Collaboration (Backlash)

by Michelle Lynn

  Trace entwines our fingers before bringing my hand to his lips, kissing it softly and calming me the way nothing else could have. After an entire car ride with this crazy crew, I’m finally able to relax enough to laugh along with Dre, Quinton, Marcus and Xavier, who have been hurling an impressive amount of cut-downs at one another since we left the hotel.

  Soon after Trace fills me in on the fact that his Texas roots have also been revealed, our turn is up and Dre and the guys all hop out immediately, obviously more eager than I am to face the masses. All of the nervousness I felt from before is back in full force and then the chanting begins, “TNT...TNT.” Trace squeezes my hand and gives me a heart-dropping smile before stepping out to loud cheers and whistles. He holds his hand out and I slowly reveal myself, causing the crowd’s noise to catapult to an even higher decibel level.

  Putting my best smile on display, I wave to the fans while holding tightly to Trace’s hand. A few paparazzi scream out questions, asking whether or not I knew about the baby or if Trace really cheated on me—nothing I didn’t expect. But the more questions thrown our way, the more I feel Trace tense beside me since it’s obvious that he’s being made out to be the bad guy.

  We follow the protocol set by the woman who is obviously running the show and soon end up in the interview circle, where one of the shadiest celebrity interviewers stands ready with his microphone now poised in our direction. I pray he asks me who designed my dress or whose jewelry I’m wearing, and I’d be more than happy to fill him in on who my makeup artist is. Anything but…

  “So, thanks for stopping by, guys,” he greets us and Trace surprisingly smiles, exuding perfect calm. Only the best performers can seem serene when there’s a hurricane brewing beneath the surface.

  “It’s nice to see you, man,” he says, wrapping his arm around my waist and placing his hand on my hip.

  “How is ‘TNT’ tonight? You both look dynamite,” the guy says, chuckling at his own little joke.

  “We’re good. Enjoying our evening and looking forward to performing together,” I respond, attempting to make it clear that the gossip has done nothing but bring us closer.

  “You know I have to ask, right? I wouldn’t be the best reporter in the business if I didn’t,” he brags. I can’t help but think that the term ‘reporter’ is being used loosely but whatever—here it comes. “So how much exactly will you offer to shut this girl up?” He directs the question at Trace, whose hand begins gripping my hip firmly. That was not the question I was expecting. Confused, I look at Trace but his intense gaze remains focused on the reporter.

  “Oh, you seem confused,” the guy says cockily. “Since you paid a hundred thousand for Taryn’s little issue to stay buried six feet under, I figure this secret is worth at least double.”

  Holy shit, how did he know? I guess the price was finally right and Weston was none too happy about selling me out. Trace stands there and for the first time, he seems unsure how to respond. “It’s none of your fucking business,” Trace finally says in a deathly calm voice as he releases his arm from around me and shifts forward.

  “You both signed up for this—we just tell the people what they want to know,” the reporter says, holding the microphone out, obviously still expecting to us for comment. My head seems to clear and I decide that I’m not just going to stand here and let Trace do my dirty work for me.

  “Just because we’re in the public eye doesn’t mean that everyone has a right to know everything about us. What we do—what we’ve done—it’s our business…not yours, and not anyone else’s.”

  Completely ignoring the words that just left my mouth, he continues relentlessly, “So what? You’ll just raise Trace’s kid as your own? Make up for the other one?” I should have known it was inevitable. Fortunately, before Trace’s fist can connect with the bastard’s face, Dre suddenly appears from behind us, grabbing his arm in mid-swing.

  “Man, don’t let him get to you,” Dre says and Trace looks at me, though I can barely see him through the tears welling in my eyes. I’ve never shown any emotion other than the happy-go-lucky superstar that people always want to see, but I’m about two seconds away from losing it on the red carpet.

  “You’re right,” Trace says to Dre while watching me closely. “Now you better get the fuck out of my grill,” Trace snaps at the guy, who looks visibly relieved as he backs away. I feel Trace take my hand and lead us down the stairs toward the arena.

  Before we reach the only safe haven in this shitstorm, my mom rushes over and yanks me away from Trace. Inches from my face, she whispers, “Taryn, they know.”

  “Yeah, thanks for the heads-up,” I say, unable to keep the sarcasm from my voice. I pull away from her and she steps back, glaring at me. Trace is speaking in hushed whispers with Jay and meanwhile, the cameras are clicking while accusatory words are being tossed at us from every direction. Abortion. Teen pregnancy. Babymama. Blackmail. Payoff. I can’t even see straight and my body starts shaking uncontrollably.

  My mom jerks me toward her again and doesn’t even attempt to be discreet when she yells, “I’ve worked too hard for you to destroy everything for love, Taryn. You really think he’s capable of love? I’ve read the papers and seen the pictures…he sure as hell doesn’t love you.”

  “Can we talk about this another time?” I ask with a low, unsteady voice. Not that she can hear me above all the shouting right now. I seriously feel sick and I’m not sure how much more I can take at this point.

  “I’m sorry, Savannah, but we’re leaving,” Trace declares. That must have been what he was talking to Jay about. “Taryn doesn’t need this and she sure as fuck doesn’t deserve it,” he says, glaring at her. He steps in front of me protectively, ensuring that she can’t grab me again.

  “The hell you are,” she sneers, unwilling to back down.

  “Could you for once give a shit about your daughter?” Trace asks through clenched teeth. Everywhere, cameras are continuingly clicking and flashing.

  Ignoring Trace, she focuses on me. “This could be the end of you, Taryn. You’ll be marked as undependable and no one will want to work with you.”

  Anger boils and I place my hand on Trace’s arm so I move forward to look her in the eye—I don’t want her to misunderstand what I’m about to say. “I’m done, Mom. I’ll finish the tour and then I want out.” As soon as I say the words, I know that they’re the truth. I do want freedom from the constant, often ruthless scrutiny of her and the world, freedom from Backlash telling me what to do and how to do it, and freedom to make the music I want to make, when I want to make it.

  “Will you ever stop being so ‘me, me, me’? That’s ridiculous, Taryn, you can’t just quit.”

  “I can and I will. We can announce it after the tour is over.” With that, I turn away, not wanting to deal with her anymore. A flood of relief flows over me until I run smack into more paparazzi.

  “So, ‘America’s Sweetheart’ isn’t so sweet and the ‘Bad Boy of Rap’ isn’t so bad. The son of a preacher man, huh?” Trace tries to ignore him and push past, but we are soon swarmed from all angles with cameras in our faces. Not able to handle anything else, especially after the confrontation with my mom, I begin to shut down. Covering my face with my hands, Trace pulls me into his chest, shielding me from the cameras as he places one hand in front of the lenses, attempting to block the shots.

  “CAL!” Trace screams. The big guy is instantly in front of us, creating a path for us to escape. Once we break away from the masses, Dre stands on one side of me and Trace on the other, while the other guys and a team of security surround us. As we wait for Cal to bring the Escalade back around, nonstop flashes overwhelm my already blurry vision and the invasive questions continue in a relentless fashion.

  Once the vehicle is in front of us and we’re all in, Cal speeds off. Trace whispers to me that everything will be alright, and though my mind is numb, I can’t stop my body from shaking.

  The further away we get, however, the more I
begin to relax. He kisses the top of my head, holding me tight against his body. “I’m gonna kill that fucking weasel,” Trace says, though it’s unclear who exactly he’s talking about.

  “Oh, don’t worry, that fucker from Texas will be taken care of,” Cal adds, continuing to stare at the rearview mirror. Ah, that weasel… “Shit man, they’re trailing.”

  “Lose ‘em,” Dre instructs from the front seat, where he’d climbed in to serve as Cal’s point man. Trace’s head quickly rotates back, then left and right, as he assesses the proximity of the cars that are chasing us. Unfortunately, the size of the vehicle we’re in won’t allow a quick getaway.

  “Man, just get us the fuck away from them,” Trace yells.

  The large vehicle accelerates quickly and begins to weave in and out of lanes, causing those of us in the back to hold onto anything we can. I begin to feel even more panicked than I was on the red carpet. One of the cars, a nondescript blue one, manages to make it alongside of us, and Dre lowers his window, screaming for them to ‘back the fuck off.’ As expected, they completely disregard him, only appearing more determined as they drive their car closer than they were before.

  The out-of-control circumstance has me on edge, gripping onto Trace’s hand as hard I can. Taking a tight corner, I wonder if it’s possible for a vehicle this size to flip. Before I can ask, Cal shifts over three lanes with unbelievable speed, and one of the cars who has been on our tail the entire time bumps us in the back, making the Escalade’s rear sway to the right. Cal attempts to correct but instead of going straight, we tailspin, straight into the path of an oncoming truck. All I can hear is the screeching of tires and the sound of our screams before darkness envelops me.

  Chapter 20

  Taryn

  Four Months Later

  It’s been a year since the last time I sat in these uncomfortable seats. A year since I first stared into those strikingly beautiful blue eyes. A year since my life changed forever. I still feel the chills as I remember the way he leaned down to whisper in my ear. I hurt as I think about everything we had to endure in the past twelve months, but then smile when I consider who I am now because of it all.

  The room darkens and the audience quiets as the large screen slowly descends from the ceiling. Regina takes my hand and looks over at me with sad, sympathetic eyes. I try to fix my face to assure her I’ll be fine, but I’m not as good at faking it as I once was. I’ve always hated the memorial segment at award shows—all the talented artists being recognized because they’re now dead. Seeing faces filled with life because they were able to wake up every day and do what they loved has the tears flowing down my face.

  The pictures scroll by with the years of the births and deaths of those being honored. I cringe when I see the many whose time on earth was cut short, which is exactly what happened—he had so much more to give. When the picture I’ve been waiting for appears, one of him looking relaxed in the recording studio, I close my eyes. Gina squeezes my hand before passing me a tissue, and I blot my eyes just as the lights turn back on.

  “Excuse me, Miss Starr.” One of the show’s assistants taps me on the shoulder and I twist around, swiping my finger under my eyes. Already knowing why he’s here, I slowly rise and straighten my long gown, thanking him as I leave my seat, which is immediately occupied by an overeager seat filler.

  I walk down the aisle, oblivious to the chatter in the room indicating that the show’s on a commercial break. When I arrive backstage, I’m greeted by the usual flurry of activity— individuals with earpieces and clipboards rushing around while appearing to talk to themselves, no doubt trying to keep the event on task.

  Watching my feet as I walk, my forward progress is suddenly stopped by a hand on my arm. My eyes travel up a well-built body in an overpriced black tuxedo until they rest on a pair of familiar caramel eyes.

  “Ryder,” I softly say.

  “Hey, doll.” He looks uncomfortable, as if he doesn’t know quite what to say which is fine—there isn’t really anything to say. Probably sensing that I want to be alone right now, he quickly says, “Good luck out there, you’ll knock ‘em dead.”

  Immediately, he realizes his poor choice of words, adding, “Sorry, girl, you know what I meant.” Giving me a kiss on the cheek, he says, “I’ll see you after the show” before striding away. I smile a little when I spot the cowboy boots he’s wearing with his tux. Ryder may be a huge star in his own right after having recently released his highly successful debut album, but he’ll always be the guitar-playing, truck-restoring guy from Texas. It’s only fitting that my mom is representing him now, and even though she and I don’t speak hardly at all anymore, I wish her only the best. I sober though when I think about the fact that, as well-deserved as Ryder’s fame is, I fear he doesn’t truly understand how harmful it can be. There’s always a price to pay—and some even pay the ultimate price.

  I change into my performance outfit as my stomach begins to churn with anxiety. It’s been awhile since I’ve performed in front of anyone and I don’t plan on doing it again after tonight. At least I can be comfortable in what I’m wearing—a western-style Balmain minidress with my favorite pair of Lucchese boots. Once I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, I work my way toward the wings, the sound of my boots echoing throughout the long hallway.

  The sound of an immensely popular rap song, the one that the radio stations can’t get enough of right now, fills the auditorium. The venom in his voice still surprises me every time I hear it. My shock is quickly replaced by amazement though because, despite the anger-laced lyrics, he’s definitely showcasing his talent tonight in front of all these people. The crowd’s earsplitting response is evidence of why he’s currently at the top of the charts. I stop short so I can watch. As his body paces back and forth across the stage, he rests the microphone against his lips as he spits rhymes at a breakneck speed. The familiarity of the image isn’t lost on me. If people didn’t know better, they’d think he was—

  Applause resonates throughout the large room, and I quickly turn around and head to where I’m supposed to be. The butterflies begin as I get closer and the first authentic smile I’ve had all night spreads across my face when I notice him leaning against a pole, waiting exactly where he told me he would be. The casual smirk across his lips has my feet moving at a faster pace and I’m thankful to be wearing boots instead of heels.

  “Hey, beautiful,” he whispers, taking me in his arms and kissing me on the cheek.

  “How are you doing?” I ask—seeing Dre in the memorial couldn’t have been easy.

  “Better now that you’re here,” he says, but sorrow is still evident by the shine in his eyes. The truck hit the front passenger side where Dre was seated, killing him instantly. Trace had two broken legs, three cracked ribs, and a concussion. He remained in the hospital for two weeks and recovered at home for another two months. I suffered a pretty serious head injury of my own, along with a broken arm and numerous scrapes and bruises. The rest of the guys were luckier and walked away with only minor injuries.

  Although we are grateful to be alive and our bodies have healed physically, it took some time for Trace to grieve the loss of his cousin. Though I couldn’t help but feel guilty, since the reason we left in a hurry was because of me, Trace, his friends, the label, and everyone in between put every ounce of anger and effort into making sure the paparazzi responsible for causing the accident paid heavily. And it wasn’t just that tabloid that paid the price…they’ve all taken a hit and have fortunately backed off in fear of the possible repercussions if they don’t. We’ll see how long it lasts though.

  “It’s time, you two,” a woman informs us and Trace’s warm hand envelops mine.

  “Ready, baby?” he asks and kisses me quickly on the lips. We walk toward the stage, but before we get there, Eli comes up from behind and pulls me in for a quick hug.

  “Hey, hands off my girl,” Trace jokes and fist bumps him. I know he’s teasing because Trace’s protégé finally seems a li
ttle more comfortable around me and we’re both happy about that. Now known to the world as ‘Storm-E,’ Eli is the guy Trace and I met on the Promenade that fateful day when we walked the streets of Santa Monica together. I guess after he hit rock bottom, he took my man up on his offer to help out, and it turns out that Eli is even more insanely talented than either of us previously thought.

  Not only can he write and rap with the best of them, but his live performances are in high demand, with venues selling out as fast as concerts are announced. And even though he’s just barely gotten started, Eli’s projected to win tonight in the ‘Best New Artist’ category, beating out some amazing competition from various musical genres. Now if he’ll just get over whoever made him so enraged in the first place. Then again, I guess he wouldn’t be ‘Storm-E’ without the anger issues.

  Eli ignores Trace’s remark but looks him in the eye, saying, “Man, I can’t thank you enough. Really and truly. This is all you, bro, and I look forward to working with you.”

  “Good to hear since you signed a contract with us, E,” Trace says with a laugh. Eli smirks and then struts off with some serious swagger, ready to take on the world.

  Trace and I continue, hand in hand, until we have to separate to find our respective spots on the stage. Nerves and anxiety don’t seem to bother me now, knowing he’ll be right by my side.

  The audience screaming can be heard from the darkness below, while two spotlights shine down on us. We rehearsed this over twenty times this afternoon, but I still pray I don’t screw it up, since this will be the first and last time we perform the song that brought us together.

  Trace’s eyes remain focused on me from across the stage. His microphone moves to his lips when the sound of the heartbeat comes over the speakers.