The Bad Boys of Summer Anthology(137)

“Let’s see if we can’t work some harmony in there too,” I say, hoping she’ll sit back down where she was before. “I mean, the song is supposed to be about two very different people coming together, and right now, there’s not a whole lot of coming together.”

“That’s a good point,” she agrees and thankfully sits back down on her stool. “Let’s give it a shot. What were those words you were singing again earlier?”

I take a sip of water and look at her, trying to figure out if she’s just appeasing me or not. She looks at me expectantly and it seems like she’s being sincere so I begin playing. “I won’t let you go,” I sing, dragging out the ‘o’. “Yeah, I want you to know. Baby, I can see, you’re the one for me, and I love you so.”

“I like that,” she says, “but how ‘bout we try it a cappella?”

“That could work,” I respond and play a couple of notes and a chord to get us started. We sing the words together, watching one another closely so that our timing is right, and before we’re even done, I know that it won’t get any better than that. I’ve heard of movie magic before but that was fucking music magic. Before I can compliment her, the door to the studio bursts open and Xavier barrels in.

“Fuckin’ A—that was ill!” he exclaims.

“Uh, is that a good thing?” she asks, looking between the two of us in bewilderment.

“Hell yeah, it’s a good thing,” I assure her. “Did you get that, X?”

“Got it, Ace,” he says, “and I’d like to get it all now, but you know the drill. We gotta roll out.”

Shit. Just when things were starting to gel too. “Yeah, I know, dawg,” I reply, suppressing a sigh. Turning to Taryn, I say, “Hey, it’s not sounding half bad. We’ll let them figure out another time we can get together and get this thing done, yeah?”

“Sure, sounds good,” she says. Is that disappointment I hear in her voice or maybe just my own feelings echoing around in my head?

I grab the music sheets and turn to leave, but notice that she hasn’t moved from her stool. “Are ya headin’ out?”

“I will in a sec,” she says, looking up from her guitar. “I have a few minutes before I have to leave and I want to work on this a little more, if that’s okay. But if y’all need me to get out of here…”

“Nah, you’re alright. Take as long as you need,” I offer.

“Yeah baby, I’ll be here all night,” Xavier says suggestively. I slap the back of his head as I follow him out of the room.

“Bye,” I hear before the door slams shut. Damn, I feel like an ass—didn’t even say goodbye before I left. Too late now though. I’m late and the fucking execs are gonna ride my ass if I fall out of line for a split second. Plus, how would it look if I went back in there just to say goodbye now? All kinds of stupid, that’s what.



Taryn



I strum my guitar, jotting down a few notes to help the song flow better, trying to shake off the way the sound of his smooth-as-molasses voice made me feel. His usual music doesn’t hint at the thick and rich vocals I just heard flowing out of him with ease. Don’t get me wrong, he can rap with the best of them. On the way here from the airport, I downloaded his latest album—the one that beat mine out for a Grammy—and it really was amazing. And even though he sounded irate through most of it, I was surprised that the lyrics never once disrespected women. That’s more than I can say for the other rappers in the business.

As uncomfortable and angry as I was feeling before walking through these doors, once we sat down at our instruments, his presence instantly calmed me. Except the ‘America’s Sweetheart’ comment. I hate that damn nickname. My mom probably started it, since she’s always wanted me to portray an angelic goody-two shoes image. What’s ironic is that she never fails to remind me how imperfect I really am.

The ding of my cell phone pulls me away from the jumbled thoughts in my head. I place my guitar down and pick up my phone from off the table. I don’t recognize the number but slide the bar over to read the text anyway.

Trace: Look down when ur mom comes in

Me: ??

Trace: 3-2-1…

A second later my mom walks through the door, barking that we need to go. As she turns to walk back out, I see the trail of toilet paper clinging to the bottom of her high heel.

Me: LMAO

Trace: Did u tell?

Me: Hell no!

Trace: LMFAO

Me: Gotta go

Trace: Later ;)

I smile as I start packing up my notebook and guitar, wondering where on earth Trace could have gotten my number. As I pass through the lobby on my way to the elevator, the mystery is solved when Stella smirks at me as she speaks with someone on the phone. I playfully roll my eyes and then join my mother in the waiting elevator.

“What?” I ask as she taps her foot impatiently, the toilet paper still stuck to her shoe. “Places to go, people to see,” she says. Like I need the reminder. There’s always somewhere to go and someone to see.

We venture down to the ground level. With the exception of a few paparazzi milling about, the sidewalk is bare. Climbing into yet another limo, my mom gives the driver the address of wherever we’re heading next. I think I remember something about a photo shoot, but I sincerely hope not, since I’m sure I’ll have bags under my eyes from the lack of a good night’s rest.

Regardless, I’ll be thankful when it’s over so I can finally have some time away from my mother for the first time in three days. Getting my own place a few years back was the best decision I’ve made. And while I bought a small house in Studio Hills, my mom went all out with a five thousand square-foot mansion in Calabasas. I still think she overdid it with that purchase, but as long as she doesn’t live with me, I could care less where she lives.



Once I’m home and tucked in my bed, I grab the TV remote, not accustomed to the silence. Flipping through the channels, I pause when I see a pair of familiar blue eyes staring at me from the flat-screen. Trace’s new video, “Want Me,” is playing, and of course there are about six half-naked girls grinding against him while his flirtatious eyes and wandering hands roam their bodies. It’s hard to believe the man on the screen is the same one I was in the studio with this morning. I can’t seem to look away as the girls run their hands across his hard abs and through his short, dark hair. Right when it looks like they’re about to have a massive orgy, my phone rings, causing me to jump about a mile high. I quickly change the channel to CMT, where the soothing sound of country music calms my racing pulse enough that I can answer the call.

“Hi, Dad,” I answer. You would think I’d been caught watching porn by the way I feel my face heat up.

“Hi, sweetheart. Just checking in on you.” My dad’s tender and caring tone is like a warm blanket and I immediately relax.

I scoot up to lean against the headboard. “I’m good, just about to catch up on some sleep.”

“Take care of yourself. It doesn’t take much to overdo it. Make sure you eat and drink regularly. Water…drink lots of water.” I can’t help but wonder if all dads are like this or just ones that never see their daughters. Either way, I’m glad he cares so much…sure beats the alternative.

“I do, Dad. Don’t worry about me. How are things at the ranch?” I ask and his silence instantly worries me. “Dad?” I question.

“Oh, everything’s fine here.” The distant tone I detect in his voice does nothing to comfort me.

“You would tell me, right?” I ask. Ever since my mom brought me out to Los Angeles, my dad has never asked me for anything. After I received my first big check, I tried to give him some of it to help out with the expenses of the ranch, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Although I respect his independence, I’ve always wished he would take the money. My mom certainly has no problem taking more than her fair share.

“Of course. I checked your tour and looks like you’ll be around here in a couple of months,” he says, not-so-smoothly changing the subject. “You’ll come see me, won’t you?” My dad always keeps track of where I am, but rarely do I see him unless I go back home.

“I can’t wait. All I have left before the tour starts is a collaboration that the label has me doing with another artist,” I tell him.

“Oh yeah, who?” he asks curiously.

“Trace. He’s a rap—“

“I know who he is,” my dad interrupts before I can explain who Trace is. I’m surprised since my dad is as country as they come. “He did a benefit show down here a year or so ago. I forget what it was for, but it made big news.” How do I not know all of this stuff about him? Even my dad knows more than I do about Trace.

“Oh” is all that comes out of my mouth.

“Taryn, is he treating you nice?” my dad questions.

“Yes, why would you ask that?” I respond softly, pulling my knees up to my chest. The feeling of being exposed washes over me.

“I don’t know. You just have an unsteady tone in your voice. Wait,” he says, pausing briefly, “Taryn, do you like him?” The way he phrases the question, you would think my eighth-grade best friend just asked if I like him, like him. Not that I’m surprised. My dad has always encouraged me to talk about boys, joking that he needed to know who was going to be at the receiving end of his rifle.