Collaboration (30 page)

Speaking of, I’m hoping it’s just nerves that have me feeling a little off right now myself. Not only am I performing and presenting an award tonight, it’s the first time I’ll be in Trace’s space. Even though it’s a hotel room—which still baffles me that he doesn’t own a house in Los Angeles—it’s where he lives when he’s not on the road. Maybe one day
we’ll
have a home together here...crap, it’s probably too soon to think about that.

After we step out of the elevator, I follow Cal down the brightly lit hallway that showcases elaborate and probably ridiculously expensive art along the walls. My eyes focus on the back of Cal, who really is an intimidating presence; I can see why Trace feels safe with him around. Of course, those two guys Trace hired—the ones waiting at the plane after we were outed by the paparazzi—are carbon copies of Cal so I have nothing to complain about.

Cal inserts the keycard and opens the door, causing the butterflies that only Trace’s presence provokes to fill my stomach with the anticipation of being in his arms. Lucky for me, I don’t have to wait too long. Trace saunters into the room, bare-chested with his jeans hanging low on his hips, and I rush toward him, instantly forgetting that we’re not alone in the room. His strong arms catch me and I hug him forcefully, murmuring, “God, I’ve missed you.”

He pulls back a little, his blue eyes staring into mine and whispers, “Me too, Peaches.” Something about his tight smile isn’t matching up with the words coming out of his mouth though. This isn’t the warm welcome I had imagined during all those lonely nights on the road. Turning toward Cal, he says, “Excuse us, bro.” With a nod Cal quietly exits.

Once the click of the door sounds, Trace places his hands on either side of my face. “It’s so good to see you,” he states, bending down and kissing my lips, “I missed you so damn much.”

“Same here…but I have to say, I was expecting to be halfway to the bedroom by now,” I tease. When he doesn’t laugh—or carry me to the bedroom in question—I ask, “What is it?”

Biting his lip, which is something
I
would do but isn’t characteristic of him, he stares at me intensely before saying, “We need to talk, Peaches.” He then takes my hand and guides me to an elegant couch, obviously designed more for appearance than comfort.

I was so captivated by seeing him that I didn’t even realize the television was on until I unexpectedly hear Trace’s name being spoken aloud by someone who is
not
in the room with us. ‘Trace as a Daddy?’ is the caption displayed beneath of a photo of the man sitting beside me, the one whose eyes—for probably the first time ever—are utterly unreadable to me.

“
This
shit is what I wanted to talk about,” he says with disgust, pointing to the television.

I grab the remote from his hand and he lets it go willingly before I stand, turning up the volume. The very next photo is one I’ve seen before—it made headlines months ago, displaying him and some girl on a bed together. I still remember the sick feeling in my stomach when I saw it the first time, but that sensation doesn’t compare to what I’m experiencing now.

I don’t even recall holding the remote until it hits the floor with a thud. Coming up from behind, Trace wraps his arms around me, whispering, “It’s not what it looks like, baby.” All I can think of is that this is like Maverick all over again, except that this time I’m in love…and I believe him. I just pray to God that the whole ‘love is blind’ expression doesn’t apply here.

I take a deep breath. Knowing the media the way I do, I’m well aware how they are able to misconstrue and misinform. Also, the fact that they haven’t been able to get a whole ton of dirt on us doesn’t mean they haven’t been digging so I ask, “Has she contacted you?”

“
Hell
no. The first I’ve heard of this was not long before you got here when Jay came in on the warpath. Peaches, you
know
she’s lying, don’t you? Nothing happened that night, and just like I told you before—“

I turn around, placing my finger over his soft lips. “I know,” I tell him. And truth be told, I do. I couldn’t explain why exactly I trust this man, who most likely has had more girls in his bed than I ever want to think about. Whether it’s the sincerity shining in his blue eyes or just a gut feeling I have, I just know. That being said...“I have one question, and I want you to be completely truthful, Trace.”

“Fire away,” he says, not looking or sounding as if he has anything to hide.

“Do you remember being with her before we got together? Is there
any
chance she’s telling the truth?” I ask him, biting my lip as my stomach turns while I wait for his answer.

He closes his eyes and my breath catches in my throat. “I don’t think so, but to be honest, there’s no way to rule it out. I’m sorry, baby. But I swear—I’ve worn a condom every goddamn time I’m been with anyone…until you.” I release the breath I was holding as he pulls me close, and I can tell he’s worried that this could destroy us.

“Okay,” I say, removing myself from his arms. I sit back down on the couch, needing a moment to think. This is one of those moments in a person’s life where there’s a fork in the road and the decision must be made which path to choose. Can I honestly continue in this relationship if that baby ends up being Trace’s? Or do I leave behind the man who not only makes me smile and laugh like no one else and makes me feel as if there’s nowhere else I want to be except in the safety of his embrace, but that I’ve grown to love like no other?

He sits on the coffee table in front of me, giving me space to think, but staring at me in a way that leaves no space whatsoever because it penetrates my body and my soul. “We can deal with this,” I tell him and his shoulders relax visibly from the tight strain. Even if the baby—if there is one—is his, I know I’ll love it because it’s a part of him. And there’s not one part of this man before me that I don’t love with all my heart.

“Peaches,” he says softly, bending down to kiss me. Just as his lips are about to reach mine, the television host announces that there’s proof of the “no longer alleged” encounter between Trace and the girl before cutting to a commercial—asshole! Both our heads turn toward the television and Trace pops up and begins to pace.

I bite my nails and the tension in the room is so thick, not even a hunting knife would be able to slice through. When the show comes back on, I stand up next to Trace in a gesture of solidarity.

“One of the members of Trace’s security detail, Adriana Hillstrom, confirms that she is in possession of the underwear worn by the girl who is now carrying his baby. Even though she has not agreed to be identified, the girl has already identified them as her own.” The woman, who has obviously had too much Botox, concludes her little “news” story and I look over at Trace, cocking my eyebrow.

“No fucking way,” he blurts out, “remember—?”

Before he can finish, a picture of some purple lace panties folded neatly in a plastic bag flashes across the screen. I recognize them immediately and my face turns red, not only because I might have—just for a second—doubted Trace, but also because those are MY panties now being broadcasted on national television. I shiver when I recall our first night together, remembering how Trace picked them up off the floor and shoved them in his pocket before answering the door for Cal.

My thoughts are interrupted by a bellow of laughter erupting from Trace. “What a bunch of lying bitches,” he says, shaking his head. “Cal was fucking right when he said that Adriana chick was up to something. Already got her ass fired when he found her snooping around soon after we left Texas. Hell, she’s probably the one who sold me out there too.” Reaching out and pulling me close to where there’s not a millimeter between us, he says, “Thanks, baby,” and kisses my forehead.

“For what?” I ask, relieved that my instinct to trust him was correct.

“For believing me…trusting me, despite what everyone says. It means more than you will ever know,” he whispers, moving his lips to my cheek. “Now I’m going to kiss you properly and attempt to show you just how much it means.”

I giggle when he scoops me up into his arms and we’re halfway to the bedroom—finally—when there’s a knock at the door. We both groan in unison and then laugh at how pitiful we sound. Trace eases me slowly down his body as he murmurs, “Later, darlin’.” Who knew two words could make me completely freakin’ wet?

Trace’s signature wink is back and he smirks as he ambles toward the door, obviously knowing—as he has from day one—the intense effect he has on me. Mindy, the girl who Backlash uses to do a lot of its artists’ hair and makeup, strides quickly through the door as Cal holds it open, loaded down with her “beautification bags.”

“Hey, Trace,” she greets him and he nods his head toward her.

“You know my gorgeous girl doesn’t need you, right?” he asks teasingly and I feel my face blush—well, at least that’s
one
step she can skip.

“Tell me somethin’ I don’t know already know,” she remarks with a grin on her face.

“Just so we’re straight.”

Mindy and I escape to the guest bedroom and bath, where she does her usual amazing job of making me so much more beautiful than I really am. I love the way she’s chosen to style my hair tonight, with it curled into one big ringlet and cascading off my shoulder. The smoky colors she uses to highlight my hazel eyes make them pop more than usual, and I have no idea what she does to my lips, but I’m hoping Trace will be able to refrain from kissing me until
after
the show or she might have to do it all over again. Then again, I have no doubt it would be worth it.

I thank her when she’s all done, handing her a hefty tip, and she blows air kisses before darting off to work her fairy-godmother magic on someone else. I open the hanging bag brought in by Cal and gaze upon an elegant white gown with a serious dip between my breasts that should leave Trace itching to get me back to the hotel before the night’s over.

As excited as I am that we’re finally going to sing the duet live, I can’t help but fear what the media will ask when we hit the red carpet. There’s no doubt Trace’s baby gossip will be front and center, and even telling myself that I could care less what everyone says, the nerves and anxiety start getting the better of me.

When I emerge from the guest room, I find Trace standing in the foyer with a drink in his hand. The amber liquid and ice cubes are swishing around the crystal glass and on his way to his lips when he abruptly halts all movement. “God, you’re breathtaking,” he murmurs when I reach him.

The black tuxedo Trace is wearing, perfectly tailored to his fit body, accentuates his light blue eyes, and without question, he’s the most stunning man I’ve ever seen. I still can’t believe he’s mine, and based on the intense fire I see in his eyes, he might just be feeling the same way. Tonight, we’ll prove that to the media—it’s about time they realize they can’t break us.

***

The imposing Cadillac Escalade limo idles in the waiting line while I practically bite off my nails—thank goodness my mother isn’t here to see me do it. I turned off my cell phone soon after news of “Purple Panty-gate” broke, knowing that she will have more than a few choice words to say, none of which I want to hear.

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.”