Collaboration (16 page)

“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.

Turning around, a gust of wind whips a rebellious strand of my hair across my lips, where it’s instantly attracted to my pale pink lip gloss. Gently pulling it away, my eyes focus on the five black men climbing out of a super-stretch limo. When the last one steps out and his blue eyes connect with mine, it takes everything in me not to run to Trace. He looks as if he’s going to save me the trip when his cousin, Dre, whispers something in his ear, causing him to look away and wave to the fans, who are literally screaming his name.

“Let’s go, Juliet,” Gina says, hooking her arm in mine. We leave Trace behind with his fans and enter the dimly-lit club, which has obviously been taken over by Backlash for the night. Gina immediately leads us toward the bar, where we both eagerly order our drinks—a glass of Chardonnay for me and Gina’s usual, ‘Envy.’

“You’re still ordering that drink?” I point to the blue liquid served in a martini glass. “Would have thought you’d be onto something new,” I say with a wink and she sticks out her tongue out at me. Regina changes drinks as often as she goes through guys.

We walk over to a table and, as we sit down, I spot Trace entering the room. “Where’s the Wicked Witch?” she asks. Hearing her refer to my mom the same way Ryder did makes me think of him. It hadn’t even occurred to me that we haven’t spoken since we arrived in LA.

“Oh, she’s here,” I say, scanning the room and my eyes briefly pause when I see Trace before they continue looking for my mother. “There she is.” I point over to a table filled with execs from the record label, watching as my mom shamelessly flirts with one of them.

“We need to ditch her tonight,” Gina says, pulling my attention back to her. “Especially if…you know.” She raises her eyebrows and I feel the blush rising in my cheeks.

“Gina,” I warn.

“Tar-yn,” she echoes playfully. “Come on, girlfriend, give me the 411. I see the way your eyes wander his way every other minute.” Her hand reaches over and gives my forearm a soft squeeze. “You know you can trust me.”

I’m about to give in when another singer, Damon Knight, comes over. I vaguely recall her telling me that they dated once—briefly—so I excuse myself and make my way to the bathroom.

Suddenly, two hands press against my back, shuffling me forward and into a back room. The familiar scent of sandlewood cologne floods my nostrils, and without turning on a light or saying a word, Trace pushes me against the wall and kisses me as if he’s thought about this kiss every moment for the past two days.

“Peaches,” he sighs and my body weakens against the solid wall, “this dress…” His right hand lightly grazes up my leg until it reaches the hem. Moving along the outside of the purple fabric, he grips my hip, tugging me toward him and I go willingly, having no desire to fight him.

His lips move to my neck and continue up to my ear, where he sucks my lobe into his warm mouth. Before I can stop myself, I wrap my right leg around his waist and instantly feel his fingers trail toward my satin panties. Our mouths meld together with the force of our desire and for a few blissful minutes, everything and everyone is forgotten. We then slowly part and he gives me a few quick kisses, my leg dropping back to the floor.

“So, I guess we should get back out there,” I say, using my thumb to rub off the lipstick that now stains his gorgeous pouty lips.

“I don’t want to, but you’re right. I just had to taste you,
especially
after you made me walk in this club with a damn hard on,” he chuckles.

“Sorry,” I say, but secretly thrilled I have that affect on him.

“Somehow I doubt that.” His boisterous laugh echoes throughout the small storage room. “You go first,” he says, releasing his grip, and as I turn toward the door, he yanks me back to him. “Shit, one more taste.” My two hands press against the hard muscles of his chest and he kisses me once again. This time it’s gentle and loving, and when his tongue finds mine, they mingle together as though they’ve done this for years. Just as I think we may never leave this room, he releases me, opens the door, and gives me slight nudge toward it. “Just so you know, my eyes will be on you all night,” he says huskily. I don’t turn around because I fear I’ll never get out of this room if I do.

I stop by the restroom to make sure I don’t resemble an adolescent girl who just came out of the closet after seven minutes in heaven. The inability to stop smiling makes the job of reapplying my lipstick much more difficult, but eventually I get it right before venturing back out.

Regina is sitting with Marcus when I return, while the rest of Trace’s crew is a table away. I don’t see Trace anywhere and I briefly wonder if he’s made it back from the storage room. Marcus gives me a quick ‘hello’ and kiss on my cheek, telling me that the video turned out great and he’s never been able to pull one together so fast. I joke with him that Trace and I are just
that
good when I hear a chuckle behind me belonging to the one and only.

“There you are,” Trace says so everyone can hear. He kisses me on the cheek, not unlike the way Marcus just did, but the difference in my body’s reaction to those innocent kisses are night and day. “You ready for this?” He moves two steps away, drink in hand, and I already miss his close contact. As he brings the glass to the same lips that just consumed mine moments ago, I see him smirk through the clear liquid as he gives me a knowing look.

“Taryn!” Regina says, snapping her fingers. Trace chuckles again before placing his drink on the table.

“Say what?” I ask her dazedly and her smile grows wide.

“Marcus tells me things got a little hot on set,” she teases, nudging her shoulder with mine. She has no idea how hot they were…or are.