Collaboration (24 page)

What the hell just happened? Did we just break up? I think we did, but again—what the hell? Does he honestly believe I would kick Ryder out of the band because he
thinks
there’s something going on?

When I hear the soft knock on my door, I already know who it is. “Come in,” I say, my voice slightly shaky.

I roll my eyes when I see that Ryder is already showered and dressed to go out. It sucks when I think about what my night was
supposed
to entail. I had a new sexy lingerie outfit picked out, knowing we’d be rushing back to the hotel, unable to keep our hands off each other. Instead, I never felt so much as his fingertip on my skin.

“Just passed your boy,” he says, standing there in his faded jeans and cowboy boots. As much as I hate to notice, Ryder looks damn good in a blue V-neck t-shirt that perfectly outlines his ripped stomach and strong biceps.

“Yeah, well, I’m not sure he’s mine anymore,” I say, making my way over to the makeshift screen to change.

“Did you guys break things off?” He tries to mask the happiness in his voice but it doesn’t work.

“Honestly I have no idea.” It had to have been just a fight, right? No way could we fall so hard just to end things like this.

“Come on, we need to unwind. Get away from all this for a bit. Have a drink with me?” He raises his eyebrows when I emerge from behind the screen in my tight, ass-hugging skinny jeans, t-shirt, and favorite pair of boots. “You look smokin’,” he tells me but all I can think about is how I picked these jeans out for Trace. The image of his large hands cupping my jean-clad ass causes a familiar tingling sensation to flow through me—one that only he seems to instigate. Then his inexcusable words echo in my head and I feel heat course through my body, though it’s not from desire.

“Let’s go.” I breeze past Ryder and walk toward the door. Ryder places his hand on the small of my back, escorting me out, and for once, I don’t pull away from him.

Right before we can escape out the back, my mom appears in the hallway. The smile that crosses her face when she sees us together makes me cringe and instinctively, I move a good step away from Ryder. The last thing I need is her thinking that all her dreams just came true.

“Where are you guys off to?” I haven’t heard her voice this happy since I was in grade school.

“We’re headed out, but I’ll make sure she’s not spotted and get her back to the hotel safely.” Ryder’s sweet-talking-the-parent act is almost vomit-inducing.

“I know you will, Ryder. You kids go have fun,” she reaches over and kisses my cheek. I roll my eyes in annoyance—how different this scene would have played out if this was Trace.

After we exit the building, I’m surprised when he walks up to a restored pick-up truck parked outside.

“Where did you get this?” I ask him, sliding across the vinyl bench seat.

“It’s mine,” he says, smiling wide. “I picked it up when we got here—I’ve missed this baby.” His hand lovingly pats the red dash.

“Did you restore it?” I run my own hand across the red leather seats.

“Yeah, it was my dad’s,” he says and stares down at the steering wheel. He told me last year his dad died right after he left for Los Angeles. From what I can tell, he’s always felt guilt for leaving him behind to pursue his dream.

“What year?” I ask in an attempt to distract him from the obviously painful memories.

“1970 Ford 100 Ranger XLT. I was going bring it out to LA, but you know…”

“It’s not exactly Texas,” I say, understanding perfectly.

“Yeah, imagine trying to park this puppy in those spots made for sports cars and Smart Cars,” he laughs and I join him. I’d almost forgotten how easy it is to be with Ryder. Our friendship has kept me grounded these past few years, and I’m embarrassed to admit that I haven’t been a very good friend lately.

He turns the radio on and
“Southern Girl
”
by Tim McGraw is playing. “Isn’t this the truth?” he says, smiling over at me before rolling down his window. Following his lead, I roll mine down too, immediately comforted by the warm Texas breeze blowing my hair in every direction. Oh, I’ve missed this. As the smell of wildflowers wafts into the cab, I close my eyes, relishing the peaceful feeling that floats over me. Unfortunately, I can’t stop thinking about the fact that I wanted to experience this with Trace—show him what Texas is all about.

As the truck exits the freeway and we begin to drive along some backcountry roads, the dressing room fight replays in my head. What was I supposed to do, let him dictate who’s in my band just because he thinks Ryder is attracted to me? And even if he is, that doesn’t mean anything will happen. It takes two to two-step, right?

Sensing eyes on me, I turn to face Ryder, who is staring at me, unashamed. I smile at him before quickly turning back to look out the window. With just one look, I know Trace was right—Ryder does still want to be with me, even after I turned him down in the bus that night. Just as I’m beginning to think that maybe this was a bad idea, we pull up to a classic country bar, which Ryder tells me he used to hang out at with his buddies in high school because the bartenders “didn’t give a shit” and would serve them alcohol. The wooden exterior and limited number of old pick-up trucks in the parking lot tells me that this place is perfect—no one will be looking for us here—so I decide that a little fun might be okay after all.

He tells me to wait while he exits the truck and then opens my door for me—God, I hope he doesn’t think this is a date. Taking his callused hand because it would be rude not to, I step out and the ground crunches beneath our cowboy boots as we cross the gravel parking lot. As we enter, I see several couples spinning around the relatively small dance floor and the yearning to be one of those couples burns inside of me. I haven’t been dancing—not
country
dancing—in freakin’ forever. It always cracks me up how people in LA think that all we do is line dance in Texas, when really there’s nothing like a good two-step if you have the right partner. And I can’t help but be curious if Ryder is any good.

He leads me over to the bar and I waste no time knocking back a beer before dragging Ryder to the wooden dance floor. He wraps one strong hand around my waist while I place mine on his shoulder before we clasp our free hands together.
“Neon Moon”
by Brooks & Dunn plays, which is probably one of the best two-step songs ever made, and Ryder expertly leads me around the dance floor. I figured he’d be a pretty good dancer but damn, he definitely exceeded my expectations. The grace he possesses as he twirls me around has my heart racing and breath quickening.

After just one song, I’m ready for a drink—and it sure as hell won’t be water. As we belly up to the bar, I notice the older people who are standing around smile at us with admiration but not recognition. Ryder orders us both Budweisers and we take a seat in a booth in the back—no sense pushing our luck.

We talk about the tour, but mainly about Texas. Ryder grew up close to where we’re at right now and I tell him some about my small town. The only thing we don’t discuss is the proverbial elephant in the bar. Ryder hasn’t mentioned Trace at all, and I wonder if he’s trying to get my mind off of him or he doesn’t want to hear what I have to say. When the waitress comes over, Ryder orders another round, along with a couple shots of whiskey. I quirk my eyebrow at him and he laughs. “Hey, we’re in a Texas bar, might as well make ‘em proud.”

Our drinks are delivered a few minutes later and Ryder raises his shot glass, “To doing what we love.” I raise mine as well and he clinks it before tilting his head back and pouring it in. I mimic his motion and then he stands up, holding his hand out for me.

We dance a few more songs, down a couple more shots, drink a few more beers, and dance some more. Before I know it, my body and my mind are both numb, and I’m enjoying not feeling a damn thing. All of the hurt caused by Trace might be still be there, but copious amounts of whiskey and beer have masked it marvelously.

I plop down on the bench, exhausted and dizzy from dancing—or from the alcohol. I don’t know which at this point. Ryder follows suit a few minutes later with two water bottles, and the cool fluid is a relief to my sore throat. As I lean my head back to take a sip, I spot Ryder looking over at me from across the table.

“Why him?” he asks and my half-drunken brain tries to figure out if we were in the middle of a conversation.

“I’m sorry, why who?” I ask.

“Trace—what made you want to go out with him?” Oh
him
…the past few fun-filled hours almost made me forget. Not quite, but almost.

“I can’t really explain it; I just felt something,” I say, the alcohol making me honest.

“Do you still?” His eyes are full of hope, but even in my hurt and drunken state, I know that I don’t want it to be over between me and Trace. And I hope to God he feels the same.

“Feel something?” I ask and he nods. “Yeah, I really do.”

“Jesus, Taryn, I just don’t get it. Ya’ll have nothing in common,” he says, his voice rising.

“Maybe we do, maybe we don’t,” I say, growing defensive. “But it’s not really anyone’s business, is it?

Ryder remains quiet, twirling his water bottle in his hand. “You never felt this with us?” he asks, motioning his finger between our bodies.

“Ryder, please don’t do this,” I plead, knowing full well that I shouldn’t have put myself in this position in the first place.

“Do what? Tell you I want my chance?” he asks and just like that, the words are out on the table and there’s no ignoring them.

“Ryder, I’m with Trace,” I tell him, even though I’m not completely sure after the fight we had tonight.

“He just broke up with you,” he reminds me.

“My heart still belongs to him, Ryder,” I say, placing my hand over his. “I’m sorry, but I only see you as a friend.”

“But Taryn, we couldn’t be more perfect for one another and you know it,” he says, the desperation clear in his voice. As much I hate hearing it, and even though I know what he’s saying makes sense on some level, his words only make me want Trace more than I already do.

“I shouldn’t have come here with you. This was a bad idea, Ryder.” I stand up, wobbling slightly.

“The only bad idea is you being with him,” he says coldly. I roll my eyes and turn around, ready to head out.

Ryder grabs my elbow and spins me back toward him, saying, “I’m sorry, Taryn. I just don’t want to see you get hurt and it’s obvious he’s already done that. I wouldn’t be a good
friend
if I let him hurt you again, would I? So you can’t fault me for caring.”

He’s right…about all of it. Trace did hurt me—badly. And Ryder is just being a good friend, bringing me here so I could get my mind off of things. And even if he does have feelings for me that I can’t return, deep down I know he cares and always has. So I thank him for caring and allow him to guide me back into the booth, where the waitress has dropped off another round of shots.

I down both mine and his, and after several more drinks and—shit, I don’t know how many shots—I feel myself begin to slump down in the booth and the last thing I remember is feeling Ryder’s strong arms scoop me up before I pass out completely.

***

Ugh…what the hell did I do? Rolling over slowly since my head feels like it’s going to fall off, I immediately spot a note on the pillow beside me. Thank God, since I wasn’t one-hundred percent sure that I wasn’t going to find Ryder lying there. The feel of my jeans rubbing together as I move my legs gives me a good indication that nothing happened last night, and again—thank God. I reach my hand out and pick up the note he left for me.

Taryn, sorry I let you get so drunk last night. Good luck with Trace. ~ Ryder

As much as I wish things could be different, they can’t—but at least he gets that now. I don’t know why, but I just get the feeling that I’m convenient for Ryder, not that he actually feels for me the way I do about Trace. Shit, speaking of Trace how pissed would he be if he knew that Ryder tucked me into bed last night?

Trying to shake the thoughts of both of them out of my head, I urgently make my way to the bathroom to relieve my very full bladder. In addition to the massive amounts of hairspray from the show, I desperately need to get the smell of smoke from the bar out of my hair before I do anything else.

After I get out of the shower, I grab my cell, disappointed when I see that there are no missed calls or texts from Trace. As I quickly get dressed and throw my hair in a ponytail, I make a decision that I’m not going to let this go. We’re finally in the same city and I have no idea when—if ever—I would have the chance to talk to him again. I try calling his phone but he doesn’t pick up, and multiple texts go unanswered. I’m about to go harass the manager of the hotel to see if I can score his room number when a booming knock sounds out at my door. When I throw it open, I’m surprised to find Cal standing in my doorway.

“Oh, good morning, Cal. I was just going to look for Trace.”

“I thought he was with you. Didn’t he stay here last night?” he asks, his eyes scrunching in confusion.

“No, we had a fight and—“

“That fucker!”

“What?”

“He has his own car. He asked for one when we got here yesterday so the two of you could go somewhere after the show—without company.” Hearing Trace’s plans breaks my heart a little and I’m really starting to regret last night.

“Crap, where would he go?” I ask Cal but he’s already got his phone out, pressing the buttons on the screen.

“No answer, straight to fucking voicemail—I’m gonna kill him.”

Where the hell would he go? “Cal, can you think of anywhere he could be?”

“You lost ‘Pretty Boy’?” a young, attractive woman asks as she walks up behind Cal. I recognize her from some of the tabloid pictures I’ve seen on recent magazines.

“Who’s this?” I can’t hide my annoyance as I point at the gorgeous brunette who’s now standing next to Cal.

“This is Adriana. She joined the security team a while back,” Cal answers, continuing to punch away on his phone. “Adriana, this is Taryn, Trace’s girlfriend.”