Collaboration (8 page)

The one good thing I can say about this penthouse suite is the view. Because I have a panoramic perspective of the city, I can see most of the monuments from up here and therefore, I know exactly which way I need to go. Asking the concierge for directions is out of the question unless I want a dozen photographers waiting for me when I arrive.

I decide to take the stairs down, hoping that there’s a door at the bottom with an exit leading outside so I don’t have to leave through the lobby. Although it feels good to get my muscles warmed up, I sure as hell won’t be taking the stairs on the way back up—this hotel has way too many floors for that shit. Once I get to the bottom, I peek through several doors before finding the right one. I walk outside and inhale a huge breath of cold air that feels like freedom.

I break into a jog, heading in the general direction of the Jefferson Memorial, since I’m fairly certain that’s near where I want to be. While I run, I think about how my mom always talked about wanting to take a trip to DC to see all of the museums and monuments. Besides having a lot of pride in our country, she also loved the fact that the best places to visit here are all free to the public. She also joked that, like everything else in this world, they aren’t truly free—we pay for them with our tax dollars. Smart lady, my mom.

Once I get to the Tidal Basin, I continue along the paved path until I reach my destination. Although it wasn’t around when she was alive, I know without a shadow of a doubt that she would have wanted to go to the memorial honoring the late Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Mom respected the hell out of that man, and I figure the least I can do is pay my respects to him.

Because it’s still early, there aren’t tons of people around and I’m happy to have the place practically to myself. I stand and stare at the larger-than-life figure for a minute before realizing that it isn’t the image of the man that I came here to see. It wasn’t his picture that graced the walls of the home I grew up in, rather the words he spoke that were lovingly cross-stitched on a framed piece of fabric.

Walking along the crescent-shaped granite wall, I recognize many of the quotes from King’s sermons and speeches. I stare at each quote in turn, committing them to memory before coming across my Momma’s favorite:

The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.

When I reach the end of the wall, I continue along the tree-lined path, wishing it were a couple of weeks or so later. I remember learning in school about the cherry blossoms that supposedly cover this place in the spring. Apparently, the beginning of March isn’t spring in DC because there isn’t anything blooming that I can see.

I walk aimlessly, enjoying the tranquility of the morning and knowing that this will probably be the last time I’ll feel this way for quite some time. As I meander down the path without any clear destination, I begin to see various bronze sculptures. It’s obviously some sort of memorial, but I still have no idea what or who it’s for.

When I come across the sculpture of Eleanor Roosevelt, I am instantly reminded that she was also one of my mom’s favorites because she championed human rights at a time when no one else did. Not only that, but the things she said and did clearly showed that she wasn’t like other women back in those days. Hell, she wasn’t like most women these days.

Even though I desperately wish I could spend all day just touring around like everybody else, I’m not going to complain about it. I’ve got a sell-out crowd coming to see me perform at the Verizon Center, the biggest venue in DC. Most musicians would give anything to see their name on a marquee like that.

I check my phone to see what time it is. Damn, I’ve got to get back. Rehearsals start in an hour and I’ve got to take a shower beforehand. I sprint off, a shit-eating smile on my face, because I was able to enjoy an entire morning to myself
in public
without being recognized. I could get used to this.

Taryn

“So, how was recording?” Ryder asks me, but the tone of his voice and the look in his eyes convey what he really wants to know.

“Surprisingly, really well,” I say and he raises his eyebrows. I’m just as shocked as he is, but then again, Trace isn’t who everyone thinks
he
is. I glance over at his tour poster—who the hell came up with that messed-up name?

“I wouldn’t know, that friend of his kicked us all out,” my mom sneers, while standing to her feet. “Hi, Ry,” she leans over and kisses his cheek.

“Hi, Savannah,” he croons, embracing her in a hug. From the gleam in my mom’s eyes, I know exactly what she’s thinking. She’s never been quiet about wanting me to date Ryder…except when Maverick was in the picture. My mom has always been on the, shall we say,
opportunistic
side and Maverick’s stardom was an opportunity she thought was too good to pass up. “And you
let
them kick you out? How out of character,” Ryder jokes and my mom gives her annoyingly fake giggle.

“Oh Ryder, I didn’t want to cause ripples when the collaboration has been going so smoothly. You know that’s not my style.” She’s using her southern drawl that she usually tries to conceal and I roll my eyes in irritation. When I look away, I find my own tour poster being hung up by a man wearing a blue uniform.

He gently encases it in the glass and I want to vomit when I see the picture they used. I’m wearing jeans and a plaid button-down with a studded black belt. If that’s not bad enough, I’m standing in a field of wheat grass with a damn daisy in my hair. Not quite sure who put this together or what they were trying to accomplish, but I look like some confused country/granola girl. Racking my brain, I try to remember ever wearing that ensemble and it dawns on me—the photo shoot a few weeks ago when they wanted to try a few different looks. They told me it was just for fun but obviously not. I decide I’d better get over it since there’s no changing it at this point, but then gasp when I read the tour title, splashed across the bottom.

“Oh, it turned out fabulous,” my mom remarks, inching closer. Looking for a flaw, I’m sure.

“What happened to
Onward and Upward
?” I ask her. The heat is starting to rise and I can feel it in my face. We decided on that together—months ago.

“Well, I thought this was better,” she says with a huge grin.

“You thought that
Sweet and Sassy, Cute and Classy
was better? What the h—“ I stop myself before my anger gets out of control. As much as I would love to scream at her, my dad raised me better than that.

“What they don’t know can’t hurt them, right?” she responds and my blood runs hot—not cold, but blazing, blistering hot. I cannot
believe
that she would go there, especially with Ryder standing right behind us.

“Hey, it’s not that bad,” he chimes in and I wonder what
he
is looking at, because this is not the image I want to portray. Yeah, maybe when I was sixteen or seventeen but I’m older now—even though I feel like I’m about a half a second away from throwing a tantrum that could rival any two-year-old.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” I turn away from the poster to face Ryder so I can focus on something else, anything other than that monstrosity up on the wall.

“The band is recording the back tracks to the song. I guess someone wanted it done separately and then they’ll put it all together later,” he explains, shrugging his shoulders. Ryder has always been so easygoing, which is a nice quality to have but sometimes it’s just too much. Though nothing ever seems to ruffle him, the flipside is that he doesn’t ever seem passionate about anything either.

After we chat for a few more minutes, he kisses my cheek and disappears down the hall. While my perfectionist mother makes sure the poster is hung to her specifications, I wave goodbye to Stella, who is talking on the phone, and then slip out. I’m still furious about the changes my mom made to the tour promotion without my approval so it’s better if I don’t speak to her right now. Plus, there’s no way she can sabotage my plans with Gina tonight if she doesn’t know about them.

***

Gina made reservations at the hottest restaurant in town—for the moment. I say that because, in this town, it changes every month…if not week. After leaving my car with the valet, I make my way through an Asian-inspired room with a stream of water cascading down a cement wall, stalks of bamboo and an array of orchids resting in numerous ornate pots. The hostess leads me across a makeshift bridge which traverses a pond filled with colorful koi fish, and as requested, seats me in a partitioned-off corner. Gina and I couldn’t be more opposite when it comes to fame. I run from it, whereas she relishes the constant attention, always ready and willing to put on a show.

But even though I tend to prefer locations that are off the beaten path, I’ll admit I’ve wanted to try this place—the dishes are supposed to be to die for. While I wait for Gina, who has never been on time a day in her life, I order my drink and thumb through my phone. Announcements about Trace’s tour are posted on every site and I contemplate whether or not I should wish him luck. Would he think it’s stupid if I text him? It’s not like we’re friends. But we
are
recording together and he had no issue texting
me
when he felt like it. Not that he’s texted me since then, so even if I do, I doubt he will even know it’s from me.

Figuring what the hell, my fingers type the message, and before I can second-guess myself, I quickly press send.

Hey, I just wanted to say good luck tomorrow night.

That was casual, right? I tap my foot and reread what I wrote him, again and again. When my phone vibrates, I practically jump out of my seat in surprise before quickly scanning what he wrote.

Thanks, Peaches, we’re waiting to take off. The concert I can deal with, but planes suck, ya know?

The smile on my face must resemble a teenage girl who was just asked out by her secret crush. The fact that Trace knew it was me immediately means he must have programmed my number into his phone. I’m about to respond when I suddenly feel someone breathing down the back of my neck. I whirl around to find Gina smirking down at me.

“What the hell are you smiling about?” she asks. I hop up, give Regina a hug, and then drop my phone in my purse, hoping she didn’t see who messaged me—she’d have a field day with that.

“Um, nothing. Just checking some emails.” I’ve never been a good liar and the look on Gina’s face suggests that I haven’t improved much.

“Okay, you just stick to that story then,” she smirks at me, but thankfully drops it, opening her menu instead.

After we order our food, Gina informs me that she found out today her tour has been postponed and she’s going to use the time to concentrate on writing songs for a new album. I envy her for having the time to do what I love most. As she begins to tell me about some NFL player she’s dating, I hear the unmistakable sound of my phone on vibrate, alerting me to a text. Crap, I forgot to respond to Trace!

Not wanting to answer with Gina sitting there, I plan on ignoring it but she pulls her own phone out and her fingers are already flying across the screen when she says, “You take care of that. I have some
e-mails
I need to address too.” Disregarding the implication behind her emphasis of the word ‘e-mails,’ I open up my messages to find another one from Trace.

I see how it is…too busy for me now? ;)

I know he’s joking but I don’t want him to think I’m ignoring him so I answer without hesitation.

Sorry about that. Out with someone and didn’t want to be rude. In answer to your question, I don’t mind planes but feel the same way before concerts…

There’s a pause and the waiter is dropping off our food when the next text comes in.

At the honky-tonk with guitar boy?

I don’t know whether to be offended by his assumption that I would even
be
at a honky-tonk, or flattered that he is somehow threatened by Ryder, of all people. Which reminds me, what was with that pissing contest earlier between the two of them anyway?

Before I can fire off a Regina-style retort—who, by the way, is still feverishly texting someone while impressively managing a set of chopsticks—another text appears.

Kidding, girl. You enjoy yourself…we’re headed out. And when we perform together, I’ll hold that gorgeous hair back for you.

I turn my phone off, fighting like hell to keep the smile in check this time. It’s a good thing, since Regina seems to have finished her conversation as well and is now watching me as she eats. I begin to devour mine as well and we resume our discussion about her flavor-of-the-week. Surprisingly, she doesn’t ask me about my love life, probably because she knows that dating and touring do
not
go well together.

After we settle up the bill, Regina predictably tries to convince me to go clubbing with her, but since I legitimately can’t this time because of tomorrow’s insane first-concert-of-the-tour schedule, she seems satisfied. We say our ‘goodbyes’ at the table—the valets will have our cars all geared up so we can make a quick exit—and she walks out, turning to give me a final wink before she goes. While I wait for word that they’re ready for me, I drink one last sip of water before remembering to turn my phone back on. I’m surprised to see another text from Trace; he must have sent it before the plane took off.

Glad you’re with my girl, Gina, by the way…

That fox! She knew I was talking to him the whole time and didn’t say a word. Not that I ever doubted it, but no one could ever accuse Regina King of being unable to keep her mouth shut. I guess she saw who I was texting after all.

The manager from the restaurant signals that they’re all set, so I shoot off one final text before I go.

You bitch!

I smile as I imagine her laughing her ass off. Her response appears before I’ve even left the table.