“I guess they don’t teach you how to read down where you’re from, huh?” I ask, indicating the poster. I don’t miss Taryn’s mouth drop open in shock at my words. So much for being polite.
“Actually,” he says, the ever-present smirk still firmly in place, “our home state is known for its high literacy rates.” And there he goes pissing again.
“Well, that’s nice to hear and if I had more time, I’d love a little lesson on the educational system in Texas. But I have a tour to start, so if you’ll excuse me…” Before I turn to walk away, I lean in close so only Taryn can hear me and whisper, “Talk to ya soon, Peaches.”
I smirk when I see that now-familiar blush consume her face and then strut past Stella’s desk, thankful she’s not currently behind it. I’m sure I’d get an earful after that little exchange and I’m not in the mood. Who the fuck does that guitarist think he is?
I throw open the door and it takes every ounce of my control not to slam it behind me. I sure as shit can’t let them know that he got to me. I cover my face with my hands and let out a low growl, only to find Stella standing in front of me when I uncover my eyes.
“What’s got your britches in a bunch, Sugar?” she asks.
“Nothin’, I’ve just got a lot to do before I leave and don’t have time for this sh—“
One look keeps me from finishing that sentence. Stella has no tolerance for our mouths; she reminds me of my mom in that way.
“Sorry, Stella,” I say, looking her directly in the eyes so she knows that I mean it. “I’ve just gotta go, that’s all.”
The look on her face tells me she knows there’s more to it than that, but fortunately she decides to leave it be. “Alright, honey bunches. You get along now and be good and safe on that tour of yours. And by that, I mean be good and be safe,” she says with a chuckle, laughing at her own not-so-funny joke.
I still can’t help but smile though. Stella is the one person who can always lift my mood. “What, no Motown farewell for me?” I tease.
“Ah, mercy mercy me,” she says and I laugh, immediately recognizing the Marvin Gaye song. He was one of my parents’ favorites and, though I would never admit it to a single soul, “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay” is one of my favorite songs ever recorded. “You know I never can say goodbye,” she says with a wink and adds, “That’s from the Jackson Five.”
“You’re on a roll today, aren’t ya, Stella?” I ask.
“Aww, baby love,” she says and now I’m laughing out loud at the reference to one of the Supremes’ biggest hits. “You know I’m gonna miss you, but I’m always here so you call ‘ol Stella if you need me, alright?” She holds out her arms and I let her wrap me in her large, warm embrace. I may be a pussy for thinking it, but damn I need a hug.
“Will do, Stella. Thanks again and we’ll talk soon,” I say, pulling away. I start to walk down the hall toward the private garage where Cal will be waiting for me.
“Sugar?”
I can’t stop the smile, hearing her frequent term of endearment for me. “Yeah, Stella?” I ask, turning back around.
“When you’re out there with all of those hussies throwing themselves at your feet,” she starts to say, and I can’t help but roll my eyes at her outdated word for the ‘hos’ that will unquestionably be at every stop on the tour. “Don’t you forget that there ain’t nothing like the real thing.”
With that, she heads inside the office, leaving me to stare after her. Trying to not think of what she is really trying to tell me, I smile wider at the fact that Stella managed to get in two Marvin Gaye titles in one conversation. That has got to be a record.
***
I wake up in a cold sweat, the luxurious hotel sheets twisted around my legs, and a massive headache replaces my usual hard-on. No doubt another teeth-clenching nightmare is to blame for my less-than-perfect start to the day. It’s always the exact same one, and there’s never anything I can do to change the horrific and very real outcome. I’m just thankful I had the nightmare here in my private suite and not on the airplane, where one of the guys would have definitely questioned me about it. Only Dre knows about my past and I want to keep it that way.
Knowing that the hotel gym isn’t an option at this point, the only alternative to rid my head of the throbbing ache and the painful memories is to go for a run. Washington DC in March will be fucking cold, but at least I can hide in plain sight easier with all of the extra clothing on. And I’ll need it too, because I really don’t feel like having the label’s security team following me around today. Or any day really. Cal’s going to be pissed that I’m shaking him and the rest of his guys, but he’ll just have to get over it. He knows I need my space from time to time and I have no doubt he’ll cover for me.
After disentangling myself from the sheets, I hop out of bed, thinking only of getting the hell out of here and completely forgetting about my pounding head. Shit, that hurts. I locate the luggage that has my “winter wear” in it and pick out a black knit beanie cap, sweatpants, and a hoodie. Thank God I packed my own stuff or I’m sure I’d never be able to find anything without help. I’ve learned that when you let someone pack your shit, then you need them to find your shit, and pretty soon, you’re completely dependent on someone else and can’t go to the fucking bathroom without them. No thanks.
So it’s a damn good thing I fired the assistant that the label tried to stick me with. The last thing I want is to rely on someone…anyone. It’s bad enough I’ve got the suits up my ass every second of every damn day. I sure as hell don’t need someone going off and telling the whole world my secrets, the biggest of which is that I’m not the motherfucker everyone thinks I am.
I find an old pair of running shoes, since I obviously can’t go traipsing around town in an expensive pair of kicks when I’m trying to not call attention to myself. I quickly get dressed and throw on some sports sunglasses, eager to get out of this stuffy hotel room and into the fresh air. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that the “Presidential” suite is so fucking formal, but I feel like I’m going to go crazy in here. Fortunately, it’s only one more night and I know I’ll be dog-tired by the end of the show so I won’t care where the fuck I’m at. Then in the morning, we’re off to Boston or Philadelphia or Pittsburgh…hell if I can remember.
The one good thing I can say about this penthouse suite is the view. Because I have a panoramic perspective of the city, I can see most of the monuments from up here and therefore, I know exactly which way I need to go. Asking the concierge for directions is out of the question unless I want a dozen photographers waiting for me when I arrive.
I decide to take the stairs down, hoping that there’s a door at the bottom with an exit leading outside so I don’t have to leave through the lobby. Although it feels good to get my muscles warmed up, I sure as hell won’t be taking the stairs on the way back up—this hotel has way too many floors for that shit. Once I get to the bottom, I peek through several doors before finding the right one. I walk outside and inhale a huge breath of cold air that feels like freedom.
I break into a jog, heading in the general direction of the Jefferson Memorial, since I’m fairly certain that’s near where I want to be. While I run, I think about how my mom always talked about wanting to take a trip to DC to see all of the museums and monuments. Besides having a lot of pride in our country, she also loved the fact that the best places to visit here are all free to the public. She also joked that, like everything else in this world, they aren’t truly free—we pay for them with our tax dollars. Smart lady, my mom.
Once I get to the Tidal Basin, I continue along the paved path until I reach my destination. Although it wasn’t around when she was alive, I know without a shadow of a doubt that she would have wanted to go to the memorial honoring the late Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Mom respected the hell out of that man, and I figure the least I can do is pay my respects to him.
Because it’s still early, there aren’t tons of people around and I’m hap
py to have the place practically to myself. I stand and stare at the larger-than-life figure for a minute before realizing that it isn’t the image of the man that I came here to see. It wasn’t his picture that graced the walls of the home I grew up in, rather the words he spoke that were lovingly cross-stitched on a framed piece of fabric.
Walking along the crescent-shaped granite wall, I recognize many of the quotes from King’s sermons and speeches. I stare at each quote in turn, committing them to memory before coming across my Momma’s favorite:
The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.
When I reach the end of the wall, I continue along the tree-lined path, wishing it were a couple of weeks or so later. I remember learning in school about the cherry blossoms that supposedly cover this place in the spring. Apparently, the beginning of March isn’t spring in DC because there isn’t anything blooming that I can see.
I walk aimlessly, enjoying the tranquility of the morning and knowing that this will probably be the last time I’ll feel this way for quite some time. As I meander down the path without any clear destination, I begin to see various bronze sculptures. It’s obviously some sort of memorial, but I still have no idea what or who it’s for.
When I come across the sculpture of Eleanor Roosevelt, I am instantly reminded that she was also one of my mom’s favorites because she championed human rights at a time when no one else did. Not only that, but the things she said and did clearly showed that she wasn’t like other women back in those days. Hell, she wasn’t like most women these days.
Even though I desperately wish I could spend all day just touring around like everybody else, I’m not going to complain about it. I’ve got a sell-out crowd coming to see me perform at the Verizon Center, the biggest venue in DC. Most musicians would give anything to see their name on a marquee like that.
I check my phone to see what time it is. Damn, I’ve got to get back. Rehearsals start in an hour and I’ve got to take a shower beforehand. I sprint off, a shit-eating smile on my face, because I was able to enjoy an entire morning to myself in public without being recognized. I could get used to this.
Taryn
“So, how was recording?” Ryder asks me, but the tone of his voice and the look in his eyes convey what he really wants to know.
“Surprisingly, really well,” I say and he raises his eyebrows. I’m just as shocked as he is, but then again, Trace isn’t who everyone thinks he is. I glance over at his tour poster—who the hell came up with that messed-up name?
“I wouldn’t know, that friend of his kicked us all out,” my mom sneers, while standing to her feet. “Hi, Ry,” she leans over and kisses his cheek.
“Hi, Savannah,” he croons, embracing her in a hug. From the gleam in my mom’s eyes, I know exactly what she’s thinking. She’s never been quiet about wanting me to date Ryder…except when Maverick was in the picture. My mom has always been on the, shall we say, opportunistic side and Maverick’s stardom was an opportunity she thought was too good to pass up. “And you let them kick you out? How out of character,” Ryder jokes and my mom gives her annoyingly fake giggle.
“Oh Ryder, I didn’t want to cause ripples when the collaboration has been going so smoothly. You know that’s not my style.” She’s using her southern drawl that she usually tries to conceal and I roll my eyes in irritation. When I look away, I find my own tour poster being hung up by a man wearing a blue uniform.
He gently encases it in the glass and I want to vomit when I see the picture they used. I’m wearing jeans and a plaid button-down with a studded black belt. If that’s not bad enough, I’m standing in a field of wheat grass with a damn daisy in my hair. Not quite sure who put this together or what they were trying to accomplish, but I look like some confused country/granola girl. Racking my brain, I try to remember ever wearing that ensemble and it dawns on me—the photo shoot a few weeks ago when they wanted to try a few different looks. They told me it was just for fun but obviously not. I decide I’d better get over it since there’s no changing it at this point, but then gasp when I read the tour title, splashed across the bottom.
“Oh, it turned out fabulous,” my mom remarks, inching closer. Looking for a flaw, I’m sure.
“What happened to Onward and Upward?” I ask her. The heat is starting to rise and I can feel it in my face. We decided on that together—months ago.
“Well, I thought this was better,” she says with a huge grin.
“You thought that Sweet and Sassy, Cute and Classy was better? What the h—“ I stop myself before my anger gets out of control. As much as I would love to scream at her, my dad raised me better than that.
“What they don’t know can’t hurt them, right?” she responds and my blood runs hot—not cold, but blazing, blistering hot. I cannot believe that she would go there, especially with Ryder standing right behind us.
“Hey, it’s not that bad,” he chimes in and I wonder what he is looking at, because this is not the image I want to portray. Yeah, maybe when I was sixteen or seventeen but I’m older now—even though I feel like I’m about a half a second away from throwing a tantrum that could rival any two-year-old.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” I turn away from the poster to face Ryder so I can focus on something else, anything other than that monstrosity up on the wall.
“The band is recording the back tracks to the song. I guess someone wanted it done separately and then they’ll put it all together later,” he explains, shrugging his shoulders. Ryder has always been so easygoing, which is a nice quality to have but sometimes it’s just too much. Though nothing ever seems to ruffle him, the flipside is that he doesn’t ever seem passionate about anything either.
After we chat for a few more minutes, he kisses my cheek and disappears down the hall. While my perfectionist mother makes sure the poster is hung to her specifications, I wave goodbye to Stella, who is talking on the phone, and then slip out. I’m still furious about the changes my mom made to the tour promotion without my approval so it’s better if I don’t speak to her right now. Plus, there’s no way she can sabotage my plans with Gina tonight if she doesn’t know about them.
***
Gina made reservations at the hottest restaurant in town—for the moment. I say that because, in this town, it changes every month…if not week. After leaving my car with the valet, I make my way through an Asian-inspired room with a stream of water cascading down a cement wall, stalks of bamboo and an array of orchids resting in numerous ornate pots. The hostess leads me across a makeshift bridge which traverses a pond filled with colorful koi fish, and as requested, seats me in a partitioned-off corner. Gina and I couldn’t be more opposite when it comes to fame. I run from it, whereas she relishes the constant attention, always ready and willing to put on a show.
But even though I tend to prefer locations that are off the beaten path, I’ll admit I’ve wanted to try this place—the dishes are supposed to be to die for. While I wait for Gina, who has never been on time a day in her life, I order my drink and thumb through my phone. Announcements about Trace’s tour are posted on every site and I contemplate whether or not I should wish him luck. Would he think it’s stupid if I text him? It’s not like we’re friends. But we are recording together and he had no issue texting me when he felt like it. Not that he’s texted me since then, so even if I do, I doubt he will even know it’s from me.
Figuring what the hell, my fingers type the message, and before I can second-guess myself, I quickly press send.
Hey, I just wanted to say good luck tomorrow night.
That was casual, right? I tap my foot and reread what I wrote him, again and again. When my phone vibrates, I practically jump out of my seat in surprise before quickly scanning what he wrote.
Thanks, Peaches, we’re waiting to take off. The concert I can deal with, but planes suck, ya know?
The smile on my face must resembl
e a teenage girl who was just asked out by her secret crush. The fact that Trace knew it was me immediately means he must have programmed my number into his phone. I’m about to respond when I suddenly feel someone breathing down the back of my neck. I whirl around to find Gina smirking down at me.
“What the hell are you smiling about?” she asks. I hop up, give Regina a hug, and then drop my phone in my purse, hoping she didn’t see who messaged me—she’d have a field day with that.
“Um, nothing. Just checking some emails.” I’ve never been a good liar and the look on Gina’s face suggests that I haven’t improved much.
“Okay, you just stick to that story then,” she smirks at me, but thankfully drops it, opening her menu instead.
After we order our food, Gina informs me that she found out today her tour has been postponed and she’s going to use the time to concentrate on writing songs for a new album. I envy her for having the time to do what I love most. As she begins to tell me about some NFL player she’s dating, I hear the unmistakable sound of my phone on vibrate, alerting me to a text. Crap, I forgot to respond to Trace!
Not wanting to answer with Gina sitting there, I plan on ignoring it but she pulls her own phone out and her fingers are already flying across the screen when she says, “You take care of that. I have some e-mails I need to address too.” Disregarding the implication behind her emphasis of the word ‘e-mails,’ I open up my messages to find another one from Trace.
I see how it is…too busy for me now? ;)
I know he’s joking but I don’t want him to think I’m ignoring him so I answer without hesitation.
Sorry about that. Out with someone and didn’t want to be rude. In answer to your question, I don’t mind planes but feel the same way before concerts…
There’s a pause and the waiter is dropping off our food when the next text comes in.
Collaboration (Backlash) Page 6
