The Bad Boys of Summer Anthology(138)

“All I can say is that he’s different than I thought he was,” I answer, as honestly as I can at this point.

“You of all people should know not to judge someone before you get to know them,” he advises. Before I can agree with him, he continues, “Well, sweetheart, it’s been nice talking. I should head out to the stables before I tuck in for the night. Call me if you need anything or just want to talk.”

After assuring him that I will and a few ‘I love yous’ later, we hang up. Feeling content after our conversation, I snuggle deeper under my covers and close my eyes, not even attempting to battle the exhaustion that overwhelms my body. The last thought I have before I fall asleep is that my dad is absolutely right—I should be more optimistic about Trace.





Chapter 4

Trace



“Time to go,” I say, grabbing her bare ass as I walk toward the ensuite bathroom. I pick up a pair of basketball shorts off the floor on my way, not bothering to look back at the naked woman still lying on my bed. LaDonna or Shadonna or some name that sounds a hell of a lot like Madonna was a decent fuck, but that’s all she was to me. And I’m fairly certain that’s all she expects to be. Guess I’ll find out if she’s still around when I step back out.

After pissing what little alcohol I have in my system, I jump in the shower, grateful that this day is finally coming to an end. As the scalding hot water cascades down my tired body, I can’t help but recall the daily conversations I used to have with my folks over the dinner table where we would recount the best part of our day. If they were here right now, I would tell them that the highlight of my ridiculously long day was, surprisingly, collaborating with a country singer.

Despite the fact that I’m essentially being forced to do it, making music—whether that’s writing or performing it—has always and will always be my favorite part about all of this shit. And that’s exactly what the rest of my day entailed…a whole hell of a lot of shit.

Straight from the studio, I jetted over to LA’s most popular hip-hop/rap radio station for a live interview. From there, I was shuttled all across the city to film scenes for a new music video. Doesn’t sound too bad, right? It wouldn’t have been, except the label has apparently decided they want cameras following me every damn place I go, as if I don’t already have enough of that with those paparazzi fuckers tailing my ass every second of the day. Guess the execs think it’ll help keep me in line—well, not if my boys have anything to do about it.

I get back to my penthouse hotel suite to find the entire crew here with about a dozen groupies hanging around, no doubt waiting to see which one I’d pick tonight.

Not being conceited, just being real. And fuck if I didn’t give in to my biggest vice—women. Just thinking about any one of them gets my dick hard again, and even though I could easily walk out of here and find some instant relief, I decide a hand job will be quicker and give me the solitude I prefer.

Speaking of vices, I try to justify to myself that at least I’m not hell-bent on using. And although my recent night that ended in a side-trip to the slammer might otherwise indicate, I’m not a big fan of alcohol either. Seeing my uncle spend all of the money we had on smack and crack when Dre and I didn’t even have food to eat made me see that that shit’s not all it’s cracked up to be. I’ve also watched my boys make some dumb-ass decisions while loaded up on either one or the other, and there’s no telling how many kids they’ve got out there thanks to drugs and way too many drinks. It’s why I was so pissed off at myself after what happened the other night. I should be grateful that I got my ass thrown in jail, since it probably kept me out of far worse trouble.

And even though I know my revolving door of women isn’t the worse thing in the world, I also know that it would disappoint my parents as much as anything else I’ve done. Growing up, they showed me what love is supposed to look like and taught me that sex should be confined to a loving and monogamous relationship. All that was fine and fucking great while they were around, but the years I spent as a teen without them and living under my uncle’s roof, I learned a whole lot of other lessons about love and sex. And let’s just say that the two models of behavior couldn’t be more opposite.

Plus, unlike addictions to alcohol and drugs, I can do without women. I don’t physically need to fuck. And although I know that there are people who are addicted to sex, I’m not one of them. Despite the fact that I like the way it feels, I mainly do it because I’m expected to by everyone around me. It’s all part of the game, and I’m a fucking player—in more than one sense of the word.

After I’ve washed up, I reluctantly turn the water off and grab the ultra-soft hotel towel that hangs on the heated towel rack. I like it here, even if everyone does give me shit for not buying a place in LA like the rest of the world. But I’m not like everyone else. Not only can I afford to pay thousands of dollars per night to stay wherever the fuck I want, but I could probably buy the damn hotel if I wanted to. But that’s not going to happen because owning anything in this God-forsaken city would make it appear as if it’s home to me, and no matter how long I live here, this will never be home.

With that depressing thought, I suddenly feel the need to throw around some weights, regardless of the fact that I just cleaned up. Late at night is practically the only time I can go to the hotel gym anyway because that’s the only time no one’s there. Otherwise, I have to arrange for it to be “closed for cleaning” if I want a daytime workout, and that’s just too much trouble.

I throw on my sports shorts and toss the towel on the floor for housecleaning to pick up tomorrow. I grimace as I think about how my mom would kick my lazy ass for pulling that shit too. Walking out of the bathroom, I look around and sure enough, the tight ass from earlier is gone. Guess she knows the drill.

I hear the TV in the living area on at an outrageously loud volume so I throw open the door to find Dre watching SportsCenter, while Xavier’s on the other couch, practically fucking some chick. I grab the remote off the side table and turn off the TV, which results in a listless ‘what the fuck?’ from Dre. He must be stoned—again. X-man, on the other hand, doesn’t even notice.

“Go get your fuck on somewhere else, X,” I say and head toward the kitchen area to get a bottle of water from the fridge. When I look back and see that he has yet to disentangle his body from whoever is beneath him, I yell, “Xavier, seriously, man. There’s another room, ya know? Use it.”

“Quint’s in there with some ho, dawg,” he says, finally coming up for air and reaching down to button up his fly. I open the door to the refrigerator and dig around, trying to find water among all the bottles of beer.

“You got your own crib, go there,” I reply, more than ready for this place to clear out. Dre can stay—he’s family. But there’s only so much I can take of everyone else. Just as I locate a water bottle, I feel fingernails scratching their way across my bare chest, which appear to be connected to arms wrapped around my torso.

“What the f—“ I start, but then a high-pitched giggle tells me all I need to know. And although I don’t know who it is, I know without a doubt what she wants. I slam the door and turn around to face a pretty pair of chocolate-brown eyes. I give her a quick scan and although she’s got a kickass body, I’m sure as hell not going to tap some chick that is willing to settle for being sloppy seconds. As Sweet Brown would say, “Ain’t nobody got time for that!”

But of course, I’ve gotta walk that walk so I say, “Hey there, beautiful…where’d you come from?” She giggles again. That and the way she’s hanging onto me, I realize she’s probably high out of her ever-lovin’ mind. Fuck.

“I was in the bathroom,” she says in a high-pitched voice to match her high-pitched giggle. “I’ve been waiting for you, Trace.”

I’m not even going to attempt to get rid of this one myself. “X!” I yell, extricating myself from her clinging grasp. “Will you make sure…” I pause, unsure if we’ve been introduced before or not. “Jaycee,” she says helpfully, putting her hands back on my chest.

“Will you make sure Jaycee gets home, please?” I ask, turning my head and giving him a look that says this isn’t really a request, even if it sounds like one.

“Sure, bro,” he says, walking toward us while dragging his conquest for the night behind him. He fist-bumps me with his free hand and then takes hold of Jaycee’s hand, pulling her toward the door.

“Wait, hold up,” she says, yanking her hand away. Oh shit, here we go. “You were with that skank,” she says, pointing toward the front door where my latest conquest obviously walked out, “but you don’t want this,” she says, indicating her own body.

“Babe, that ain’t it,” I say, swallowing a sigh. “I gotta work out, that’s all. You know, keep all this,” I say, pointing to my hard abs, “tight and toned, for ladies like yourself.”