Collaboration (23 page)

I’ve never met a girl who truly could give a shit about brand names, and I love that we’re alike in that way. If I have the excessively overpriced version of anything, it’s because companies send me that shit to wear—hell, some offer to pay
me
to wear their gear—and not because I go out shopping for it.

My favorite item that I’ve sent arrived yesterday. It was a custom-made, blue duck call that arrived with a personalized note from one of those guys on that
Duck Dynasty
show she said she loves. I have no idea what the fuck she plans to do with it, but I could care less. Hearing her uninhibited laughter was worth every minute it took to try and get one of those bastards on the phone. Guess they spend more time out using their duck callers than sitting around making them.

***

I’m in the limo on the way to her concert and can’t recall a time I’ve had so much nervous energy burning through my body. And it’s nothing to do with the show or her crowd, as different as it will be from mine—it’s just her. I can’t help but wonder if Taryn’s missed me as much as I’ve been missing her, and even though she hasn’t indicated otherwise, there’s still that unknown. Well, taking her in the dressing room minutes after we’re off that stage will calm my shit down in a hurry.

Since it was decided our duet would be after the encore, I’m showing up during the middle of the show to help keep the surprise on the down low. Plus, I didn’t want my arrival to take the attention away from Taryn, where it should be. The minute I walk backstage, my stomach calms as I hear her angelic voice wrapping its way around me and through me. I move toward the sound of the ballad she’s singing, thankful I’m already dressed and ready to go. I want to see my girl for a minute before I get on stage with her so I don’t jump her bones in front of her innocent little country crowd. Hell, wouldn’t that give them something to talk about?

As I near the wings of the stage, she shifts without pause into an uptempo song, featuring none other than my best buddy on guitar. I don’t know why that guy rubs me the wrong way, but he does. Probably because he gets to see Taryn way more than I do, even if the time he spends with her is nothing like ours. It had better
not
be anyway because speaking of rubbing…

Suddenly, that fire that was burning through my veins is back, but it’s got nothing to do with nerves this time. Taryn has the microphone in her hand and Ryder comes up behind her, placing his guitar over her head and there are zero fucking inches between her ass and his dick. I can tell because I’m standing directly to the side of them.

As if that isn’t enough to turn my vision an unmistakable shade of red, Taryn passes him the mic to sing while she begins playing his guitar. He starts crooning some country lovey-dovey shit in her ear, placing his free hand on
my
girl’s hip—and that’s where I’m done. I turn tail, asking some backstage lackey where Taryn’s dressing room is, and get my ass out of there before I throw a shit-fit of epic-sized proportions for the entire world’s viewing pleasure.

Chapter 15

Taryn

I thank the backstage attendant when she hands me a towel and a bottle of water before lightly tapping it on my neck and face, making sure to keep my makeup in place. My eyes dart around, searching for Trace. Shit, he should’ve been here by now. The crowds’ phones are already up in the air, signaling that they want an encore. We’re supposed to sing our duet right after the encore, but more importantly, I wanted him to hear the song I wrote for him.

Pushing up on my tippy-toes, I scan every part of the backstage that I can see, but there’s no sign of him or Cal. I’m assuming Cal would be with him and he’s definitely not one to be missed. I mean a three-hundred pound linebacker-looking dude isn’t hard to spot.

“Let’s go, Taryn, they’re getting impatient,” Ryder says, placing his arm around my shoulders.

I bite my bottom lip, hesitant to go onstage without at least knowing he’s here. Trace has to be here when I sing it for the first time—he just has to.

Reluctantly, I make my way toward the stage with my guitar. “Change of plans; I’m not doing the new song,” I tell Ryder and he stares at me questioningly.

“The band is ready, Tar, we have to do that one.” He slowly takes his guitar off the stand and places it across his shoulders with ease.

“Change it. We’ll do ‘Memo to Self’ instead,” I state, attempting to put my foot down, which hasn’t always been easy with this group. They’re all older than me and refuse to listen to some starlet barely in her twenties, even if I do provide their current paycheck.

“No, we performed that one already tonight.” He shakes his head and I feel the pressure as the audience starts to get restless. “Just do ‘Fallin’ Into You. What’s the big deal?’” Instead of answering, I look around one more time. No trace of Trace. If I wasn’t on edge, I might laugh at that thought. Where the hell is he?

Taking a deep cleansing breath, I make my way to the microphone. After thanking everyone for coming out and supporting us, I announce that I have a new song, never heard by anyone before. As I begin strumming my guitar, all I can think of is how wrong this feels—that the inspiration behind the song should hear it first. After one more swift glance backstage, I begin to sing, despite the numbness I’m feeling.

They say the eyes are a window to the soul

Well, that must be true

Cause baby one look from you

And for the first time in my life I feel whole

I stop playing after the first verse, unable to keep going. The band stops and then starts again, but I turn around and swipe my finger across my throat to signal them to stop. I nervously face the mic once again and say, “I’m really sorry everyone. I want to sing it for you, but it’s a very special song to me and the person who inspired it isn’t here. I’ve got something else that I think you might like it.” I turn back around toward the band, purposely not looking at Ryder.

As I’m communicating which song I’m going to play, the crowd unexpectedly starts chanting Trace’s name, obviously realizing the song is about him. Briefly, I think he must be on his way out and a smile spreads across my face, but when I look to the wings, I only see the backstage assistant standing there. She shakes her head ‘no’ and instantly my grin dissipates.

I quiet the crowd down—just hearing his name triggers a rush of heat throughout my body. Can he please just hurry up and get here already? I perform an acoustic version of my most popular song, hoping that satisfies the crowd, at least until Trace arrives.

Once I finish, I step offstage again and Ryder is instantly by my side. “Where the hell is your boy?”

I shake my head, wondering the same thing myself. Of course, my mind immediately jumps to all of the worst possible conclusions, most of which involve fiery crashes of some sort. Just then, my mom comes over and says that the show is over—Trace won’t be going on.

“What happened? Why isn’t he coming?” I’m scared shitless now and I know my voice is conveying that, but I don’t really care at this moment.

“Ask him for yourself, he’s in your dressing room,” she says, pointing down the hall.
Say what?

As I make a beeline for my room, I hear the rustling of the crowd when the lights come back on. Yeah, the comments on the internet tomorrow are going to be lethal. I promised them something special and didn’t deliver and there had better be a damn good reason why.

Ryder’s boots are stomping two steps behind me and I can hear my mom’s heels clicking two steps behind him on the cement floor. It’s a wonder I can hear anything though past the ringing in my ears.

I throw open the door to find Trace sitting down, looking relaxed in my makeup chair with one leg crossed over the other and his phone in his hand—God, he looks sexy as hell. He stares up at me—no smile, no hug, and no kiss. What the hell happened since I talked with him this afternoon?

Noticing that he’s all decked out in his usual stage apparel reminds me that he just deserted me on that stage. “Are you sick?” I ask, hoping the answer is ‘yes’ but knowing that it isn’t. He doesn’t look at me but rather at Ryder, who is now standing behind me. His eyes filled with rage, he jumps up and strides right past me, completely ignoring my question.

“You need to back the fuck off,” he says to Ryder, pushing him backward. Ryder catches his footing and steps up to Trace.

“Maybe
you
should learn to keep promises you make.” Their noses are almost touching as they push their chests against each other.

“You need to be respectful of what’s mine,” Trace spouts and I move to stand near them, placing my hand on each of their arms. Trace looks at my hand on his and the one on Ryder and then looks me in the eyes. What I see is not the man that I’ve come to know and respect, the one who has showered me with love and gifts these past few months—this man is a stranger.

“
Yours
? There’s nothing in this room that’s yours. Have some fucking respect for Taryn and quit claiming her like she’s some dog.” Ryder’s hands open and close into a fist while Trace’s breaths rapidly increase. It’s like the beginning of a storm and if I don’t stop this tempest of testosterone, it will turn into a hurricane in point-three seconds.

“Stop it, both of you!” I say through clenched teeth, shoving my way between them. Placing my hands on Ryder’s chest, I attempt to shuffle him toward the door, where my mother has been quietly observing—well, that’s a first. “Just give us a minute,” I tell him and nudge him out the door, shutting it behind him.

I release a breath and turn around to face a very angry Trace, who has started pacing back and forth—I’m starting to notice that this is a trend with him. “What the
hell
is wrong with you?” I ask, marching up to him. “People were expecting you.”

“It was a surprise, no one knew I was coming,” he says.

“
I
was expecting you, Trace, and so was my band. So you better tell me why you didn’t make it up on that stage,” I demand, hands on my hips.

“You want to know what the fuck happened? You grinding your ass all over country boy’s cock, that’s what happened.” He plops down into the chair, looking at me expectantly, as if waiting for
me
to give him an explanation. I feel like he’s a parent who is waiting on their teenager to confess that they snuck out in the middle of the night. Well, he’s sorely mistaken if he thinks I’m going to stand here and feel like I did something wrong.

“It’s called entertainment, Trace. You know, I
entertain
my fans.”

“More like entertaining
him
,” he scoffs. “I’m going to ask one more time, Taryn, and you better give me an honest answer. What is going on with country boy?”

“I told you, there’s nothing going on, Trace. We’re friends.”

“Fuck buddy friends?” he asks.

“No—just friends. You do know that guys and girls can have a platonic relationship, right?” He stands up and moves in close, but stops just short of actually touching me.

“If you can’t see it, babe, you’re fucking blind. Country boy wants to fuck you, and after that little display, I’m thinking you want to fuck him too. Is he the one warming you up at night, Taryn? When I can’t get a hold of you, is it because his dick is inside of you?” I don’t think, I just react. His red cheek is proof that of that reaction.

“Fuck you, Trace,” I yell. “How
dare
you say that to me? I have to see articles, postings, video clips, you name it—all talking about some girl in your bed or all the groupies that follow you and the guys around. You told me to trust you, but you don’t trust me.”

“I told you, Taryn…I haven’t done anything—not since we’ve been together.” He’s so close that I can feel his slow deliberate breaths, almost as if he’s trying to calm himself down.

“Well, I’m sorry if that’s a little difficult for me to believe. You don’t think I can’t hear the parties going on in the background every time we talk? And what am I supposed to think when the next morning there’s half a dozen articles about wild nights with naked girls at
your
hotel rooms?” Needing space, I move away from him and pull my robe from off the rack. Suddenly I want to cover up my skimpy stage outfit, feeling dirty after his remarks.

“Well, I wasn’t fucking them! In fact, you should see the ass I’ve been turning down. Yeah they want my dick, I’m not gonna lie, but I tell them to leave me the hell alone—because of you, Taryn.” He starts pacing again while I secure the belt on my robe.

“Am I supposed to feel grateful somehow? Should I get down on my knees and thank the almighty Trace for not fucking a groupie because of me? Is that what you want? Well, let me tell you something. I’m not going to kiss your ass, Trace. And let me make another thing clear. I don’t like you accusing me of something I haven’t done based on a
performance
.”

He paces a few more times and it’s obvious he’s contemplating something. Hopefully, it’s an apology. “I want him out,” he says softly with an eerie calm.

Surely I misheard him. “
What
did you just say?”

“Country boy. I want him out of the band.” He walks over and stares at me boldly in the eyes. His intimidating stance won’t sway this decision, however.

“No way. That’s not happening,” I inform him.

“Then I’m out,” he responds without hesitation.

I don’t pause before stating, “Fine, go then.” I almost regret the words after they leave my lips—almost.

“It’s been fun,
Peaches
,” he says, making the nickname
he
gave me sound like a curse.

“While it lasted, I guess.” I shrug my shoulders, attempting to make him believe I’m indifferent to the pain he’s causing me. At least I can see that same pain reflected in his blue eyes.

“Guess we were just a powder keg waiting to explode...” he says and, without looking back, walks out the dressing room door. I pick up a makeup brush from the counter and throw it—I can’t believe he just referenced a fucking tabloid line.