Collaboration (Backlash)

by Michelle Lynn

  I hear the TV in the living area on at an outrageously loud volume so I throw open the door to find Dre watching SportsCenter, while Xavier practically fucks some chick on the couch opposite him. I grab the remote off the side table and turn off the TV, which results in a listless ‘what the fuck?’ from Dre. He must be stoned—again. X-man, on the other hand, doesn’t even notice.

  “Go get your fuck on somewhere else, X,” I say and head toward the kitchen area to get a bottle of water from the fridge. When I look back and see that he has yet to disentangle his body from whoever is beneath him, I yell, “Xavier, seriously man. There’s another room, ya know. Use it.”

  “Quint’s in there with some ho, dawg,” he says, finally coming up for air and reaching down to button up his fly. I open the door to the refrigerator and dig around, trying to find water among all the bottles of beer.

  “You got your own crib, go there,” I reply, more than ready for this place to clear out. Dre can stay—he’s family. But there’s only so much I can take of everyone else. Just as I locate a water bottle, I feel fingernails scratching their way across my bare chest, which appear to be connected to arms wrapped around my torso.

  “What the f—“ I start, but then a high-pitched giggle tells me all I need to know. And although I don’t know who it is, I know without a doubt what she wants. I slam the door and turn around to face a pretty pair of chocolate-brown eyes. I give her a quick scan and, even though she’s got a kickass body, I’m sure as hell not going to tap some chick that is willing to settle for being sloppy seconds. As Sweet Brown would say, “Ain’t nobody got time for that!”

  But of course, I’ve gotta walk that walk so I say, “Hey there, beautiful…where’d you come from?” She giggles again. That and the way she’s hanging onto me, I realize she’s probably high out of her ever-lovin’ mind. Fuck.

  “I was in the bathroom,” she says in a high-pitched voice to match her high-pitched giggle. “I’ve been waiting for you, Trace.”

  I’m not even going to attempt to get rid of this one myself. “X!” I yell, extricating myself from her clinging grasp. “Will you make sure…” I pause, unsure if we’ve been introduced before or not. “Jaycee,” she says helpfully, putting her hands back on my chest.

  “Will you make sure Jaycee gets home, please?” I ask, turning my head and giving him a look that says this isn’t really a request, even if it sounds like one.

  “Sure, bro,” he says, walking toward us while dragging his conquest for the night behind him. He fist-bumps me with his free hand and then takes hold of Jaycee’s hand, pulling her toward the door.

  “Wait, hold up,” she says, yanking her hand away. Oh shit, here we go. “You were with that skank,” she says, pointing toward the front door where my latest conquest obviously walked out, “but you don’t want this,” she says, indicating her own body.

  “Babe, that ain’t it,” I say, swallowing a sigh. “I gotta work out, that’s all. You know, keep all this,” I say, pointing to my hard abs, “tight and toned, for ladies like yourself.”

  “So you’d rather work out than fuck me, is that what you’re sayin’?” Classy.

  And yeah, that’s exactly what I’m saying, but since I’d like to avoid getting a knee to the nuts, I answer carefully. “Nah, sweetheart. Xavier here’ll get you home tonight, and tomorrow I’ll be good and ready for you,” I say, pointing to the space between her surgically-enhanced breasts. Yeah-fucking-right, I think.

  He grabs her hand again with a huge smile on his face. “Sho’ enough, sweetheart,” he says smoothly, “I’ll get ya home alright.” Something tells me Xavier will be thanking me tomorrow. The wink he throws my way before turning around confirms my thoughts. “They don’t call me Triple XXX for nothing,” he says and I roll my eyes. Whatever—I’m just glad he’s getting her the fuck out of here.

  After the front door closes, I lean against the refrigerator, closing my eyes and releasing the sigh I’ve been holding in. Hopefully that is the last I’ve seen of Jaycee, since I have no intention of seeing her tomorrow, or ever again if I can help it.

  “You headed to the gym for real, cuz?” I snap my eyes open, having forgotten that Dre is still here.

  “Yeah, bro…gotta burn off some steam. You down?” I ask, even though I’d rather work out alone. My cousin’s cool as shit, but I still need a break from him from time to time.

  “Nah, I’m fucked up, bro,” he says, but before I can give him my usual lecture, adds, “but you’re gonna need that workout when you hear what I gotta say,” he says.

  “Aw shit, bro, don’t tell me your dad needs money again already,” I respond. There are a lot of great causes out there, but supporting my uncle’s habits isn’t one of them.

  “Nah,” he says, not jumping to his dad’s defense. I’m not surprised—the man screwed around with Dre’s life way longer than he did mine. “Just that I talked to Jay before he left, and he’s squeezin’ in some studio time tomorrow with that country chick. Said we gotta get this shit done before you both head out of town. Turns out she had an opening in her schedule and you had a cancellation.”

  I don’t even know what I was supposed to be doing, but regardless, I’m glad that I had a gap open up. The thought of spending a couple more hours with that girl doesn’t exactly turn me off. Dre cocks his head at me and I realize that I’m just standing here like a fool, not saying anything.

  “Better to get it over with,” I say and quickly snatch my headphones off the kitchen counter.

  “I know that’s right,” he says. “I missed the session earlier today, but I heard that Country was smokin’…for a white girl anyway.” He raises an eyebrow at me, obviously looking to get some kind of reaction.

  “I’m hitting the gym,” I respond, feeling unwelcome irritation, especially hearing that my boys were discussing Taryn. Not sure why since she’s not my girl. I shake my head and move toward the door. As my hand touches the knob, I hear a loud moan and someone yelling, “Fuuuuuuck!” I’d forgotten about Quint and his latest flavor taking advantage of my spare room. I roll my eyes and call back to Dre, “Make sure they’re out of here before I get back, will ya?”

  Without waiting for an answer, I put my cans on, turn the music up, and walk out the door.

  Taryn

  “Wanna Take You Home” by Gloriana starts playing and I groggily roll over to my side. Letting the music continue to blare, I push myself up and rub my eyes. That might have been the best night’s sleep I’ve had in months. I take a deep breath before checking my phone for messages. There’s one from my mom, letting me know that I’m recording with Trace in—crap! I’ve got one hour and LA traffic sucks even on the best of days. There goes my girl time with Gina.

  I throw on a pair of skinny jeans and an off-the-shoulder, long-sleeved shirt, then quickly finish getting ready. Grabbing my phone and a breakfast bar, I race out the door. Rarely do I get to drive myself anywhere, so if I’m late, my mother will never let me hear the end of it.

  I pull into the studio’s parking garage next to a brand-spanking new black Escalade with more rim than tires. If that belongs to Trace and his entourage, then that means they’re already here. Shit.

  Then again, why do I have to come running just because it’s a good time for him to record? The first day in forever I didn’t have a schedule, yet here I am. Regardless, I’m already here and the faster I get in there, the sooner we get this done.

  “Day-um—this is who you’re singing with?” one of the guys remarks as I hurry in the control room, his eyes slowly roaming up and down my body. If I wasn’t flushed from trying to get in here so quickly, I am now.

  “Give it a rest, bro.” Trace stands up and my stomach feels like a storm of flutters as he makes his way to me. Silently, I stand there, feeling uncomfortable but drawn to him at the same time. He licks his pouty pink lips while those piercing eyes stare intently at me.

  “Don’t mind my boys. They’re…”

  “Girl crazy?” I quest
ion and laughter fills the room.

  “That’s one way to say it, I guess,” he chuckles.

  “Hey, I’m Xavier, we met yesterday,” the flirtatious sound engineer calls over. “Where you from?”

  “Texas, originally,” I proudly announce. I’m not ashamed of my country roots. “From a little town not too far from Houston.”

  “For real?” The guy who was giving me the once-over cocks his eyebrow and I notice Trace gives him a sharp look. Not sure what that’s about.

  “I’m Dre, this fool’s cousin.” He nods his head at Trace, who seems to relax a little. “I mix the beats around here.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I tell him. As he walks toward the digital audio workstation, I spot my mom sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, urgently pressing buttons on her phone. When she raises her head, I see her throw on a smile I recognize as being one-hundred percent fake. She walks toward us, saying, “Well, hello Trace.” After they exchange pleasantries, she finally looks at me and says, “Taryn, you’re late.” She grabs hold of my elbow, pulling me toward her as though I’m five and just ran off from her at a store.

  After a few minutes of a typical Savannah Starr bitch session, I hear someone clearing their throat and spot Trace out the corner of my eye, holding open the door to the room where we’ll record. When my mom notices him standing there, she lets go of me and smiles brightly. “Good luck, guys,” she says in her saccharin-laced voice before returning to her chair.

  “Your mom’s a trip,” he murmurs as I pass by. You have no idea.

  After a few deliberations with the sound guys, Trace and I take our spots in the “live room.” It feels strange not having my guitar with me since the small space is set aside only for singing. I reach for the full bottle of water left beside my stool and straighten just as Trace strips off his black hoodie, revealing only a white wife-beater shirt underneath. And muscles…lots of muscles.

  Fortunately, he seems to be concentrating on the sheet of music in front of him because I know I’m gawking right now. His body is nothing short of amazing. I know from the video I saw last night that he is ripped, but seeing it in person is a whole other story. His biceps bulge and his broad shoulders narrow down to his taut stomach, where I clearly recall a defined six-pack is hiding. I’d like to see that in person.

  “Here you go.” He hands me a piece of paper and I attempt to conceal my obvious appraisal of his body. His cocky wink tells me I’m not doing a good job of it.

  “What’s this?” I ask him, glancing at the sheet. There are lines scratched through lyrics and new ones replacing those that have been crossed out.

  “Changed things up a little,” he shrugs his shoulders and chuckles. “Let’s call it artist overrule. You game?” he asks.

  After I read it over, I look up to find those blue eyes watching me intently. He’s right, we should have a say in what we’re singing. Looks like neither of enjoy having the label tell us what to do. “Always,” I say and he gives me his signature wink.

  Xavier comes across the mic, asking us if we’re ready. Trace nods, still staring at me, and I’m thankful the room behind the glass has emptied out—it’s only Xavier and Dre from the looks of it. My mom has disappeared, along with the other members of Trace’s crew. I laugh to myself at the thought of her out there waiting for me with all of them. She probably has her head glued to her phone anyway.

  The sound of heartbeats fills the room and I focus on the words as Trace begins to rap, raising my eyebrows at the words “lil’ country girl.” Someone has been changing things up. I get through my part without any problems, although I know this is just the beginning—it’ll require several takes to get it right. Just as I predicted, the guys stop us and ask us to start again from the top. When Trace gets going again, his eyes veer toward mine as he starts to rap:

  There ain’t nothing 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

  The whole time he’s looking right at me, as though the words were written for me. I gulp around a large golf ball-sized lump in my throat, unable to hide the connection I fell between us. By the time I notice him raise his eyebrows, it’s too late. I missed my part.

  Flustered, I try to find where I’m supposed to be in the song and Xavier laughs through the mic. “Man, it’s gettin’ all kinds of hot in there,” he says and I can feel the flush on my face. “Alright, let’s start again. T, start with that verse. You ready, girl?” All I can do is nod my head, willing myself to get through this without embarrassing myself. After today, I probably won’t see him again anyway, except maybe at the next award show.

  A few hours later and a zillion butterfly flutters, we finally make it through to the end. After the closing instrumentals, Trace says softly, “But I still ain’t never seen a horse in the ghetto.” I have no idea if that was part of the song or not since it’s not on my sheet, but I forget about it entirely when he gives me a breathtaking smile, revealing a perfect set of pearly whites.

  Xavier bursts into the room. “You guys killed it!” He embraces me in a tight hug, completely taking me by surprise. I stiffen slightly before eventually relaxing in his arms.

  “Yeah,” Trace murmurs, and when I peek over Xavier’s shoulder, I see Trace looking at me strangely before he quickly diverts his attention toward the door.

  “Shall we?” Trace gestures and waits for me to walk in front of him. I briefly wonder if he’s being chivalrous or he just wants to check out my ass. The fact that it could be the latter causes a surprising tingling sensation down low.

  We walk through the control room where Dre is hard at work to the waiting area, where the rest of Trace’s team are all hanging out, some on their phones while others are sleeping. My mom sits with her laptop and phone out and I’m automatically annoyed that she’s still here. Since I drove myself, I was hoping she would be gone, but then again, what else does she have to do except run my life?

  I turn around to say goodbye to Trace and see Xavier kick the feet of one of the guys who is resting. The guy rubs his eyes, groaning, “X, fucking stop it. I wouldn’t be asleep if it weren’t for your little private recording rules.”

  Now that I think about it, it is odd that the control room cleared out. I’m used to singing in front of everyone and their mother watching from behind the glass. I’m astonished they would let Xavier make that decision.

  “Not my rules, man,” Xavier tells him, glancing at Trace, who cuts a clear ‘shut the fuck up’ look his way.

  “I don’t like to record with a lot of people watching,” he informs me.

  “What? Since wh—“ the bleary-eyed guy starts before receiving another kick—this one much harder—from Xavier. “Yeah, no distractions.” His failed attempt to cover up that Trace purposely wanted our recording session private makes me both curious and happy.

  I see my mom check her watch and I know our time is up. “Well, I guess this is it for awhile. I heard you’re going on tour too. Good luck with that.”

  “Yeah, flying out tonight. Starting in DC tomorrow,” he says. All the other guys start making their way out of earshot, but my mother stays put. Always the eavesdropper.

  “Oh, I guess I lucked out since mine starts in LA.” The comfortable connection we had in the studio has now been replaced with awkwardness.

  “Yup,” he mumbles. Just when I’m about to give him a hug goodbye, Trace’s lips turn down and I suddenly find myself being picked up in a great big bear hug.

  Once I’m back on my feet, I turn around to see who it is, although I have my suspicions. “Ryder,” I say, playfully swatting at his arm. “Trace, this is Ryder—my guitarist. Ryder, this is Trace.”

  Chapter 5

  Trace

  “My guitarist, huh?” I can’t help but wonder what else he is to her. Cons
idering his close proximity and the way he’s looking at her, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he wants to be. Question is—what does she want? Or rather, who? And an even better question is why the hell do I care anyway?

  “Trace?” Snapping out of my ridiculous thoughts, I realize that both Taryn and guitar guy are staring at me. I also don’t miss the curious look her mom is shooting my way, arched eyebrow included.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say, using my most polite voice. It’s a good thing my boys aren’t listening in or they’d be giving me shit for sure. “You must be a hell of a guitar player to get to back up this girl.” Okay, that was a dig I just couldn’t help.

  “I do what I can,” he says with a smirk, and I have the unexpected urge to knock that grin right off country boy’s face. I can’t even imagine how the execs would react to my starting a fight right here on Backlash property. “Oh, and congrats on the win, by the way, even if you did beat my girl here. Then again, she did take home the grand prize so it’s all good, right?”

  If Taryn was a fire hydrant, he just pissed all over her. Yeah, I better get the fuck out of here…and fast. “Yeah, we’re good. Look, it’s good to meet you, but I gotta jet...literally,” I say and notice the way the corner of Taryn’s perfect pink lips turn up at my words. “Tour starts tomorrow.”

  “I heard about your tour,” he says. This should be interesting because I know this redneck doesn’t listen to my music. “What’s it called again?” he asks, and I see his eyes shift to the right where there is a newly-released tour poster covering half of the damn wall. This is Me, Motherfuckers is emblazoned across a life-sized version of yours truly, giving two middle fingers to anyone who sees it. Ironically, this poster doesn’t really represent me at all, but this asshole doesn’t need to know that. I’m not sure why exactly, but he is definitely trying to make me look bad in front of Taryn. Well, two can play at that game.