Collaboration (3 page)

“Sorry ‘bout that, Jay…”

“Sorry? You gonna be sorry…you use a jimmy hat?”

What? Oh,
hell
no. “Not that’s it’s any of your damn business, but I woke up alone. You should know that since you apparently brought me here.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know what happened before I got to you or who might’ve shown up after I left. But I gotta say, that’s the best news I’ve heard all day. Don’t need no babymamas crawling outta the woodwork, do we?”

That’s the damn truth.
“So what do we need to do?”

“What
you
are gonna do is lay low. I’ve got some more cleaning up to do and I don’t want you stumbling around in front of the cameras makin’ things worse. Plus, you better get yourself ready to meet with the suits first thing tomorrow morning. And no, in case you’re wondering, it’s not optional.”

“Say what?”

“The powers that be, and believe me, they
do
have the power, have scheduled a meeting to discuss your next project. And you might wanna prepare yourself that you may not like it, that’s all I’m gonna say.”

Shit.

My head hurts too badly to really care, so I ask the only question I need answered right now, “What time?”

“Be there at nine and not a minute later. I’ll send a driver; just make sure you’re ready.”

“Yes, Mom,” I say sarcastically and then end the call before any more directives come flying my way. Then my brain catches up with my mouth. I can’t believe I just said that. What I wouldn’t give to have my mom telling me what to do right now. And man, I’d sure as hell be getting a lecture after last night.

Last night…one minute I was missing them both, wishing they were here to see what I had accomplished, and the next, I find myself doing everything that they never would have wanted to see me do. That is so fucked up, it’s not even funny.

Whatever. It’s not like I can do anything about it now, except maybe get up off this damn floor. Might be a good place to start.

***

“Lordy, Lordy, would ya look at what the cat dragged in?”

“Hey, Stella,” I say, not quite able to look her in the eye. The early morning get-together with the execs did
not
go well, and even though I could give a fuck about pissing off my label, disappointing Stella is a whole other matter.

“
Sugar pie, honey bunch
…what in God’s green-and-brown earth have you been up to?”

I know she wants an explanation, but I don’t have one. Not a good one anyway. “Oh you know, a lil’ this, a lil’ that.”

“Boy, don’t you be jive talkin’ me,” she scolds.

I can’t help but laugh. It feels like the first time I’ve genuinely laughed in forever. “Jive talking? Stella, ain’t nobody been jivin’ since the 70s…”

“And look at the mess that happened in that decade!” she exclaims and then surprises me by grabbing my face in her pudgy hands, forcing me to look at her. “Here I was, proud as a peacock, you winnin’ that award and all. Then you go and mention my name in front of the whole ever-lovin’ world, and I didn’t think I could get any prouder. But, I gotta say—“

“Please don’t say it,” I whisper. I don’t want to hear how disappointed she is in me. It can’t be any worse than the way I already feel. After spending all day yesterday moping around the hotel as bits and piece of the previous night came into focus, all I could think about was what my parents’ reactions would have been. Stella is about the closest thing I have to one around here, so the thought of letting her down is even worse than the hangover I had.

“No, I don’t suppose you do need to hear it, now do ya?”

“No, ma’am,” I mumble, and she releases both my face and my eyes from her unyielding grasp.

“Well, at least you’ve still got your manners…that’s somethin’, I guess.”

Knife-to-the-fucking-heart. She didn’t even have to tell me she was disappointed—those words just said it all. How could things have gone so very wrong on what should have been the best night of my life?

“I don’t want to be late,” I say, indicating the closed door on the other side of her desk. I’m such a pussy. Here I am, trying to get away from the only person in this whole goddamn place who actually gives a shit about me.

“Yeah, your boys are in there, waitin’ on you. I best be gettin’ back to work anyway. You take care, Trace, ya hear?” she says, her concern obvious.

“Will do, Stella. And thanks…” I say as I stride toward the door.

“For what, Sugar?” she asks.

“For caring,” I say, then quickly open the door, put my swagger back on, and walk in.

“Ace…we done tore it up, brotha,” Dre calls before I’ve even had a chance to close the door. His real name’s DeAndre and he’s not actually my brother, but he is my cousin. We started off making music in a storage closet near my uncle’s apartment and, considering where we used to live, hanging out there instead of on the streets probably kept us alive and, for the most part, out of trouble. We came into this business together, and although I’ve been recognized from the beginning for my rapping and writing skills, Dre’s also made a name for himself as a guy who mixes killer beats. Unfortunately, he seems to have adopted his old man’s habit of mixing some killer drugs too.

“Fuck yeah, we did,” yells Xavier, also known as ‘X,’ or ‘Triple XXX’, as he likes to refer to himself. Hiring him as my sound engineer was the best decision I’ve made; the guy may be the biggest player in LA, but he is a fucking genius in the recording studio.

Well, this is a different reception than I got at the executive ass-chewing, that’s for sure. I look over at Quinton and Cal, who are both wearing looks that mirror those from the earlier meeting. Can’t say that I blame them though, since I just made their jobs a hell of a lot harder.

Quinton is my main media and marketing man and he has every right to be pissed, but I know he’ll get over it. He always does. Calvin, or Big Cal, is the head of my security team, and even though he’s annoyed we gave him the slip last night, he never stays mad for long. Guy’s bigger than any offensive lineman in the pros but he’s a gentle giant. Except when somebody’s threatening to cause me bodily harm and then he’ll put the fear of God in them.

My videographer/photographer, Marcus, looks about like they do, but he’s probably just worried about me since last night doesn’t affect
his
job. We don’t call him “St. Mark” for nothing. Doesn’t help that the guy is never with a girl. Hey, I don’t ask and I sure as hell don’t tell.

“’Sup,” I say, hoping they aren’t too riled up. Before I have the chance to apologize, however, the door opens again and Jay walks in. One look and there is no doubt that he is still pissed.

“’Aight, fuckers, let’s get started,” he says in his usual I-ain’t-got-time-for-small-talk manner of speaking. “T had his meeting with the big dawgs and now we got a collaboration to plan.”

“Wait, what?” asks Dre.

“Co-lab-o-ra-tion,” Jay answers slowly. “When two or more artists work together on something—“

“I know what it is, motherfucker,” Dre snaps. “I also know there is no way in hell Trace is
collaborating
with anybody.”

“Actually, he is,” Jay says, giving me a look, daring me to argue with him. “Aren’t ya, Trace?”

I sigh before responding, “Got to, no choice, cuz. You know how it is. The big boyz call the shots and they done fired their weapon my way today.”

“Now that’s outta the way, let’s continue. We got a song, now we just need a singer and then a video,” Jay says, glancing over at Marcus.

“You’ve got to be shittin’ me. The song too?” Dre yells, but closes his mouth when he sees the frosty look Jay blasts his way.

“So let’s figure out who we’re gonna partner up with. Any ideas?” Jays asks, making himself comfortable in a leather chair and putting his feet up, obviously done now that he’s laid down the law. I sit up a little taller because there’s no way I’m not deciding this—I’m the one who is going to have to sing and perform with this chick.

“What about Ka’Mari?” Quint asks.

“Nah, man. You crazy?” I say.

“Carressa?”

“Are you for real?” I retort. There is no way in hell; that girl is all kinds of insane and everyone knows it. “Regina’s cool as shit, how about her?”

“Booked solid,” Jay responds without missing a beat.

“Makayla?” Xavier throws out, wagging his eyebrows suggestively.

“Man, she’s hot, I’ll give ya that, but she can’t sing to save her life. We need someone with pipes.”

“Ace, you’ve shot down every fuckin’ female singer on the charts. Who do
you
think it should be?” Xavier asks.

“What about that Taryn chick?” Dre offers to my surprise. “Now that girl can sing.”

“You listenin’ to white folk music now, Dre? How the hell do
you
know she can sing?” Quinton chimes in.

“Don’t even matter. Can you see me bangin’ her in a video?” I interrupt before they can argue this further.

“Actually, come to think of it, the song
is
about opposite’s attractin’ and shit. Well, there ain’t no one more opposite than you and
that
white girl,” Jay adds. I glare at him since he just now brings up what might have saved us the past ten minutes of discussion.

“And damn if she ain’t ghost white,” Xavier says and everyone laughs except me. This is ridiculous. We wouldn’t even be having this conversation in the first place if it wasn’t for the fucking record label.

“Can we get back to it?” Jay barks, bringing our attention back to him. “Now Dre here’s gotta point. Girl can sing and it fits the song, even though we’ll have to adapt it some. But Trace, you can take care of that.”

“”Aint like I got a choice,” I respond. I know I’m being a dick, but since I can’t tell Backlash to suck mine, Jay is the closest thing to them in my book.

Jay shakes his head. “Whatever, man—I’m gonna go make the call.” As he walks out, I hear him mutter something about how happy the suits will be when they hear I’ll be singing with ‘America’s fucking Sweetheart.’ I start to follow, impatient to go back to bed before this day gets any worse. But before I’m out the door, I hear Dre call out, “Which of the brothas gonna get him some white puss-say?”

I hear the others begin chanting my name in unison and I slam the door to drown them all out.
Hell to the fucking no.

Taryn

I climb the narrow steps and enter the private plane. After greeting the flight attendant, I slump down in the cushioned seat and stretch my legs out in front of me. My sleep last night was restless, to say the least, but I should’ve expected it after drinking champagne with Gina. I either have to not drink a drop or consume enough to pass out in order to have a sound sleep.

“I’m assuming I don’t have to remind you what to say in the interviews. Keep them short, and don’t—“

“Mom, I know the drill,” I interrupt her before she can continue with the usual lecture before these appearances. I lean my head against the headrest, hoping I can get at least a catnap on the long flight to New York.

“Nothing personal…no relationship talk,” she adds and I release an annoyed breath.

“I know,” I answer, rolling my eyes. Not like there’s anything to speak of. Sure there was Maverick but that was short-lived. I’ve decided that there’s no way two people in this industry could ever make a relationship work. Besides the chaotic schedules, there’s also the intense competition to be the best. Though in the case of Maverick, it was him being photographed with a girl who was clearly not me that did us in.

Once my mom finally sits back and relaxes, as much as she ever does anyway, I let my mind shut off and my eyes drift closed.

***

The plane lands and I’m ushered into a waiting limo. My mom had already woken me an hour before we arrived so I could freshen up. I have no idea why she bothers since the makeup artists will just redo everything when I arrive.

Before I realize it, we are crawling through traffic in a bustling area of midtown Manhattan. In all the times I’ve been to New York City, I’ve never just walked around like a normal tourist. Sure, I’ve been to the best restaurants and a handful of shows. But it’s not like I can hop in a cab and say ‘take me here’ or stroll through the streets, perusing the shops. One day…maybe. I would like nothing more than to stand in the middle of Time’s Square on New Year’s Eve, admiring all the neon lights and big screens…preferably without my face on them. Funny how my hopes and dreams are probably the exact opposite of most girls my age.

It’s not like I don’t appreciate what I have or that I don’t enjoy entertaining people. It’s just that sometimes…it’s lonely. My chin rests in the palm of my gloved hand as I stare out the window, watching couples with their arms wrapped around one another, trying to stay warm. I wish I could switch spots with any one of them for just one day.

“Taryn!” my mom’s fingers snap in front of my face. It no longer takes me by surprise, so I slowly turn my head her way. “We’re here—stop daydreaming and get a move on it.” She exits the limo first and heads inside, not bothering to wait for me.

“The only thing I’m dreaming about is freedom from you,” I mumble to the emptiness around me. Some days I do think about what it would be like to fire her, but aside from the fact that she’s my mother, I’m pretty sure she’s been sleeping with one of the Backlash executives, ensuring her job security for the time being.

Taking a deep breath, I put on my smile and step out of the limo, ready to greet the numerous fans lining the barricaded walkway. I shake a few hands, sign a couple autographs, and even hug a few young fans before finally escaping the cold and heading into the heated building. Luck must be on my side because my first few interviews are in the same location.

I’m shuttled into the first studio and they plop me down in a chair, urgently applying my makeup and curling my hair. It still amazes me the way that they are able to transform my appearance in a matter of minutes. And people say I’m gifted…

The first two are daytime interviews—easy, breezy. I could do these in my sleep. No tricky questions or awkward moments. At the second one, the host asks if I’ll grace them with a song. Her assistant brings out my guitar, which was already waiting outside of camera shot. Although the audience thinks that it’s spur of the moment, I knew about it two weeks ago in order to prepare myself.