Collaboration (7 page)

“What’s this?” I ask him, glancing at the sheet. There are lines scratched through lyrics and new ones replacing those that have been crossed out.

“Changed things up a little,” he shrugs his shoulders and chuckles. “Let’s call it artist overrule. You game?” he asks.

After I read it over, I look up to find those blue eyes watching me intently. He’s right, we should have a say in what we’re singing. Looks like neither of enjoy having the label tell us what to do. “Always,” I say and he gives me his signature wink.

Xavier comes across the mic, asking us if we’re ready. Trace nods, still staring at me, and I’m thankful the room behind the glass has emptied out—it’s only Xavier and Dre from the looks of it. My mom has disappeared, along with the other members of Trace’s crew. I laugh to myself at the thought of her out there waiting for me with all of them. She probably has her head glued to her phone anyway.

The sound of heartbeats fills the room and I focus on the words as Trace begins to rap, raising my eyebrows at the words “lil’ country girl.” Someone
has
been changing things up. I get through my part without any problems, although I know this is just the beginning—it’ll require several takes to get it right. Just as I predicted, the guys stop us and ask us to start again from the top. When Trace gets going again, his eyes veer toward mine as he starts to rap:

There ain’t nothing okay about this, I swear

The way I think about your body

your face, your hair

Every time you laugh

I wanna break down and cry

I know I’ll never be the one

To be by your side

The whole time he’s looking right at me, as though the words were written
for
me. I gulp around a large golf ball-sized lump in my throat, unable to hide the connection I fell between us. By the time I notice him raise his eyebrows, it’s too late. I missed my part.

Flustered, I try to find where I’m supposed to be in the song and Xavier laughs through the mic. “Man, it’s gettin’ all kinds of hot in there,” he says and I can feel the flush on my face. “Alright, let’s start again. T, start with that verse. You ready, girl?” All I can do is nod my head, willing myself to get through this without embarrassing myself. After today, I probably won’t see him again anyway, except maybe at the next award show.

A few hours later and a zillion butterfly flutters, we finally make it through to the end. After the closing instrumentals, Trace says softly, “But I still ain’t never seen a horse in the ghetto.” I have no idea if that was part of the song or not since it’s not on my sheet, but I forget about it entirely when he gives me a breathtaking smile, revealing a perfect set of pearly whites.

Xavier bursts into the room. “You guys
killed
it!” He embraces me in a tight hug, completely taking me by surprise. I stiffen slightly before eventually relaxing in his arms.

“Yeah,” Trace murmurs, and when I peek over Xavier’s shoulder, I see Trace looking at me strangely before he quickly diverts his attention toward the door.

“Shall we?” Trace gestures and waits for me to walk in front of him. I briefly wonder if he’s being chivalrous or he just wants to check out my ass. The fact that it could be the latter causes a surprising tingling sensation down low.

We walk through the control room where Dre is hard at work to the waiting area, where the rest of Trace’s team are all hanging out, some on their phones while others are sleeping. My mom sits with her laptop and phone out and I’m automatically annoyed that she’s still here. Since I drove myself, I was hoping she would be gone, but then again, what else does she have to do except run my life?

I turn around to say goodbye to Trace and see Xavier kick the feet of one of the guys who is resting. The guy rubs his eyes, groaning, “X, fucking stop it. I wouldn’t be asleep if it weren’t for your little private recording rules.”

Now that I think about it, it
is
odd that the control room cleared out. I’m used to singing in front of everyone and their mother watching from behind the glass. I’m astonished they would let Xavier make that decision.

“Not my rules, man,” Xavier tells him, glancing at Trace, who cuts a clear ‘shut the fuck up’ look his way.

“I don’t like to record with a lot of people watching,” he informs me.

“What? Since wh—“ the bleary-eyed guy starts before receiving another kick—this one much harder—from Xavier. “Yeah, no distractions.” His failed attempt to cover up that Trace purposely wanted our recording session private makes me both curious and happy.

I see my mom check her watch and I know our time is up. “Well, I guess this is it for awhile. I heard you’re going on tour too. Good luck with that.”

“Yeah, flying out tonight. Starting in DC tomorrow,” he says. All the other guys start making their way out of earshot, but my mother stays put. Always the eavesdropper.

“Oh, I guess I lucked out since mine starts in LA.” The comfortable connection we had in the studio has now been replaced with awkwardness.

“Yup,” he mumbles. Just when I’m about to give him a hug goodbye, Trace’s lips turn down and I suddenly find myself being picked up in a great big bear hug.

Once I’m back on my feet, I turn around to see who it is, although I have my suspicions. “Ryder,” I say, playfully swatting at his arm. “Trace, this is Ryder—my guitarist. Ryder, this is Trace.”

Chapter 5

Trace

“
My guitarist
, huh?” I can’t help but wonder what else he is to her. Considering his close proximity and the way he’s looking at her, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he
wants
to be. Question is—what does she want? Or rather, who? And an even better question is why the hell do I care anyway?

“Trace?” Snapping out of my ridiculous thoughts, I realize that both Taryn and guitar guy are staring at me. I also don’t miss the curious look her mom is shooting my way, arched eyebrow included.

“Nice to meet you,” I say, using my most polite voice. It’s a good thing my boys aren’t listening in or they’d be giving me shit for sure. “You must be a hell of a guitar player to get to back up this girl.” Okay, that was a dig I just couldn’t help.

“I do what I can,” he says with a smirk, and I have the unexpected urge to knock that grin right off country boy’s face. I can’t even imagine how the execs would react to my starting a fight right here on Backlash property. “Oh, and congrats on the win, by the way, even if you did beat my girl here. Then again, she did take home the grand prize so it’s all good, right?”

If Taryn was a fire hydrant, he just pissed all over her. Yeah, I better get the fuck out of here…and fast. “Yeah, we’re good. Look, it’s good to meet you, but I gotta jet...literally,” I say and notice the way the corner of Taryn’s perfect pink lips turn up at my words. “Tour starts tomorrow.”

“I heard about your tour,” he says.
This
should be interesting because I know this redneck doesn’t listen to my music. “What’s it called again?” he asks, and I see his eyes shift to the right where there is a newly-released tour poster covering half of the damn wall.
This is Me, Motherfuckers
is emblazoned across a life-sized version of yours truly, giving two middle fingers to anyone who sees it. Ironically, this poster doesn’t really represent me at all, but this asshole doesn’t need to know that. I’m not sure why exactly, but he is definitely trying to make me look bad in front of Taryn. Well, two can play at that game.

“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.