The Bad Boys of Summer Anthology(136)
“What’s the big deal?” my mother asks, grabbing a water bottle. “It will be good for your image.”
“You think this is good for my image?” I shove the phone in front of her face. When she cringes, I think I finally have her on my side, but then she recovers quickly and I am reminded of what is really important to her.
“Listen, Taryn, you are both at the top of your game. The label wants to capitalize on that and bring their two biggest bankrollers together. You should understand this,” she finishes condescendingly.
“We won’t be rolling in anything if he’s in jail,” I retort, sneaking another donut—the curse of being a stress-eater. She completely disregards my comment and turns around, making her way toward the door.
“We don’t have much time so let’s talk while we walk. And the donut can stay.” With that, she’s out the door.
Keeping the donut in my hand, I follow after her. “How on earth could I ever sing with him? Our voices are nothing alike,” I say to her back. “And I doubt we’d ever be able to agree on lyrics for a song.”
“That’s the beauty of it, the song’s already written. You just have to sing it.”
“What?!” I screech and she turns around, her hands on her hips. “I can’t even write my own words? Forget that…I’m not doing it.” I cross my arms, fully aware of how childlike I sound. Since the day I began my professional career, I’ve never once performed a song written by someone else. It’s the one thing I’ve always been able to control and my only outlet for the emotions that I would otherwise keep bottled inside.
“Just stop it, Taryn, there’s no choice here. You’ll go in there tomorrow, record the song in a session or two, and then you’re done. It’s not like you’re going on tour with him. Which reminds me, we need to finalize a few things on that front.” She starts going on about the tour, effectively ending our discussion.
We walk out the building doors and I smile and wave as we pass the fans on the walkway. This time, however, I’m seething inside. “Mom, I really don’t—“
“Taryn, you listen to me,” she says, speaking through clenched teeth while continuing to smile as we slide into the limo. “Backlash has requested that you do this. They’ve shelled out a ton of money in the past for you. Taking a chance on a fifteen year-old isn’t something they do lightly. So I want you to put on that happy face, march in there, and sing. Geez, you would think I was asking you to murder someone.”
I roll my eyes and glance at his mug shot again. I’m in utter disbelief that the label would do this. They may have taken a chance on me, but I’ve filled their pockets enough through the years, repaying their investment, time and time again. When will I ever not be at the mercy of their requests?
Landing in LA, I find myself once again being shuttled hurriedly from one place to another. Why does his screw-up mean that I have to immediately come back on a red-eye from New York? On top of that, I didn’t even get my pizza, so I’m extra ornery. My only saving grace is that I see a familiar welcome face when the elevator doors open at Backlash.
“Hey, there she is. Ooh, I just want to celebrate. My two favorite people coming together,” Stella hollers out to me.
“Hi, Stella. How are you?” I ask, embracing her round figure. She’s the sweetest and most genuine person I know in this industry; I just wish she could manage me instead of this office. The fact that she likes Trace makes me hopeful I won’t want to ring his neck during this “collaboration.”
“Hangin’ in there, honey. You best be gettin’ in there,” she tells me, nodding her head toward the mahogany double doors through which my mom has already entered. I was annoyed being here in the first place but now I’m just pissed. Would it really be that difficult for her to wait so we can go in together?
“Thanks,” I sigh.
“Everyone’s waiting on you, babydoll. They’re not gonna bite, just go,” she says and I try to rein in my annoyance with the entire situation. Stella gives me a slight nudge before adding, “Then again, judging by the vibe you’re giving off today, I’d say the boys are the ones who I should be worried about.” She gives me a wink and I place my hand on the gold doorknob, trying to let the cool sensation seep into my overheated body. Taking a deep calming breath, I plaster a forced smile on my face and open the door.
Chapter 3
Trace
“Better late than never, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me that,” she responds tersely. The girl I see in front of me looks nothing like the dolled-up beauty queen I observed the night of the Grammys, but oddly enough, this version of Taryn Starr is much easier on the eyes. Now the words that are coming out of her mouth are another story…
“Why not? That’s their name for you, isn’t it? ‘America’s Sweetheart’? So everybody else can call you that, but I can’t?”
“How was jail, by the way?” I ask, attempting to deflect. “It’s a shame you didn’t have to stay there longer and then we wouldn’t have to do this today.”
I hear Xavier in the audio room, not trying to conceal his laughter. Hell, I’d probably be laughing my ass off too if I wasn’t so annoyed with the whole situation. “Don’t worry, darlin’, I don’t want to be here any more than you do.”
“Let’s just get to work, alright? I’ve got another appointment today.”
“Well, we’d better mosey this along then,” I say in my best southern accent. “Don’t wanna make you late to the spa, now do we?”
She rolls her eyes and pulls her guitar out of its case as I sit down in front of the baby grand, muttering, “Like I don’t have anywhere to be…” I start to play a few notes because music always settles me down. The piano sounds okay but needs tuning before we record. I glance up at where I know Xavier is sitting on the other side of the glass partition and he nods his head in acknowledgment.
Hearing Taryn begin to pluck away at the guitar, I look over to see her jotting down some notes before I focus on the sheet Jay handed me earlier. This fucking sucks. Not the song itself, which isn’t half bad, if I’m being honest. What bothers me about it is that all they’ve got me doing is rapping, like they think I can’t actually carry a tune.
I start to play the chorus, and as always, lose myself in the feel of the keys as my fingers fly over them. I don’t even have to look at the notes so I close my eyes and just play. It feels like there’s something missing, so I sing the first thing that pops into my head. Hmm, not too bad. I quickly scrawl down the words I just sang before glancing up to the funniest damn sight I’ve seen all day. Guess country girl didn’t think I could sing either.
“Good thing there aren’t any flies in here or you might’ve choked on a few by now,” I say and she quickly snaps her mouth shut. The peach flush that paints her pale face makes me laugh out loud. I knew white people could blush both pink and red, but the color covering Taryn’s cheeks is definitely peach.
She shoots steely daggers in my direction, which only makes me laugh harder. Make that feisty country girl. I look back down at the sheet music, but not before I catch a glimpse of her lips tilting upward on one side.
Good—maybe if she lightens up a little we can get some work done. Because as much as I hate the idea of collaborating or being told what I have to sing, I sure as hell don’t want to put out music that sucks ass. I’m about to suggest that we try a run-through when I hear:
Please baby, believe in us
I can’t keep you at bay
Give me all of your trust
I won’t throw it away
I don’t know where we’re going
I just need you to stay
Please don’t leave me
I promise, it’ll be okay
Holy shit. I’ve heard voices described as ‘angelic’ before, but I never knew what they were talking about before now. She sounds like pure honey when she sings, all syrupy and so sinfully sweet—I’m pretty sure I could go to Hell based solely on the thoughts I’m having right now.
Now I’m the one staring. Fortunately, she is completely oblivious, her eyes closed while she strums her guitar.
“But the forces pullin’ us apart are far too strong,” I sing, not sure where I’m going with this but it feels right. Taryn’s eyes open and she looks at me in surprise. She plays a few notes and then sings, “Are you saying we’re not strong?”
“I’m saying we can’t fight what’s goin’ on out there,” I counter.
“Well, what about what’s in here?” she returns.
We both stop playing our respective instruments and scribble down the words we just sang. If I don’t get it on paper, it’ll be gone and something else will pop into my head. The second I get the last line down, that’s exactly what happens.
“How about this?” I ask, pointing to my sheet.
She brings her guitar to where I’m sitting so she can look over my shoulder. “Yeah…yeah, I like that,” she says, but I’m not listening anymore. Her sweet scent is just as incredible as her voice.