Collaboration (6 page)

I get back to my penthouse hotel suite to find the entire crew here with about a dozen groupies hanging around, no doubt waiting to see which one I’d pick tonight.

Not being conceited, just being real. And fuck if I didn’t give in to my biggest vice—women. Just thinking about any one of them gets my dick hard again and, even though I could easily walk out of here and find some instant relief, I decide a hand job will be quicker and give me the solitude I prefer.

Speaking of vices, I try to justify to myself that at least I’m not hell-bent on using. And although my recent night that ended in a side-trip to the slammer might otherwise indicate, I’m not a big fan of alcohol either. Seeing my uncle spend all of the money we had on smack and crack when Dre and I didn’t even have food to eat will make you see that that shit’s not all it’s cracked up to be. I’ve also watched my boys make some dumb-ass decisions while loaded up on either one or the other, and there’s no telling how many kids they’ve got out there thanks to drugs and way too many drinks. It’s why I was so pissed off at myself after what happened the other night. I should be grateful though that I got my ass thrown in jail, since it probably kept me out of far worse trouble.

And even though I know my revolving door of women isn’t the worse thing in the world, I also know that it would disappoint my parents as much as anything else I’ve done. Growing up, they showed me what love is supposed to look like and taught me that sex should be confined to a loving and monogamous relationship. All that was fine and fucking great while they were around, but the years I spent as a teen without them and living under my uncle’s roof, I learned a whole lot of other lessons about love and sex. And let’s just say that the two models of behavior couldn’t be more opposite.

Plus, unlike addictions to alcohol and drugs, I can do without women. I don’t physically
need
to fuck. And although I know that there are people who are addicted to sex, I’m not one of them. In fact, despite the fact that I like the way it feels, I mainly do it because I’m expected to by everyone around me. It’s all part of the game, and I’m a fucking player in more than one sense of the word.

After I’ve washed up, I reluctantly turn the water off and grab the ultra-soft hotel towel that hangs on the heated towel rack. I like it here, even if everyone does give me shit for not buying a place in LA like the rest of the world. But I’m not like everyone else. Not only can I afford to pay thousands of dollars per night to stay wherever the fuck I want, but I could probably buy the damn hotel if I wanted to. But that’s not going to happen because owning anything in this God-forsaken city would make it appear as if it’s home to me, and no matter how long I live here, this will never be home.

With that depressing thought, I suddenly feel the need to throw around some weights, regardless of the fact that I just cleaned up. Late at night is practically the only time I can go to the hotel gym anyway because that’s the only time no one’s there. Otherwise, I have to arrange for it to be “closed for cleaning” if I want a daytime workout, and that’s just too much trouble.

I throw on my sports shorts and toss the towel on the floor for housecleaning to pick up tomorrow. I grimace as I think about how my mom would kick my lazy ass for pulling that shit too. Walking out of the bathroom, I look around and sure enough, the tight ass from earlier is gone. Guess she knows the drill.

I hear the TV in the living area on at an outrageously loud volume so I throw open the door to find Dre watching SportsCenter, while Xavier practically fucks some chick on the couch opposite him. I grab the remote off the side table and turn off the TV, which results in a listless ‘what the fuck?’ from Dre. He must be stoned—again. X-man, on the other hand, doesn’t even notice.

“Go get your fuck on somewhere else, X,” I say and head toward the kitchen area to get a bottle of water from the fridge. When I look back and see that he has yet to disentangle his body from whoever is beneath him, I yell, “Xavier, seriously man. There’s another room, ya know. Use it.”

“Quint’s in there with some ho, dawg,” he says, finally coming up for air and reaching down to button up his fly. I open the door to the refrigerator and dig around, trying to find water among all the bottles of beer.

“You got your own crib, go there,” I reply, more than ready for this place to clear out. Dre can stay—he’s family. But there’s only so much I can take of everyone else. Just as I locate a water bottle, I feel fingernails scratching their way across my bare chest, which appear to be connected to arms wrapped around my torso.

“What the f—“ I start, but then a high-pitched giggle tells me all I need to know. And although I don’t know
who
it is, I know without a doubt
what
she wants. I slam the door and turn around to face a pretty pair of chocolate-brown eyes. I give her a quick scan and, even though she’s got a kickass body, I’m sure as hell not going to tap some chick that is willing to settle for being sloppy seconds. As Sweet Brown would say, “Ain’t nobody got time for that!”

But of course, I’ve gotta walk that walk so I say, “Hey there, beautiful…where’d you come from?” She giggles again. That and the way she’s hanging onto me, I realize she’s probably high out of her ever-lovin’ mind.
Fuck.

“I was in the bathroom,” she says in a high-pitched voice to match her high-pitched giggle. “I’ve been waiting for you, Trace.”

I’m not even going to attempt to get rid of this one myself. “X!” I yell, extricating myself from her clinging grasp. “Will you make sure…” I pause, unsure if we’ve been introduced before or not. “Jaycee,” she says helpfully, putting her hands back on my chest.

“Will you make sure Jaycee gets home, please?” I ask, turning my head and giving him a look that says this isn’t really a request, even if it sounds like one.

“Sure, bro,” he says, walking toward us while dragging his conquest for the night behind him. He fist-bumps me with his free hand and then takes hold of Jaycee’s hand, pulling her toward the door.

“Wait, hold up,” she says, yanking her hand away.
Oh shit
,
here we go
. “You were with
that
skank,” she says, pointing toward the front door where
my
latest conquest obviously walked out, “but you don’t want
this
,” she says, indicating her own body.

“Babe, that ain’t it,” I say, swallowing a sigh. “I gotta work out, that’s all. You know, keep all
this,
” I say, pointing to my hard abs, “tight and toned, for ladies like yourself.”

“So you’d rather work out than fuck me, is that what you’re sayin’?”
Classy.

And yeah, that’s exactly what I’m saying, but since I’d like to avoid getting a knee to the nuts, I answer carefully. “Nah, sweetheart. Xavier here’ll get you home tonight, and tomorrow I’ll be good and ready for you,” I say, pointing to the space between her surgically-enhanced breasts.
Yeah-fucking-right
, I think.

He grabs her hand again with a huge smile on his face. “Sho’ enough, sweetheart,” he says smoothly, “I’ll get ya home alright.” Something tells me Xavier will be thanking me tomorrow. The wink he throws my way before turning around confirms my thoughts. “They don’t call me Triple XXX for nothing,” he says and I roll my eyes. Whatever—I’m just glad he’s getting her the fuck out of here.

After the front door closes, I lean against the refrigerator, closing my eyes and releasing the sigh I’ve been holding in. Hopefully that is the last I’ve seen of
Jaycee
, since I have no intention of seeing her tomorrow, or ever again if I can help it.

“You headed to the gym for real, cuz?” I snap my eyes open, having forgotten that Dre is still here.

“Yeah, bro…gotta burn off some steam. You down?” I ask, even though I’d rather work out alone. My cousin’s cool as shit, but I still need a break from him from time to time.

“Nah, I’m
fucked
up, bro,” he says, but before I can give him my usual lecture, adds, “but you’re gonna need that workout when you hear what I gotta say,” he says.

“Aw shit, bro, don’t tell me your dad needs money again already,” I respond. There are a lot of great causes out there, but supporting my uncle’s habits isn’t one of them.

“Nah,” he says, not jumping to his dad’s defense. I’m not surprised—the man screwed around with Dre’s life way longer than he did mine. “Just that I talked to Jay before he left, and he’s squeezin’ in some studio time tomorrow with that country chick. Said we gotta get this shit done before you both head out of town. Turns out she had an opening in her schedule and you had a cancellation.”

I don’t even know what I was supposed to be doing, but regardless, I’m glad that I had a gap open up. The thought of spending a couple more hours with that girl doesn’t exactly turn me off. Dre cocks his head at me and I realize that I’m just standing here like a fool, not saying anything.

“Better to get it over with,” I say and quickly snatch my headphones off the kitchen counter.

“I know that’s right,” he says. “I missed the session earlier today, but I heard that Country was
smokin
’…for a white girl anyway.” He raises an eyebrow at me, obviously looking to get some kind of reaction.

“I’m hitting the gym,” I respond, feeling unwelcome irritation, especially hearing that my boys were discussing Taryn. Not sure why since she’s not my girl. I shake my head and move toward the door. As my hand touches the knob, I hear a loud moan and someone yelling, “Fuuuuuuck!” I’d forgotten about Quint and his latest flavor taking advantage of my spare room. I roll my eyes and call back to Dre, “Make sure they’re out of here before I get back, will ya?”

Without waiting for an answer, I put my cans on, turn the music up, and walk out the door.

Taryn

“Wanna Take You Home”
by Gloriana starts playing and I groggily roll over to my side. Letting the music continue to blare, I push myself up and rub my eyes. That might have been the best night’s sleep I’ve had in months. I take a deep breath before checking my phone for messages. There’s one from my mom, letting me know that I’m recording with Trace in—crap! I’ve got one hour and LA traffic sucks even on the best of days. There goes my girl time with Gina.

I throw on a pair of skinny jeans and an off-the-shoulder, long-sleeved shirt, then quickly finish getting ready. Grabbing my phone and a breakfast bar, I race out the door. Rarely do I get to drive myself anywhere, so if I’m late, my mother will never let me hear the end of it.

I pull into the studio’s parking garage next to a brand-spanking new black Escalade with more rim than tires. If that belongs to Trace and his entourage, then that means they’re already here.
Shit.

Then again, why do I have to come running just because it’s a good time for him to record? The first day in forever I didn’t have a schedule, yet here I am. Regardless, I’m already here and the faster I get in
there
, the sooner we get this done.

“Day-um—this is who you’re singing with?” one of the guys remarks as I hurry in the control room, his eyes slowly roaming up and down my body. If I wasn’t flushed from trying to get in here so quickly, I am now.

“Give it a rest, bro.” Trace stands up and my stomach feels like a storm of flutters as he makes his way to me. Silently, I stand there, feeling uncomfortable but drawn to him at the same time. He licks his pouty pink lips while those piercing eyes stare intently at me.

“Don’t mind my boys. They’re…”

“Girl crazy?” I question and laughter fills the room.

“That’s one way to say it, I guess,” he chuckles.

“Hey, I’m Xavier, we met yesterday,” the flirtatious sound engineer calls over. “Where you from?”

“Texas, originally,” I proudly announce. I’m not ashamed of my country roots. “From a little town not too far from Houston.”

“For real?” The guy who was giving me the once-over cocks his eyebrow and I notice Trace gives him a sharp look. Not sure what that’s about.

“I’m Dre, this fool’s cousin.” He nods his head at Trace, who seems to relax a little. “I mix the beats around here.”

“Nice to meet you,” I tell him. As he walks toward the digital audio workstation, I spot my mom sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, urgently pressing buttons on her phone. When she raises her head, I see her throw on a smile I recognize as being one-hundred percent fake. She walks toward us, saying, “Well, hello Trace.” After they exchange pleasantries, she finally looks at me and says, “Taryn, you’re late.” She grabs hold of my elbow, pulling me toward her as though I’m five and just ran off from her at a store.

After a few minutes of a typical Savannah Starr bitch session, I hear someone clearing their throat and spot Trace out the corner of my eye, holding open the door to the room where we’ll record. When my mom notices him standing there, she lets go of me and smiles brightly. “Good luck, guys,” she says in her saccharin-laced voice before returning to her chair.

“Your mom’s a trip,” he murmurs as I pass by.
You have no idea
.

After a few deliberations with the sound guys, Trace and I take our spots in the “live room.” It feels strange not having my guitar with me since the small space is set aside only for singing. I reach for the full bottle of water left beside my stool and straighten just as Trace strips off his black hoodie, revealing only a white wife-beater shirt underneath. And muscles…lots of muscles.

Fortunately, he seems to be concentrating on the sheet of music in front of him because I know I’m gawking right now. His body is nothing short of amazing. I know from the video I saw last night that he is ripped, but seeing it in person is a whole other story. His biceps bulge and his broad shoulders narrow down to his taut stomach, where I clearly recall a defined six-pack is hiding. I’d like to see
that
in person.

“Here you go.” He hands me a piece of paper and I attempt to conceal my obvious appraisal of his body. His cocky wink tells me I’m not doing a good job of it.