It’s not like I don’t appreciate what I have or that I don’t enjoy entertaining people. It’s just that sometimes…it’s lonely. My chin rests in the palm of my gloved hand as I stare out the window, watching couples with their arms wrapped around one another, trying to stay warm. I wish I could switch spots with any one of them for just one day.
“Taryn!” my mom’s fingers snap in front of my face. It no longer takes me by surprise, so I slowly turn my head her way. “We’re here—stop daydreaming and get a move on it.” She exits the limo first and heads inside, not bothering to wait for me.
“The only thing I’m dreaming about is freedom from you,” I mumble to the emptiness around me. Some days I do think about what it would be like to fire her, but aside from the fact that she’s my mother, I’m pretty sure she’s been sleeping with one of the Backlash executives, ensuring her job security for the time being.
Taking a deep breath, I put on my smile and step out of the limo, ready to greet the numerous fans lining the barricaded walkway. I shake a few hands, sign a couple of autographs, and even hug a few young fans before finally escaping the cold and heading into the heated building. Luck must be on my side because the first few interviews are in the same location.
I’m shuttled into the first studio and they plop me down in a chair, urgently applying my makeup and curling my hair. It still amazes me the way that they are able to transform my appearance in a matter of minutes. And people say I’m gifted…
The first two are daytime interviews—easy, breezy. I could do these in my sleep. No tricky questions or awkward moments. At the second one, the host asks if I’ll grace them with a song. Her assistant brings out my guitar, which was already waiting outside of camera shot. Although the audience thinks that it’s spur of the moment, I knew about it two weeks ago in order to prepare myself.
When we arrive at the famed Ed Sullivan Theater, my mom and I wait patiently in the green room. My stomach is rumbling and my mouth is dry from lack of fluids. Spotting the snack table, I slyly make my way over there, praying my mom doesn’t notice. I grab a bottle of water, wishing they had hot tea. My throat feels scratchy after only one song this morning, which doesn’t bode well for my rapidly approaching tour.
My eyes hungrily devour the donuts, bagels, and pastries. I glance at my mom, who still has her phone attached to her head. Reluctantly, I grab some fresh fruit because, no matter how good it might taste, it won’t be worth listening to her the rest of the day about it. The fruit does nothing to satisfy my growling stomach, but maybe I can convince my mom to go to Ray’s before we head out of town. It’s doubtful, but just imagining one of their large, pepperoni-topped slices has my mouth watering.
“Taryn, it’s time.” The young assistant peeks in the door and I stand up, leaving my fruit, water, and happily, my mother, in the green room. She never comes out with me but watches it all on the backstage television so she can critique my every word and movement when I return.
I’ve been appearing on the Late Show with David Letterman show for five years now. I still remember when I was a naïve sixteen-year-old and how intimidated I was by Dave. Now I don’t even think twice before walking out when my name is called and waving to the applauding crowd.
“Good to see you, pretty girl,” he says in my ear, hugging me.
“You too, Dave. Looking pretty good yourself,” I tell him and he playfully waves his hand at me.
I take the seat next to him and wonder what crazy stuff he’ll be asking me about today. He starts off by congratulating me on the award and I politely thank him. We chat about my upcoming tour and he jokes about how I’m hardly ever in the tabloids, and even when I am, I’m never doing anything someone my age should. I hate to admit it but he’s right.
“Oh, I almost forgot, we have a clip from the award show,” he says with a smirk and I tense, since no one prepared me for this. I wonder if my mom knows because, if she doesn’t, the shit will hit the fan. The last time this happened, she got the poor assistant fired.
“Really?” I mimic my usual surprised expression, except this time it’s not an act.
“Don’t know if many of you know, but our sweet little Taryn got beat out by the infamous Trace,” Dave says, and the whole audience claps and cheers. “Hey, let’s remember who’s here,” he jokes, motioning his hands to quiet them down. My smile starts to falter but I press those corners up as high as I can get them. “Now, watch this clip.”
A screen is raised from the floor and I bite the inside of my cheek, worried what he’s going to show. The clip begins when Trace is announced as the winner, except this time, I’m able to see his reaction to the news—the way those breathtaking blue eyes close and his chest rises and falls, looking as if he’s quietly thanking someone. Anyone watching can tell that he’s genuinely appreciative of receiving the award. Then he stands up and starts fist bumping and chest slamming the other guys in his group. I can’t help but smile when I see how happy he is.
“Now, this is where it gets interesting,” Dave says as the clip continues, showing Trace approach me. Suddenly, I feel the heat rising up my neck and face when I see how flushed I was at our close contact. Even worse, the cameras clearly show my eyes following Trace as he walks away from me. Oh God, I looked like a lovesick teenager. The television disappears into the ground again and I turn to face Dave, attempting to appear casual. He winks at me and I know this is not going to be good.
“So, my dear, what exactly did the playboy whisper in your ear to make you look…well, a lot like you look right now?” The audience laughs and my neck starts to itch from the warmth but I keep my hands clasped together in my lap, composed as always.
I wave my hand in the air as though it was nothing. “Oh, he just apologized for me not winning.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re going to be misconstrued.
“Well, isn’t he a cocky son of a—“ Dave starts, but the audience drowns him out with their laughter.
Uncrossing and crossing my legs, I struggle with what I should say. I don’t want to sound like a sore loser because I’m not. And despite my initial reaction, I’m not sure he truly was trying to rub it in. “No…no, really, he was being authentic,” I tell the crowd, but the laughter continues.
“Oh, are you sticking up for him?” He doesn’t wait for my answer before continuing, “Well, I have a surprise for you all. Who loves Taryn?” The crowd hollers and whistles loudly. “And who here loves Trace?” The crowd cheers with equal fervor. I’m confused as to where Dave is going with this.
“I think they like me more,” I joke, winking at the audience. Flirting with the crowd gets them every time.
“Yes, but since they obviously love you both, they’re going to love the two of you together,” he says and my eyes scrunch, not understanding what he’s saying. Dave notices the confusion on my face and I see his apprehension to disclose news I’m clearly not aware of. I appreciate his reluctance but we both know he has to at this point, so I give him the go-ahead. “Taryn and Trace are collaborating on a new song,” he divulges to the crowd, who actually stand up, clapping and stomping their feet.
The fake smile remains on my face as my breaths turn rapid and my blood boils. How did I not know about this and why the hell would I collaborate with him? Trying to appear unfazed by the new revelation, I stay still as a statue, afraid if I move even an inch, I’ll lose it. The fact that I had to hear it from Dave in front of a live television audience has me completely enraged.
Dave quickly thanks me for coming and goes to commercial. He apologizes for surprising me with the news, and I’m hoping I fooled viewers better than I fooled him. After he wishes me good luck working with someone rumored to be difficult in the music industry, he adds, “After his latest stint, I’m not surprised they want to link him with you.” I pretend to understand what he’s talking about but I don’t—again.
By the time I make it the green room, my mom is already standing up with her bag over her shoulder, ready to leave for the next stop. For once, I’m thankful she’s on the phone so I can sneak a donut before we go. I’m about to indulge in its sugary sweetness when I hear, “Taryn, you know you have to watch it.” I look up to see her pointing her phone at the donut in my hand.
“Why was I just surprised on national television?” I ask, ignoring her remark. Resting the donut in my mouth, I pull out my phone to find out exactly what Dave was talking about. The first picture to pop up is Trace’s mug shot, accompanied by a caption that reads, Grammy award winner arrested on music industry’s biggest night.
This is so not going to happen. The donut plops onto the floor as both my hands scroll down the screen and I swiftly skim the article. The words ‘brawl’, ‘intoxicated’, ‘possible drug involvement’ immediately catch my eye. He and his entourage completely destroyed the place, or should I say places. Oh, I’ll be damned if they think I’m going to work with someone that does crap like that.