Collaboration (2 page)

“Hey, Dad,” I answer.

“Congratulations, sweetheart. You deserve to win after all the hard work you’ve put in over the years. I couldn’t be prouder,” he says with his familiar Texas twang.

“Thanks, Dad. It’s good to hear your voice.”

“I’m sure you’ve got a whole heck of a lot to do tonight. Is Savannah with you?” He stopped referring to her as my mother years ago, and since she’s always preferred her role as my manager, I probably should too.

“Yeah,” I respond, checking to see that she’s still occupied. I wouldn’t hear the end of it if she knew my father was on the phone. “She’s here.”

“Well, I’ll let ya go but know that Scooby and I miss you.” The gentleness in his voice makes me wish I was there instead of here.

“Oh, give him a kiss for me. And…I miss you too,” I stutter slightly, trying to focus on thoughts of losing myself on a ride with Scooby so I don’t mess up my eye makeup.

“Remember, honey. Try to remain grounded and appreciative. When you start becoming full of yourself, you usually end up burying yourself,” he wisely advises me. He’s never steered me wrong before.

“I will, Dad, talk to you soon,” I say before hanging up. I lean back in the plush leather seat, happy to have a moment to think.

And that ceremony definitely gave me a lot to think about. Winning there at the end was so unexpected and thrilling that I don’t even remember what I said or who I thanked. It must not have been too bad or else I would’ve gotten hell about it by now.

I still can’t believe I lost that one award to a rapper. And what was with his speech anyway? He started off just the way I’d expected him to, and then there at the end, he sounded sincere and surprisingly humble, which I did
not
expect. Especially after his little southern-style in-your-face. And that part about his parents…he just won a Grammy award, why wouldn’t they be proud of him? Oh, and wh—?

“Taryn!” My mom’s shrill voice abruptly yanks me out of my thoughts, which have clearly gone on a pointless tangent. I see the line of limos and realize that we’ve pulled up to the first after-party of the evening. Bony fingers grab my chin and force my head in the direction of my pinched-faced mother, who already has the blood red lipstick poised and ready.

“I need you to focus on tonight’s schedule,” she says while re-applying color to my lips. “We have thirty minutes at each event, which is just long enough for you to smile, pose for the photographers, and shake hands with whoever I tell you to. Don’t leave my side and don’t deviate from the plan. Got it?”

“What if I need to go to the bathroom?” I ask because I really and truly do.

“Not part of the plan,” she says in all seriousness. Before I can argue any further, the door opens and my mother steps out.

Following her out of the sleek, black limo, I paste on my best smile and wave to the crowd. I make my way down the roped-off red carpet to the front doors, which are currently being held open by two huge bouncers. After grasping hands with a few fans lining the walkway, I am steered inside the Billboard Hits party, where the music from the live band is blaring and people are mingling. A sigh escapes my lips as I recall that I have five more of these to attend tonight.

My mom grabs my elbow and leads me into the room. A few artists approach, congratulating me on my win, and I keep the smile on as I thank them. A waiter places a tray filled with champagne flutes in front of me and I eagerly accept one. I don’t even get a full sip down before my mother snatches the drink out of my hand and places it on a nearby table. She gives me a look that clearly says she hasn’t forgotten the one night that the media captured pictures of me stumbling out of a nightclub.

We continue to make the rounds but not for long since, according to my mother, there aren’t too many people here I need to impress. After working our way through three more after-parties in rapid succession, we finally head to the one hosted by my label, Backlash Records. All I want to do is shake hands, thank everyone who did their part, and then sneak out the back door. My feet are killing me and my bed has been calling my name for the past two hours. But I’ve been around long enough to know that is
not
going to happen.

The limo driver opens my door and, just as I’m about to swing my legs out, I catch a glimpse of the guy who snaked my award. He and his entourage are working the carpet, though instead of keeping their distance from the masses who are screaming at them, they’re actually hugging and kissing everyone they come in contact with. You have got to be kidding me. “Ridiculous,” my mom says, distaste evident in her voice. “Couldn’t they have more class?”

Ignoring her, I continue to carefully exit the vehicle, and soon the crowd collectively starts to call out my name. After waving, I start my walk and can’t help but notice he stops just outside the doors and turns around. Probably disappointed the crowd is no longer all about him. I happily sign a few autographs, all the while feeling his gaze on me. I continue signing, waiting for him to make his way inside. “That’s enough,” my mom tells the young girl holding her paper and pen to me. Shooing her hand off the paper, I smile and sign anyway, handing it back to the girl. Her ecstatic yelling and jumping is enough to make me giggle.

My mom, not willing to take any chance of me disobeying her again, firmly grips my elbow and leads me down the carpeted walkway. My laughter quickly quiets and my smile turns down when I spot him still standing there, staring directly at me. Other than his two bodyguards at either side of him, no one from his group is around. Those mesmerizing blue eyes bore into me the closer I get. Swallowing hard, I will my heart to calm down before I reach him.

He places his hand on the door handle and opens it for me. I quietly thank him and enter with my mom following close behind. When the doors shut, he comes alongside me, saying, “I just wanted to say congratulations on the award.” He holds his hand out for me to shake and when I place my hand in his, I’m amazed once again at how soft his hands feel. I guess if I wasn’t plucking guitar strings all day, that’s how my hands would feel too. Without warning, he pulls me into him and his lips brush against my cheek as he whispers, “But it should have been mine.” With a chuckle, he walks away, once again leaving before I have a chance to respond.

I am immediately enveloped by a throng of people in what is by far the largest party of the night. From what I can see, all of Backlash’s artists are present and accounted for. Everyone knows you have to thank the mouth that feeds you if you want to remain on top.

Just as I’m returning from a quick trip to the bathroom, I’m grabbed from behind. “There’s my number one girl,” a familiar voice shouts, spinning me around.

When I see Regina, a fellow artist and good friend, we exchange a hug like long-lost friends. Gina and I met at a party similar to this one when I first got to town. She stepped in during one of my mom’s tirades, pulled me to the dance floor, and we’ve been friends ever since. It helps that she sings R&B and my focus has been country, so we haven’t really been in competition with one another.

“Your performance was amazing tonight,” I tell her truthfully and she gives me a crooked smile. “The audience loved you.”

“Nothing new there,” she answers cockily. “But you, my friend, took home the top award. You should be drinking champagne from the bottle and shaking that little bitty white booty. You are way too put together for this being your last party of the night and I intend to change that.” Her eyes start to roam around the room. “Where is she? I know she’s here somewhere.”

“She’s making the rounds. You know her,” I tell Gina and she rolls her eyes, hooking her arm through mine. Our first encounter might have cemented our friendship, but it also ensured that there will never be any love lost between Regina and my mom.

“Well, what she doesn’t know won’t kill her. Come on,” she says and guides me toward the bar. Taking a bottle of champagne and two glasses, we make our way to a circular booth. Once we’re situated with drinks in hand, I look to see who is on the dance floor. Several of my band members are out there, including Ryder. They motion for me to join them but I shake my head and hold up my glass of champagne, which seems to appease them. Judging by the way they’re dancing, I don’t think they’ll remember to ask again and I doubt they’ll recall anything from tonight.

I continue scanning the packed dance floor. There
he
is again—of course he is—he seems to be everywhere I look tonight. Only this time, his hands are on some girl’s ass while he grinds her into his crotch.

“Ugh,” I mumble to myself. Instantly, Regina follows my line of sight and then turns back to me.

“Did I miss something?” she asks, her face etched with humored concern. I know she and Trace sometimes run in the same circles so I try to make a quick recovery.

“What? Are you crazy?”

“I don’t know,” she says, looking thoughtful. “There’s something in your expression. You do know he’s pretty much a male whore, right?” Not that I need the reminder, based on what I’m seeing right now. Just the way he moves on the dance floor leaves little doubt that the tabloids are accurate when it comes to him…for once.

“Please, Gina. Give me a little credit,” I blow her off. Gina gives me a small smile, but I see her bite the inside of her cheek, her tell-tale sign that she’s worried about something. “Let’s just drink this champagne and celebrate both of our success,” I say, knowing alcohol will divert her attention.

Regina pours more champagne and begins to fill me in on what happened with the guy she recently dumped. No matter how demanding her schedule is, Gina always finds time to date, though I use the term loosely where she’s concerned. We’re not much alike in that regard, since I can count on one hand how many guys I’ve dated since I’ve started in this business.

When my eyes betray me and glance in Trace’s direction, I’m surprised to see his glassy gaze directed my way. We lock eyes for the briefest of moments, but I swear I see him smirk at me before his mouth descends on the girl who is shamelessly hanging all over him. She then licks his sweaty neck while those blue eyes stay focused on mine, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was teasing me. Completely disgusted and annoyed with him, I turn my attention toward Regina, who is currently calling a few friends to join us.

I attempt to remain focused on my friends and acquaintances for the rest of the night, although my eyes occasionally disobey me. I watch as he and his rowdy group become more intoxicated and, for lack of a better term,
amorous
by the minute. An hour later, I say my goodbyes and find my mom to leave. God, you would think that I’m twelve, not twenty-one.

When I get home, I strip out of my borrowed designer gown and over-priced strappy sandals. After taking a quick shower, I shrug into my most comfortable pair of pajamas and nuzzle into my luxury pillow-top mattress—one of the few things I’ve splurged on. The last thing I see before I fade into exhausted oblivion is the unwelcome but not unpleasant image of cool blue eyes and creamy mocha skin.

Chapter 2

Trace

What the fuck happened last night?
One minute I’m on top of the world, winning a goddamn Grammy award, and the next, I’m waking up face-down on the marble floor of my hotel bathroom. I’m not 100% sure, but I think I might have been in a jail cell somewhere in between. Since my head is pounding like someone stole a jackhammer and drove it into my brain, I guess my only option is to lie here until somebody tells me I have somewhere to be.

Right on cue, my cell phone goes off from somewhere in the vicinity of my pants. After locating it in my right rear pocket, I answer without bothering to see who it is.

“Holla,” I say hoarsely, while offering up an unworthy prayer that the person on the other end is in whisper mode.

“YOU DUMBASS MOTHERFUCKER!!!”

Shit, I think the jackhammer just drove all the way through my head and cracked the marble underneath. I hold the phone about a foot from my face, noticing for the first time that my knuckles are bleeding.
What the hell?

“You done assed out, Ace,” Jay says at a thankfully lower decibel level. Jayden Gray has been my manager since day one, and as much as he seems to hate me, his job, and hell, the whole world, I never doubt his judgment or his trustworthiness. In my business, that means something. Not that it matters…I couldn’t fire his moody ass if I tried, since years ago I signed my life away to the label.

“What’d I do?” I ask, hoping the question doesn’t set him off again. I’ve got to ask though, because I truthfully cannot remember.

“Lemme break it down for ya. According to
news
reports…” he pauses and I cringe, which makes my head hurt even worse. “You and the crew apparently got shit-faced and partied your asses off, which I’d be totally down with if you hadn’t decided to get in a fucking brawl with another band of brothers at the party hosted by
your
record company. So yeah, the execs are going ballistic—“

“Shit.”

“Oh no, that wasn’t even the serious shit that hit the motherfuckin’ fan. From what I hear, ya’ll didn’t do enough damage so you decided to go clubbin’, where you got into yet another fight. And this time, they weren’t toy cops and busted all your drunk asses.”

Ah, that explains the fucked-up knuckles.
Damn, what was I thinking?

“You know the ledge, Trace. You walkin’ a fine line. Gotta appeal to the brothas but not be one of them, ya know? You need to recognize that the label don’t like that shit.”

“Jay, you know I hate those nosy-ass mother—“

“You know what I hate? Do you, Trace? I hate being woken up in the middle of the fuckin’ night to bail your drunk ass outta jail, and then having to spend the next ten hours working to clean up your mess while you sleep your sorry ass off. That’s what I hate.” I’ve never heard Jay so fired up, so the execs must have given him more than an earful this morning. That sucks, especially since he didn’t do shit to deserve it. The guy may be an ass but he’s as straight-laced as they come.