Collaboration (11 page)

Not heading out on the town after the show wouldn’t be so bad…hell, I’d love it actually, except that the party decided to come to my hotel suite instead. I love my boys, and not to diminish what they do, but they have no fucking clue how tiring these concerts are on the one actually performing. I have the utmost respect for professional dancers because, whereas we rehearse for a couple of hours before each performance, I know they practice all day every day, and they don’t get near the money or respect that they deserve.

Speaking of which, it looks as if the guys invited every backup dancer from the tour to my place, along with the usual out-for-celebrity-cock groupies. I scan the opulent and soon-to-be-trashed room, not missing the fact that there is a hell of a lot more girls than guys in here. I also notice that the extra thirty minutes I spent showering and changing after the show appears to have been enough time for everyone to get sufficiently sloshed, because I’m pretty sure I’m the only sober one in this room right now.

As if on cue, I hear, “Trace, my man, help a brother out…” I roll my eyes at Xavier, thinking to myself that this is never a good start to a conversation with any of my boys.

“What’s up, X?” I ask.

“You good at gettin’ pussy, Ace,” he slurs. Oh good Lord, where is he going with this? “Why don’t you tell this lovely lady right here,” he says, indicating the “lady” on his left versus the one hanging on his right arm, “why she should join ‘ol T-Rex for a little midnight ménage à trois?”

Not even justifying his idiocy, I begin to walk away but not before I hear, “Fine, motherfucker. You can have one of ‘em if you gonna be like that.”

If I wasn’t so damn tired, I’d head to the gym to escape this drunk-ass crowd. Instead, I walk away, pushing through people to get to my room. On the way, I run into Quinton and remember something I’d wanted to ask him earlier.

“Quint,” I call and motion for him to follow me into the room. There’s no way in hell he’d hear me over the beats blaring. It’s a good thing this suite takes up the entire top floor and my crew occupies the floor below, or I’m sure they’d kick our disorderly asses out of this high-class establishment.

“Yeah, Ace?” he asks once the heavy bass is muted by the closed door.

“What’s the name of that site where they talk shit about me?”

“Which one?” he asks with a laugh. And although I get the feeling he isn’t joking, he quickly says, “Nah, I’m fuckin’ with ya, man. I think you’re talking about Perez Hilton. He’s the go-to guy for celeb gossip. But T, I done told you not to look yourself up, brother. It ain’t gonna do you no good, and will probably just piss you off.”

“Good thing I’m not planning on looking myself up then, ain’t it?” I say and he cocks his eyebrow. “Just cover for me out there, will ya? I need ten and then I’ll be back in business.”

“Dude, you ain’t been in business since this tour started. Don’t think the boys and I haven’t noticed either. What’s up with you? You missin’ your momma?” he asks jokingly. If he wasn’t a friend of mine, I would kick his ass right this minute. But it’s not
his
fault he doesn’t know. Only Dre does, and that’s the way it’s going to stay.

“Nothin’, Q…just tired, that’s all,” I say through gritted teeth. “Gotta pace myself, you know how it is.”

“Dawg, I ain’t never seen you pace yourself when it comes to women. I thought the more the merrier was your motto. But lately—“

“
Lately
, I’m workin’ my ass off,” I snap defensively. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” I say, heading to the bathroom, not caring at this point if I’m being rude. I’m not sure if I’m irritated because I don’t
want
the stream of meaningless fucks that I could have at every moment along this tour or because I don’t know
why
I don’t want them.

When I get out of the bathroom, my room is quiet and thankfully Quinton-free, so I grab the duffle with my iPad in it. Firing it up, I think about the conversations that I’ve had with Taryn over the past two weeks. Though both busy touring, we’ve texted a couple times a day, and each back-and-forth makes me want to get to know her more. We’ve spoken on the phone once or twice too, but that’s a little trickier since our schedules aren’t always in sync.

We seem to have this unspoken agreement where we take turns texting first, and I messaged her after the concert in Indianapolis last night. Shit, maybe that’s why I’m so fucking irritable—I haven’t heard from her today. I briefly wonder about the radio silence but figure I can get my fix seeing a picture of her instead.

Pulling up the celebrity gossip site Quinton told me about, the first picture on the “news” feed tells me exactly what she’s been up to. There, in all its high-resolution, pixilated glory, is a photo of Taryn and guitar boy, flanked by two fans. I try to remind myself that she’s not my girl; we’re just texting for God’s sake. But it doesn’t stop the burn I feel in my chest—not a good feeling.

Further cementing my masochistic tendencies, I click on Taryn’s name, bringing up any and all pictures and stories related to her in reverse chronological order. Among video clips from recent concerts, there are paparazzi photos of her leaving a charity event in St. Louis, another of her getting into a limo after a concert, and my favorite, her trying to sneak unrecognized into a coffee shop in Nashville. The braids-and-ballcap look is fucking sexy on her.

The burn intensifies when I scroll down to the next picture, which is one of her and guitar boy by themselves, his arm around her. The date the photo was posted was the night of her first concert and I wonder if it was taken before or after we texted. “Curled up in bed, my ass,” I mutter to myself.

Her ears must be ringing because, at that very moment, my cell buzzes, alerting me to an incoming text. Knowing I have absolutely no right to feel like I do, and not even certain what it is that I’m feeling, I pull out my phone to read what she wrote.

Taryn: How’s Detroit?

I’m surprised that she’s taken the time out of her busy schedule to pay attention to where I am.

Me: Sucks

I stare at the picture of the two of them as I wait for her response—not that I really invited one. Below the photo, I read what the self-proclaimed ‘Gossip Gangster’ has to say, and it’s not encouraging. Apparently, this isn’t the first time rumors have been swirling about the “cozy couple.” My phone buzzes before I get any further.

Taryn: Okay...care to expand on that?

Me: Can’t fuckin’ leave hotel so looks like the party is at my place.

Taryn: Everything else okay?

Me: Yeah, perfect. You?

Taryn: Tired…and confused

I’ll bet you are
, I think, and then because the switch that operates my filter seems to have been turned off, I text those exact words.

I can understand why she’s tired, but I don’t get the confusion. If there was a decision to be made, which there clearly is not, country boy would win any day of the week and twice on Sunday. Time to let her get back to him.

Me: Aight, well gotta get to it. Check ya later.

Before I even get the phone in my pocket,
“Young Lady”
by Kid Cudi starts playing. “Holla,” I say, answering her call.

“I’m gonna
holler
at you if you don’t tell me what your problem is.” Now I’m the one who’s confused because, despite the fact that I’m frustrated as hell, hearing her feisty little voice just caused my dick to go hard as granite.

“Nice to talk to you too, Taryn,” I say, trying to quickly think of an explanation for my texting tantrum.

“Cut the shit. What’s wrong?” she asks, sounding pretty irritated herself.

“Somebody’s got a potty mouth tonight,” I say, trying to lighten the mood while simultaneously dodging the question.

“You know I’m only like two states away right now. If you don’t tell me what’s crawled up your ass, you’re going to hear more of my mouth when I redirect our tour bus in your direction,” she says, now sounding monumentally pissed.

Damn, the thought of her actually doing that just turned me on more. Then I remember where I am, and the fact that I can barely leave this suite, filled beyond fire-safety standards with ridiculously horny drunks, and I rush to cool her jets. Knowing her, she just might do it.

“Sorry, Peaches. Just tired and pissed, that’s all. They’ve got me cooped up here and I’m getting a little stir-crazy,” I explain. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I could kick myself. There isn’t a chance in hell
that’s
not going to generate a follow-up question. And I definitely don’t want her to worry her pretty little head about the threats I’ve received. Not that she would necessarily. Or maybe she would. Fuck if I know. And how the hell did I end up apologizing and trying to make her feel better, when I was the one pissed off in the first place? I have no idea how it happened, but this girl has definitely gotten into my head and messed with it somehow.

“Why can’t you leave the hotel?” she asks, interrupting my convoluted thoughts and effectively removing any doubt that she’ll let this go.

“Apparently, not everyone in Detroit is a fan. Cal just thought it would be better if we stayed under the radar while we’re here,” I explain, not lying but not being forthcoming either.

“You mean safer, right?” she asks quietly.

“Yeah, hon,” I say with a sigh, “it’ll be safer. The good news is that we leave first thing tomorrow and then we’re headed to…well shit, I don’t know where we go from here,” I say and she laughs. Now there’s a sweet-ass sound I like to hear.

“I’m pretty sure you’re headed to New York City next,” she says. I’m man enough to admit that her knowing my itinerary better than I do just gave me one of those warm, fuzzy feelings girls are always babbling about.

“So you’re keepin’ tabs on me, huh?” I joke. “If that’s the case, any idea when I’m going to make it south of the Mason-Dixon line?”

“Well, listen to you, sounding all scholarly and shit,” she says and I laugh my ass off. I never know what is going to fly out of this girl’s mouth, but it sure is fun finding out.

“How about you?” I ask.

“I’m not even sure I’m going to make it
out
of the South. But I love New York, and my last trip there was entirely too short. You should definitely take advantage of your time there though,” she states adamantly.

“Oh yeah? What do
you
think I should be doing in the ‘city that never sleeps’?” I ask suggestively.

“I don’t really know what I meant,” she says, sounding thoughtful, “since I never get to do anything when I’m there. If I had a day to spend, I guess I’d just walk around Central Park all day, sit around by a lake if there is one, and read a book or have a picnic. Something stupid like that.”

Here I thought she was implying I should go get my party on, and there she goes surprising me again. “That’s not stupid at all, Taryn,” I assure her. “It sounds normal, and God knows we need some normal in our lives.”

The door bursts open, just as I’m about to tell her we should try and meet up to do something “normal” together. Dre and half of the female dancers from the tour tumble in the room, as does an ear-splitting decibel level of Jay-Z. “There ya are, Ace!” Dre yells, slurring heavily. “Get yo sorry black ass outta here and let’s show these girls how to dance.”

“T?” I ask, signaling to Dre to hold up, while quickly heading to the empty, massive walk-in closet. Once I’ve closed the door with the party on the other side, I say, “Sorry about that. Maybe we can we talk later?”

“Uh, sure, no problem,” she says. “I’ve gotta get some sleep anyway.”

“Well, I hate to run, but I’ve got to teach my cousin some manners,” I joke, trying to recapture the light-hearted banter we had going on earlier.

“Sounds as if you should go easy on him,” she replies.

“You’re right, the shit-faced son of a bitch probably won’t remember it tomorrow anyway,” I say, aggravated that Dre interrupted a perfectly good conversation that’s now coming to an awkward end.

“Hey, his mom would be
your
aunt,” she says astutely. “That’s kind of harsh, don’t you think?”

“Hon, you haven’t met my aunt, and to tell you the truth, neither have I. She took off when Dre was a baby. Left ‘em both high and dry, and that’s about the same time my uncle started drinking anything wet. Particularly of the alcohol variety.”

Shut the hell up, Trace
. She does not need to know anything about my fucked-up past, and here I am spouting off like
I
’m the one who’s been drinking. Before I say anything else stupid or the closet door is broken down by a stampede of drunken dancers, I decide I’d better tell Taryn goodnight. “Well little lady, I’d better go hit the hay,” I say, over-exaggerating a southern drawl.

She begins laughing hysterically, and even though I didn’t think my accent was
that
bad, I love listening to her. When she still hasn’t stopped laughing after a couple more minutes, I begin to suspect that I’ve missed something. “What’d I say?”

She continues chuckling and I hear the sound of a fist pounding against something. Now I
know
I missed something. Finally, she catches her breath and answers, “If you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you.”

“Aw, that’s not right to leave me hanging,” I say, triggering another round of giggles. If this wasn’t Taryn, and her laughter wasn’t music to my ears, I would seriously be annoyed right now.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” she says, clearly trying to contain herself. “You’re right, you’ve got to go.” Oh,
hell
no. Not only am I curious what has her in stitches, but there’s nothing else I’d rather do at this moment than talk to her. That’s not true—I can think of a few things other than
talking
that I’d rather do with her.

“Wait, hold up,” I say, muting the phone. I fling open the closet door to find Dre and not one, not two, but three women…on my fucking bed. Fortunately, everyone still has their clothes on, but in the case of the dancers, there wasn’t much to begin with.