She and I make small talk about how each of our tours has been going while we wait on the food. We’ve both been visiting half a dozen cities per week and neither of us can easily recall where all we’ve been. The dishes I ordered are a hit, and I’m happy to see Taryn puts away a healthy amount of food. I love it when a girl eats and I was afraid she’d eat two bites and leave the rest for me.
When the next mojito arrives, it reminds me that I want to know more about her, big and little. Taryn’s not completely closed off, but she’s not forthcoming with information about herself either. I ask about a few of her ‘favorites’, finding out that blue is her favorite color, horses are her favorite animal, and Duck Dynasty is her favorite TV show.
“Favorite dessert?” I ask.
“Oreos,” she says without pause, and I try to stop from scowling. I’ve hated Oreos since the first day someone called me that name when I was a kid.
“Really?” I ask. “Out of all the desserts in the world, you pick Oreos?”
She nods her head. “Yup, I’ve loved them since before I could remember. My mom wasn’t exactly the baking type, as you can probably imagine, and didn’t allow a lot of sweets in the house. Heaven forbid I gain a pound or two when I was twelve,” she retorts and my heart hurts just hearing her say it. “But every once in awhile, my dad would sneak a package of Oreos he bought at a convenience store and give them to me. I’d hide them in a drawer and eat just one or two in a sitting, wanting to make them last as long as possible.”
What she says reminds me of the way I hoarded and rationed food when living with my uncle, and although it was for an entirely different reason, the rationale is the same—not knowing when you’ll have something again, you want to make it last as long as possible.
Trying to lighten up the conversation a bit, I joke, “I’ll bet you dipped them in milk just like in the commercial, didn’t you?”
“Oh no,” she says and shudders, “then the chocolate part would get all soggy. I always unscrewed the chocolate top to get to the yummy frosting, and then I would lick every last bit of the white part off before eating each of the round chocolate cookies whole.”
And just like that, not only is my dick hard, but I am over my long-standing aversion to Oreo cookies. “How about you, what’s your favorite dessert?” she asks.
Without thinking, I blurt out, “Bluebell.”
“Bluebell?” she asks, arching her eyebrow. “As in the ice cream from Texas?”
Damn, I should have thought that answer through before I said it. Thinking quickly, I answer, “Hell yeah, that shit is good. Had it when I was there for a concert one time.”
My face must be giving something away because she still looks skeptical when she says, “I wasn’t questioning where you had it. I’ve actually heard that they sell it in quite a few states now. I just didn’t know if we were talking about the same Bluebell.”
“No one could copy that ice cream. It’s one-of-a-kind, that’s for sure,” I say.
“So what’s your favorite flavor?” she asks.
“Oh, that’s easy,” I answer, “It’s one that nobody else could make if they tried. Dos Amigos is vanilla and chocolate with some—“
“Cinnamon flavor,” she finishes for me, “and made with real Mexican vanilla. I love it too…or at least I used to. They haven’t made that one for awhile.” Shit. She stares at me for a second but then puts on a smile, although it doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and asks, “You sure you’re not Hispanic?”
“I’m pretty sure I’d know something like that,” I joke.
“Just checking,” she says and then continues, “I’m actually from a town not too far from the factory where they make Bluebell.”
“Oh yeah? What’s it called?” I ask and then quickly add, “Not that I’ve probably ever heard of it before, but you never know.”
“La Grange. It’s in Fayette County,” she adds, as if that might help jog my memory. Fortunately, I don’t have to lie—I’ve never heard of it.
“Must be a small town. What’s it near that I might know?” I ask.
“It’s about halfway between Houston and Austin. And you’re right, it is small. My dad loves to tell people that the population of La Grange is a couple thousand, and that includes horses, cows, and chickens,” she says wistfully. I hate seeing that look on her face, but it’s good to know she has a dad. At least then she might have one parent who gives a shit about her because that mom of hers certainly doesn’t. All Taryn is to that woman is a meal ticket, a chance to be in the spotlight that no doubt passed her by in her youth.
“Of course, that’s an exaggeration but you get the idea,” she says, breaking me from my thoughts, and just in time to notice her expression change—not in a good way. “And sometimes the town seems too big.”
Okay, I may not be telling Taryn everything about myself, but if I didn’t know any better, I’d say she’s got some secrets of her own. Question is, do I want to know what they are?
I decide to let it go, since asking about her past might backfire on me in a big way. “So, all this talk about sweets is making me think it’s time for dessert. Do you want anything?” I ask.
She looks unsure before answering, “No thanks.”
“Hey girl, your mom’s not here, remember?” I joke. You have whatever you want—I promise not to tell.”
“I really don’t, I swear. I’m completely stuffed, but don’t let me stop you.”
“Nah, I’m good,” I say. “Let’s get out of here then. We can walk all this food off, if you want.” I’m not ready for this night to end so I hold my breath, awaiting her response.
“Sounds great,” she says. I may be projecting my own feelings here, but I think I hear relief in her voice—maybe she’s not ready for the night to end either.
After I flag down Rafael and pay the bill, we make our way downstairs and exit outside on to the bustling sidewalk. We walk beneath the trees, which are now lit in what Taryn calls “fairy lights,” as we head in the direction of the ocean.
Stepping off the walkway and onto the sand, we’re instantly greeted by the cool ocean breeze. Beside me, Taryn shivers, so without asking if she wants it or not, I remove my jacket and put it on her. She thanks me as I wrap my left arm behind her back between her shirt and my jacket, holding her close. I feel her body shake again, but this time I get the feeling it isn’t from the cold.
We continue to stroll toward the water in a comfortable silence with the wind serving as a soundtrack to our steps. One thing I love about Los Angeles is having the water nearby. I’d never lived by the ocean before moving here, and there’s definitely something calming about it. I’m no surfer—hell, I don’t even get in that water because it’s too fucking cold—but I sure as hell love to look at it and listen to it.
Echoing my thoughts, Taryn says, “I love the ocean. Where I grew up in Texas, we weren’t anywhere close to the water and it’s one of my favorite things about living here.”
“Yeah, same here,” I respond.
“Tell me about where you grew up,” she says. Which place? I think to myself. Guess I need to give her something though.
“Ever heard of Cabrini-Green?” I ask. She shakes her head ‘no.’ “Well,” I laugh humorlessly, “let’s put it this way…‘The Green’ practically puts every other housing project in the nation to shame. And not in the good kind of way. It was a fucking war zone. It actually got so bad that they tore it down a while back.”
“So where does your family live now then?” she asks.
“They’ve moved on…you know, greener pastures and all that,” I say. Much greener, I think.
“I guess that makes sense. Now that you’ve become famous, they can probably afford to live anywhere, huh?”
“Yup,” I answer, leaving it at that. I’m not lying to her, but I’m not going there either. “Speaking of greener pastures, didn’t you say your dad lives on a farm or something?”
“A ranch, actually,” she says, “and as
much as I try to help him out, he won’t ever let me. I guess he’s old school like that.” I wish my uncle were ‘old school.’ Dre’s dad never fails to get what he can, when he can.
As we approach a hollowed-out log lying on the beach, I remove my arm from around her back before taking her hand and guiding her to the log. She sits down on it, facing the ocean. And although I love how she didn’t even fuss about getting dirty, it’s cold and I want to feel her body close to mine so I sit down, and then pick her up and put her on my lap. “There, that’s better,” I murmur.
She looks at me and doesn’t say anything, which is fine because I’m done talking for the night. I lean forward and press my lips lightly against hers, letting them linger before leisurely licking the seam of her lips. When she opens, I breathe in the sweet smell of the mojito, and when she touches my tongue to hers, I savor the sweet taste of Taryn. Our tongues maneuver like two tango dancers, each giving and taking while tangling passionately with the other. Her hands wrap around my back, clutching onto my shirt as if it might blow away. I glide my hands up her back, over her shoulders, and to her neck. My right hand works its way back down the side of her body, while my left grabs onto her hair, pulling gently.
Fuck—I forgot about the wig. Suddenly, I find I’m holding it in my hand and surprised, I pull back from the kiss. She looks confused until I hold up the wig for her to see. We both laugh…that is, until I see the expression on her face quickly change to surprise and then fear. I turn and look over my shoulder, spotting a guy not fifty feet away with a camera poised and ready.
“Shit,” I say, but that one word doesn’t really cover all that I’m feeling. Anger at the guy. Disappointment that our night is over. More anger that we have to hide from the world. Even more disappointment that our first ‘real’ kiss was interrupted. As amazing as it was, kissing in front of a roomful of people while filming a video doesn’t count.
Putting her wig back on immediately, I then hold both sides of her head and pull her close to mine so her face can’t be seen. “Taryn, I’m sure it’s fine. He probably didn’t get the shot.”
“Yeah, hopefully you’re right,” she says with a sigh. “And I guess it’s time to get going anyway. I’ve gotta shoot early in the morning with Marcus, and hair and makeup has to be done before that.”
“I get that. Let me at least walk you to your car though,” I say, hating that this night is going to end like this. Not that I want her to think I’m just out for a quick fuck or anything. I truly am enjoying spending time with her.
“It’s alright. I’ve got a driver on standby a few streets over. Plus, we probably need to go in opposite directions.”
As much as I don’t want to admit it, I know she’s right. The gossip rags would have a field day if pictures appear with us together. “Okay, but text me as soon as you get to the car. Got it?”
She nods in confirmation and I give her a quick kiss below her ear before we both stand up with our backs to the photographer. I spot a couple not too far away from us, looking our way with curiosity. Time to get out of here.
“Nite, Peaches,” I say softly. She looks into my eyes one more time before saying ‘goodnight’ and we take off our separate ways. Fucking paparazzi.
Chapter 11
Taryn
It’s been forty-eight hours and my knees still go weak when I relive that kiss. Trace’s lips were soft but determined, and the way his tongue entered my mouth as if its sole purpose was to find mine undid me. God only knows what would have happened if we hadn’t been interrupted—damn paparazzi.
Since I wasn’t awoken by mom insistently ringing my phone, I’m guessing the guy didn’t get the picture. Thank goodness. I don’t need or want my mom’s opinion about Trace, and her reaction after the video shoot already gave me a glimpse of what she’d have to say about a relationship between the two of us.
Not that this is a relationship—I don’t know what it is really. We’ve had one date and I have no idea if or when there might be another. The imminent return to both of our tours doesn’t exactly lend itself to dating in the traditional sense…or any sense actually. Nor does the fact that both of our lives exist in the spotlight. It’s a miracle that we made it as long as we did the other night without being recognized.
And since our hasty departure, I’ve only received a few texts from him, although I’m well aware of how much Backlash has tried to fit in our few days back in LA so that doesn’t bother me—I’ve been crazy busy too. What I am apprehensive about is the video release party tonight, where we’ll be surrounded by industry people. I can’t help but wonder how he’ll act around me; if he’ll ignore me completely or worse, act like he did the night I saw him at the Grammys after-party. I shudder at the thought and then quickly push it aside—if I don’t get dressed and ready, I’ll never get there to find out.
Grabbing my purple strapless dress, I lay it on the bed and go back into my closet to find the iridescent beige heels Gina convinced me to buy on our last shopping trip. I had gone back and forth with myself before the small crystal embellishment finally sold me. They’ll look fantastic with this dress, which shows plenty of leg, and I can’t help but think of Trace’s reaction when he sees me.
After I’m dressed and all dolled up, I throw my phone, wallet, and lipstick into my clutch. As my heels click-clack across the wood floors of the hallway, the doorbell rings and I open the door to one of the few people who has my gate code.
“Let’s go, bitch,” Gina says, standing on the porch in a hot little red number that looks amazing against her dark skin. Other than bold red lipstick, her makeup is natural and beautiful. She’s nothing short of gorgeous, and I’m positive she’ll be beating the guys away tonight. “Holy shit, Taryn. My boy is gonna lose it tonight when he sees you like this.”
The heat surges up to my cheeks. “Thank you, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I shut the door and walk past her to the limo, trying my best to ignore her comment.
“So that’s the way you wanna play it?” she asks, following close behind me. I dart into the limo as fast as someone wearing a short dress and high heels possibly can, as though I could escape her questions. Considering we’re riding together, that’s not going to happen. I don’t know why I’m reluctant to tell her about Trace anyway, except maybe it’s because I don’t even know what’s going on.
“What, no drinks?” I examine the cupboards and am surprised to find that there’s no alcohol.
“Two shelves over,” she says, sitting down and crossing her legs. As I reach in and grab a bottle of whatever—I don’t even care at this point—I feel her studying me, waiting for me to share.
“Courtesy of...?” I question, holding up a bottle of Krug Clos d’Ambonnay, which no doubt cost way too much money for something we’re going to down before we get to the party.
“Only the best for my girl,” she winks. “Now pop that baby open. The traffic’s light on the 101 so we don’t have much time.”
As I open and pour the ridiculously expensive bottle of champagne, I ask, “So how’s Mr. Football?” I hand her the glass, saying a silent prayer that she’ll take the bait.
“Oh, no you don’t.” She waves her finger back and forth my way, her red lips turned up in a smirk. “Spill.”
“Spill what?” I put the glass to my lips, shrugging my shoulders.
“Alright, I’ll play your game,” she says. “Since you asked, Mr. Football, or should I say, Mr. Cheating-asshole-I hope he gets a fucking STD is out of the picture—for reasons just stated, of course.”
I place my flute down and rest my hand on her knee. She goes on to tell me how he had been acting suspicious, so when she found out her tour was cancelled, she decided to fly out and surprise him but the surprise was on her instead. I feel horrible for Gina, and even if she’s trying to appear as though she could take or leave him, I know it hurt her.
“Enough about another one of my fucked-up relationships, I want to know what’s going on between
you and Trace,” she demands and I know she’s not going to let this go any longer.
I take a long sip of my champagne, preparing myself to give her some of what she wants. “Well, you obviously already know we’ve been texting,” I state, raising my eyebrow. “And really we’ve just talked about our tours, what cities we’re in, which of our managers annoys us the most, stuff like that.” She looks disappointed and ready to object to my flagrant withholding of information so I continue, “And we shot the joint portion of the video together the other day, which was pretty fun.”
“Fun?” she asks disbelievingly. And for good reason—there are about a hundred words I can think of to describe the video shoot and ‘fun’ would probably be at the bottom of the list. Mind-blowing, sexy, incredible, sultry, breathtaking…those might be more accurate. But for whatever reason, I don’t want anyone—not even Gina—to have access to the way it felt to be with Trace at that moment in time.
“Okay fine,” I say with a sigh, indicating I’m going to give up the goods even though I’m not. “Trace is sexy as hell and has a body that should be on every billboard in Los Angeles, is that what you want to hear?” I find myself unable to contain my grin at the mere mention of Trace’s body.
“Well, now you’re talkin’,” she says, “go on...”
But before I can elaborate, we pull up to the venue and I sigh with relief. Gina and I down the remainder of our glasses while we look outside, checking out the crowd that’s gathered. The paparazzi are out in full force though I can’t say I’m surprised—the record label probably leaked the location for the free publicity the paps provide. Gina slides out of the limo gracefully while I follow behind her as elegantly as possible. Immediately, the sounds of our names being called out from every direction accompany the barrage of flashes that greet us. We automatically smile and wave, even posing for a few of the photographers who are consistently less pushy than the others. I’m in the middle of signing an autograph when the chanting begins.
Collaboration (Backlash) Page 12
