Collaboration (Backlash)

by Michelle Lynn

  I don’t give her a hard time about guitar boy anymore either. I’m the one she took home to see her dad and had the guts to tell the whole fucking world that she’s fallen for. Even more importantly, I’m the one she talks to on the phone every night as she’s falling asleep, and some of the things we’ve been saying and doing, I know he hasn’t been anywhere around. Turns out, my little country girl can talk dirty with the best of them.

  It doesn’t hurt either that there have been rumors that Ryder is talking about going solo, and I have no doubt it’s because Taryn chose me over him. Still, I’d pay good money to see his face at her concerts when she sings her new hit, written for and about me. And I’m sure I’ll run into him here soon, since Taryn and I are scheduled to sing our #1 duet live at the upcoming MTV Video Music Awards (VMAs). I have never counted down to anything in my life, but I know that I am exactly seven days, four hours, and thirty minutes from having my girl in my arms. Damn, life is good.

  ***

  I remember the day my parents died like it was yesterday—everything was perfect in my little corner of the world. My mom and dad were helping those who needed it most by delivering boxes with kids’ clothes and shoes and God-only-knows what else. Hell, knowing them they were giving away stuff we actually used and probably even needed. I was having a good ‘ol time horsing around with the kids outside, throwing a football instead of helping my folks carry those damn boxes in. If someone had taken a snapshot of that scene and then compared it with the photos of the crime scene taken in the aftermath of the shooting, those pictures would have looked nothing alike. The first was the calm before the fucking storm and after—only devastation lay in its wake.

  Today I finally get to see Taryn again, and per my usual luck, it’s also the day that all the shit hits the fan...

  After arriving in LA late last night, I feel like I’ve just closed my eyes when I hear a loud banging and yelling at my hotel room door. I’m surprised to see it’s already light out, but a glance at my phone tells me I’m not late for anything.

  I leisurely walk over to the door despite the apparent fire and Jay bursts in the room, throwing copies of magazines at me as he marches past. Vibe and Hip Hop Weekly, the two biggest sources of entertainment news in my world, both have pictures of me—front and center. Jay helps himself to a drink, and instead of teasing him because it’s too early in the day, I’m seriously thinking about joining him.

  One glance tells me that Vibe somehow managed to find out the secrets of my past. My first thought is that Dre might have let it slip, but I instinctively know that he didn’t. Since I know for damn sure it wasn’t Taryn, I’m at a loss for who else could have known—and beyond that, who would have sold me out. Cal? No way, the guy’s too loyal and plus, what would be in it for him? He won’t take a penny extra from me, no matter how many times or different ways I try to give it to him. Quinton, Marcus, and Xavier don’t know—to my knowledge anyway—but even if they did, they wouldn’t squeal. And based on the string of curses Jay’s letting loose in my living area, I take it he didn’t know either.

  “What the fuck, Trace? You mind telling me what the hell this is all about? And while you’re at it, why don’t you tell me why I’m finding out from Vibe-motherfucking-magazine and Hip-fucking-Hop Weekly?”

  “Jay, don’t everybody need to know everything about me. A man has a right to keep his past to himself, whether that past was good or not. You think I wanted my parents’ gravesite to turn into some fuckin’ tourist attraction? Hell no. My life in Texas was over the day they were shot and killed, and I don’t care what anybody says—that was my secret to keep. Nobody else’s.”

  My words must have softened his hardened heart because his response is not what I expect. “I get ya, man. ‘Course, I wish I’d known so I wouldn’t have gotten blindsided by it. And it sure as shit could spell disaster for your career,” he says and I can’t help but roll my eyes. “But I am sorry about your folks. I hate that for ya, Ace.”

  “Thanks for that, Jay,” I tell him.

  “What I’m wondering is why you couldn’t keep it to yourself when I done told you what would happen?”

  Say what? “Dude, I don’t know what the fuck you are talking about, but—“

  “I’m talkin’ about this!” he says angrily, moving toward me and snatching one of the magazines from my hand. Confused, I look at the cover of the Hip Hop Weekly that he’s holding in front of my face, and looking beyond my picture, I see a smaller photo of a girl that I vaguely recognize. The title screams, “Trace is going to be Dad!”

  “Congratu-fucking-lations, son,” Jay sneers, but this time I don’t have any comeback—my brain is utterly blank. When my mind finally reengages, the first thought to enter it is Taryn. Even though I know she’ll know it’s bullshit, how will this affect her?

  Jay opens up the magazine and I see photos of me and the boys and a bunch of women taken in—shit, that’s my fucking place in LA.

  “When were these taken?” I ask him.

  “How the fuck should I know? You’re the one in the goddamn pictures!”

  “You know all those parties run together after awhile, Jay. This had to have been a long time back though, right?”

  “Look at the date, bro…it wasn’t that long ago,” he says, pointing to the caption beneath one of the photos. Fucking shit.

  “There’s no way, that was after Taryn and I got together,” I murmur and Jay raises his eyebrow in response. “Look, I may be a lot of things—and none of them any good—but I’m no fuckin’ cheater.”

  “Well, for your sake, I sure as hell hope she knows that,” he says and then takes a large gulp of his liquor. “I gotta take off. While you’re kissin’ your girlfriend’s ass,” he says, raising his glass before continuing, “and here’s to hopin’ she doesn’t kick your ass to the curb, I’m gonna be meetin’ with the label and the whole fucking media team to figure out how to spin this shit in your favor.”

  He knocks back the rest of his drink before leaving just as fast as he got here. I immediately shake off his words, secure in the knowledge that he doesn’t realize how tight Taryn and I are—that our relationship is more than just fun and frivolous fucks. Jay can’t possibly understand, because I wouldn’t have either until I experienced it for myself. Taryn is the real deal and there isn’t a single doubt in my mind that she will stand by her man.

  Chapter 19

  Taryn

  I follow Trace’s instructions to park in the underground parking garage and take the back elevator up to his suite. I shouldn’t be surprised when I find Cal waiting for me in the elevator alcove. After a nod ‘hello,’ he gives me tight smile on the ride up, but surprisingly doesn’t say a single word. Not that he’s Mr. Chatty Cathy on his best day, but usually he says something—hey, everybody has an off day.

  Speaking of, I’m hoping it’s just nerves that have me feeling a little off right now myself. Not only am I performing and presenting an award tonight, it’s the first time I’ll be in Trace’s space. Even though it’s a hotel room—which still baffles me that he doesn’t own a house in Los Angeles—it’s where he lives when he’s not on the road. Maybe one day we’ll have a home together here...crap, it’s probably too soon to think about that.

  After we step out of the elevator, I follow Cal down the brightly lit hallway that showcases elaborate and probably ridiculously expensive art along the walls. My eyes focus on the back of Cal, who really is an intimidating presence; I can see why Trace feels safe with him around. Of course, those two guys Trace hired—the ones waiting at the plane after we were outed by the paparazzi—are carbon copies of Cal so I have nothing to complain about.

  Cal inserts the keycard and opens the door, causing the butterflies that only Trace’s presence provokes to fill my stomach with the anticipation of being in his arms. Lucky for me, I don’t have to wait too long. Trace saunters into the room, bare-chested with his jeans hanging low on his hips, and I rush toward him, instantly forgetting that we�
��re not alone in the room. His strong arms catch me and I hug him forcefully, murmuring, “God, I’ve missed you.”

  He pulls back a little, his blue eyes staring into mine and whispers, “Me too, Peaches.” Something about his tight smile isn’t matching up with the words coming out of his mouth though. This isn’t the warm welcome I had imagined during all those lonely nights on the road. Turning toward Cal, he says, “Excuse us, bro.” With a nod Cal quietly exits.

  Once the click of the door sounds, Trace places his hands on either side of my face. “It’s so good to see you,” he states, bending down and kissing my lips, “I missed you so damn much.”

  “Same here…but I have to say, I was expecting to be halfway to the bedroom by now,” I tease. When he doesn’t laugh—or carry me to the bedroom in question—I ask, “What is it?”

  Biting his lip, which is something I would do but isn’t characteristic of him, he stares at me intensely before saying, “We need to talk, Peaches.” He then takes my hand and guides me to an elegant couch, obviously designed more for appearance than comfort.

  I was so captivated by seeing him that I didn’t even realize the television was on until I unexpectedly hear Trace’s name being spoken aloud by someone who is not in the room with us. ‘Trace as a Daddy?’ is the caption displayed beneath of a photo of the man sitting beside me, the one whose eyes—for probably the first time ever—are utterly unreadable to me.

  “This shit is what I wanted to talk about,” he says with disgust, pointing to the television.

  I grab the remote from his hand and he lets it go willingly before I stand, turning up the volume. The very next photo is one I’ve seen before—it made headlines months ago, displaying him and some girl on a bed together. I still remember the sick feeling in my stomach when I saw it the first time, but that sensation doesn’t compare to what I’m experiencing now.

  I don’t even recall holding the remote until it hits the floor with a thud. Coming up from behind, Trace wraps his arms around me, whispering, “It’s not what it looks like, baby.” All I can think of is that this is like Maverick all over again, except that this time I’m in love…and I believe him. I just pray to God that the whole ‘love is blind’ expression doesn’t apply here.

  I take a deep breath. Knowing the media the way I do, I’m well aware how they are able to misconstrue and misinform. Also, the fact that they haven’t been able to get a whole ton of dirt on us doesn’t mean they haven’t been digging so I ask, “Has she contacted you?”

  “Hell no. The first I’ve heard of this was not long before you got here when Jay came in on the warpath. Peaches, you know she’s lying, don’t you? Nothing happened that night, and just like I told you before—“

  I turn around, placing my finger over his soft lips. “I know,” I tell him. And truth be told, I do. I couldn’t explain why exactly I trust this man, who most likely has had more girls in his bed than I ever want to think about. Whether it’s the sincerity shining in his blue eyes or just a gut feeling I have, I just know. That being said...“I have one question, and I want you to be completely truthful, Trace.”

  “Fire away,” he says, not looking or sounding as if he has anything to hide.

  “Do you remember being with her before we got together? Is there any chance she’s telling the truth?” I ask him, biting my lip as my stomach turns while I wait for his answer.

  He closes his eyes and my breath catches in my throat. “I don’t think so, but to be honest, there’s no way to rule it out. I’m sorry, baby. But I swear—I’ve worn a condom every goddamn time I’m been with anyone…until you.” I release the breath I was holding as he pulls me close, and I can tell he’s worried that this could destroy us.

  “Okay,” I say, removing myself from his arms. I sit back down on the couch, needing a moment to think. This is one of those moments in a person’s life where there’s a fork in the road and the decision must be made which path to choose. Can I honestly continue in this relationship if that baby ends up being Trace’s? Or do I leave behind the man who not only makes me smile and laugh like no one else and makes me feel as if there’s nowhere else I want to be except in the safety of his embrace, but that I’ve grown to love like no other?

  He sits on the coffee table in front of me, giving me space to think, but staring at me in a way that leaves no space whatsoever because it penetrates my body and my soul. “We can deal with this,” I tell him and his shoulders relax visibly from the tight strain. Even if the baby—if there is one—is his, I know I’ll love it because it’s a part of him. And there’s not one part of this man before me that I don’t love with all my heart.

  “Peaches,” he says softly, bending down to kiss me. Just as his lips are about to reach mine, the television host announces that there’s proof of the “no longer alleged” encounter between Trace and the girl before cutting to a commercial—asshole! Both our heads turn toward the television and Trace pops up and begins to pace.

  I bite my nails and the tension in the room is so thick, not even a hunting knife would be able to slice through. When the show comes back on, I stand up next to Trace in a gesture of solidarity.

  “One of the members of Trace’s security detail, Adriana Hillstrom, confirms that she is in possession of the underwear worn by the girl who is now carrying his baby. Even though she has not agreed to be identified, the girl has already identified them as her own.” The woman, who has obviously had too much Botox, concludes her little “news” story and I look over at Trace, cocking my eyebrow.

  “No fucking way,” he blurts out, “remember—?”

  Before he can finish, a picture of some purple lace panties folded neatly in a plastic bag flashes across the screen. I recognize them immediately and my face turns red, not only because I might have—just for a second—doubted Trace, but also because those are MY panties now being broadcasted on national television. I shiver when I recall our first night together, remembering how Trace picked them up off the floor and shoved them in his pocket before answering the door for Cal.

  My thoughts are interrupted by a bellow of laughter erupting from Trace. “What a bunch of lying bitches,” he says, shaking his head. “Cal was fucking right when he said that Adriana chick was up to something. Already got her ass fired when he found her snooping around soon after we left Texas. Hell, she’s probably the one who sold me out there too.” Reaching out and pulling me close to where there’s not a millimeter between us, he says, “Thanks, baby,” and kisses my forehead.

  “For what?” I ask, relieved that my instinct to trust him was correct.

  “For believing me…trusting me, despite what everyone says. It means more than you will ever know,” he whispers, moving his lips to my cheek. “Now I’m going to kiss you properly and attempt to show you just how much it means.”

  I giggle when he scoops me up into his arms and we’re halfway to the bedroom—finally—when there’s a knock at the door. We both groan in unison and then laugh at how pitiful we sound. Trace eases me slowly down his body as he murmurs, “Later, darlin’.” Who knew two words could make me completely freakin’ wet?

  Trace’s signature wink is back and he smirks as he ambles toward the door, obviously knowing—as he has from day one—the intense effect he has on me. Mindy, the girl who Backlash uses to do a lot of its artists’ hair and makeup, strides quickly through the door as Cal holds it open, loaded down with her “beautification bags.”

  “Hey, Trace,” she greets him and he nods his head toward her.

  “You know my gorgeous girl doesn’t need you, right?” he asks teasingly and I feel my face blush—well, at least that’s one step she can skip.

  “Tell me somethin’ I don’t know already know,” she remarks with a grin on her face.

  “Just so we’re straight.”

  Mindy and I escape to the guest bedroom and bath, where she does her usual amazing job of making me so much more beautiful than I really am. I love the way she’s chosen to style my hair toni
ght, with it curled into one big ringlet and cascading off my shoulder. The smoky colors she uses to highlight my hazel eyes make them pop more than usual, and I have no idea what she does to my lips, but I’m hoping Trace will be able to refrain from kissing me until after the show or she might have to do it all over again. Then again, I have no doubt it would be worth it.

  I thank her when she’s all done, handing her a hefty tip, and she blows air kisses before darting off to work her fairy-godmother magic on someone else. I open the hanging bag brought in by Cal and gaze upon an elegant white gown with a serious dip between my breasts that should leave Trace itching to get me back to the hotel before the night’s over.

  As excited as I am that we’re finally going to sing the duet live, I can’t help but fear what the media will ask when we hit the red carpet. There’s no doubt Trace’s baby gossip will be front and center, and even telling myself that I could care less what everyone says, the nerves and anxiety start getting the better of me.

  When I emerge from the guest room, I find Trace standing in the foyer with a drink in his hand. The amber liquid and ice cubes are swishing around the crystal glass and on his way to his lips when he abruptly halts all movement. “God, you’re breathtaking,” he murmurs when I reach him.

  The black tuxedo Trace is wearing, perfectly tailored to his fit body, accentuates his light blue eyes, and without question, he’s the most stunning man I’ve ever seen. I still can’t believe he’s mine, and based on the intense fire I see in his eyes, he might just be feeling the same way. Tonight, we’ll prove that to the media—it’s about time they realize they can’t break us.

  ***

  The imposing Cadillac Escalade limo idles in the waiting line while I practically bite off my nails—thank goodness my mother isn’t here to see me do it. I turned off my cell phone soon after news of “Purple Panty-gate” broke, knowing that she will have more than a few choice words to say, none of which I want to hear.