,” I answer, as honestly as I can at this point.
“You of all people should know not to judge someone before you get to know them,” he advises, and before I can agree with him, he continues, “Well, sweetheart, it’s been nice talking. I should head out to the stables before I tuck in for the night. Call me if you need anything or just want to talk.”
After assuring him that I will and a few ‘I love yous’ later, we hang up. Feeling content after our conversation, I snuggle deeper under my covers and close my eyes, not even attempting to battle the exhaustion that overwhelms my body. The last thought I have before I fall asleep is that my dad is absolutely right—I should be more optimistic about Trace.
Chapter 4
Trace
“Time to go,” I say, grabbing her bare ass as I walk toward the ensuite bathroom. I pick up a pair of basketball shorts off the floor on my way, not bothering to look back at the naked woman still lying on my bed. LaDonna or Shadonna or some name that sounds a hell of a lot like Madonna was a decent fuck, but that’s all she was to me. And I’m fairly certain that’s all she expects to be. Guess I’ll find out if she’s still around when I step back out.
After pissing what little alcohol I have in my system, I jump in the shower, grateful that this day is finally coming to an end. As the scalding hot water cascades down my tired body, I can’t help but recall the daily conversations I used to have with my folks over the dinner table where we would recount the best part of our day. If they were here right now, I would tell them that the highlight of my ridiculously long day was, surprisingly, collaborating with a country singer.
Despite the fact that I’m essentially being forced to do it, making music—whether that’s writing or performing it—has always and will always be my favorite part about all of this shit. And that’s exactly what the rest of my day entailed…a whole hell of a lot of shit.
Straight from the studio, I jetted over to LA’s most popular hip hop/rap radio station for a live interview. From there, I was shuttled all across the city to film scenes for a new music video. Doesn’t sound too bad, right? It wouldn’t have been, except the label has apparently decided they want cameras following me every damn place I go, as if I don’t already have enough of that with those paparazzi fuckers tailing my ass every second of the day. Guess the execs think it’ll help keep me in line—not if my boys have anything to do about it.
I get back to my penthouse hotel suite to find the entire crew here with about a dozen groupies hanging around, no doubt waiting to see which one I’d pick tonight.
Not being conceited, just being real. And fuck if I didn’t give in to my biggest vice—women. Just thinking about any one of them gets my dick hard again and, even though I could easily walk out of here and find some instant relief, I decide a hand job will be quicker and give me the solitude I prefer.
Speaking of vices, I try to justify to myself that at least I’m not hell-bent on using. And although my recent night that ended in a side-trip to the slammer might otherwise indicate, I’m not a big fan of alcohol either. Seeing my uncle spend all of the money we had on smack and crack when Dre and I didn’t even have food to eat will make you see that that shit’s not all it’s cracked up to be. I’ve also watched my boys make some dumb-ass decisions while loaded up on either one or the other, and there’s no telling how many kids they’ve got out there thanks to drugs and way too many drinks. It’s why I was so pissed off at myself after what happened the other night. I should be grateful though that I got my ass thrown in jail, since it probably kept me out of far worse trouble.
And even though I know my revolving door of women isn’t the worse thing in the world, I also know that it would disappoint my parents as much as anything else I’ve done. Growing up, they showed me what love is supposed to look like and taught me th
at sex should be confined to a loving and monogamous relationship. All that was fine and fucking great while they were around, but the years I spent as a teen without them and living under my uncle’s roof, I learned a whole lot of other lessons about love and sex. And let’s just say that the two models of behavior couldn’t be more opposite.
Plus, unlike addictions to alcohol and drugs, I can do without women. I don’t physically need to fuck. And although I know that there are people who are addicted to sex, I’m not one of them. In fact, despite the fact that I like the way it feels, I mainly do it because I’m expected to by everyone around me. It’s all part of the game, and I’m a fucking player in more than one sense of the word.
After I’ve washed up, I reluctantly turn the water off and grab the ultra-soft hotel towel that hangs on the heated towel rack. I like it here, even if everyone does give me shit for not buying a place in LA like the rest of the world. But I’m not like everyone else. Not only can I afford to pay thousands of dollars per night to stay wherever the fuck I want, but I could probably buy the damn hotel if I wanted to. But that’s not going to happen because owning anything in this God-forsaken city would make it appear as if it’s home to me, and no matter how long I live here, this will never be home.
With that depressing thought, I suddenly feel the need to throw around some weights, regardless of the fact that I just cleaned up. Late at night is practically the only time I can go to the hotel gym anyway because that’s the only time no one’s there. Otherwise, I have to arrange for it to be “closed for cleaning” if I want a daytime workout, and that’s just too much trouble.
I throw on my sports shorts and toss the towel on the floor for housecleaning to pick up tomorrow. I grimace as I think about how my mom would kick my lazy ass for pulling that shit too. Walking out of the bathroom, I look around and sure enough, the tight ass from earlier is gone. Guess she knows the drill.
Collaboration (Backlash) Page 4
