The Bad Boys of Summer Anthology(139)
“So you’d rather work out than fuck me, is that what you’re sayin’?” Classy.
And yeah, that’s exactly what I’m saying, but since I’d like to avoid getting a knee to the nuts, I answer carefully. “Nah, sweetheart. Xavier here’ll get you home tonight, and tomorrow I’ll be good and ready for you,” I say, pointing to the space between her surgically-enhanced breasts. Yeah-fucking-right, I think.
He grabs her hand again with a huge smile on his face. “Sho’ enough, sweetheart,” he says smoothly, “I’ll get ya home alright.” Something tells me Xavier will be thanking me tomorrow. The wink he throws my way before turning around confirms my thoughts. “They don’t call me Triple XXX for nothing,” he says and I roll my eyes. Whatever—I’m just glad he’s getting her the fuck out of here.
After the front door closes, I lean against the refrigerator, closing my eyes and releasing the sigh I’ve been holding in. Hopefully, that is the last I’ll see of Jaycee, since I have no intention of seeing her tomorrow—or ever again, if I can help it.
“You headed to the gym for real, cuz?” I snap my eyes open, having forgotten that Dre is still here.
“Yeah, bro…gotta burn off some steam. You down?” I ask, even though I’d rather work out alone. My cousin’s cool as shit, but I still need a break from him from time to time.
“Nah, I’m fucked up, bro,” he says. Before I can give him my usual lecture, he adds, “But you’re gonna need that workout when you hear what I gotta say,” he says.
“Aw shit, bro, don’t tell me your dad needs money again already,” I respond. There are a lot of great causes out there, but supporting my uncle’s habits isn’t one of them.
“Nah,” he says, not jumping to his dad’s defense. I’m not surprised—the man screwed around with Dre’s life way longer than he did mine. “Just that I talked to Jay before he left, and he’s squeezin’ in some studio time tomorrow with that country chick. Said we gotta get this shit done before you both head out of town. Turns out she had an opening in her schedule and you had a cancellation.”
I don’t even know what I was supposed to be doing, but regardless, I’m glad that I had a gap open up. The thought of spending a couple more hours with that girl doesn’t exactly turn me off. Dre cocks his head at me and I realize that I’m just standing here like a fool, not saying anything.
“Better to get it over with,” I say and quickly snatch my headphones off the kitchen counter.
“I know that’s right,” he says. “I missed the session earlier today, but I heard that Country was smokin’…for a white girl anyway.” He raises an eyebrow at me, obviously looking to get some kind of reaction.
“I’m hittin’ the gym,” I respond, feeling unwelcome irritation, especially hearing that my boys were discussing Taryn. Not sure why since she’s not my girl. I shake my head and move toward the door. As my hand touches the knob, I hear a loud moan and someone yelling, “Fuuuuuuck!” I’d forgotten about Quint and his latest flavor taking advantage of my spare room. I roll my eyes and call back to Dre, “Make sure they’re out of here before I get back, will ya?”
Without waiting for an answer, I put my cans on, turn the music up, and walk out the door.
Taryn
“Wanna Take You Home” by Gloriana starts playing and I groggily roll over to my side. Letting the music continue to blare, I push myself up and rub my eyes. That might have been the best night’s sleep I’ve had in months. I take a deep breath before checking my phone for messages. There’s one from my mom, letting me know that I’m recording with Trace in—crap! I’ve got one hour and LA traffic sucks even on the best of days. There goes my girl time with Gina.
I throw on a pair of skinny jeans and an off-the-shoulder, long-sleeved shirt, then quickly finish getting ready. Grabbing my phone and a breakfast bar, I race out the door. Rarely do I get to drive myself anywhere, so if I’m late, my mother will never let me hear the end of it.
I pull into the studio’s parking garage next to a brand-spanking-new black Escalade with more rim than tires. If that belongs to Trace and his entourage, then that means they’re already here. Shit.
Then again, why do I have to come running just because it’s a good time for him to record? The first day in forever I didn’t have anything scheduled, yet here I am. Regardless, I’m already here and the faster I get in there, the sooner we get this done.
“Day-um—this is who you’re singing with?” one of the guys remarks as I hurry in the control room, his eyes slowly roaming up and down my body. If I wasn’t flushed from trying to get in here so quickly, I am now.
“Give it a rest, bro.” Trace stands up and my stomach feels like a storm of flutters as he makes his way to me. Silently, I stand there, feeling uncomfortable but drawn to him at the same time. He licks his pouty pink lips while those piercing eyes stare intently at me.
“Don’t mind my boys. They’re…”
“Girl crazy?” I question and laughter fills the room.
“That’s one way to say it, I guess,” he chuckles.
“Hey, I’m Xavier, we met yesterday,” the flirtatious sound engineer calls over. “Where you from?”
“Texas, originally,” I proudly announce. I’m not ashamed of my country roots. “From a little town not too far from Houston.”
“For real?” The guy who was giving me the once-over cocks his eyebrow and I notice Trace gives him a sharp look. Not sure what that’s about.
“I’m Dre, this fool’s cousin.” He nods his head at Trace, who seems to relax a little. “I mix the beats around here.”
“Nice to meet you,” I tell him. As he walks toward the digital audio workstation, I spot my mom sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, urgently pressing buttons on her phone. When she raises her head, I see her throw on a smile I recognize as being one-hundred percent fake. She walks toward us, saying, “Well, hello Trace.” After they exchange pleasantries, she finally looks at me and says, “Taryn, you’re late.” She grabs hold of my elbow, pulling me toward her as though I’m five and just ran off from her at a store.
After a few minutes of a typical Savannah Starr bitch session, I hear someone clearing their throat and spot Trace out of the corner of my eye, holding open the door to the room where we’ll record. When my mom notices him standing there, she lets go of me and smiles brightly. “Good luck, guys,” she says in her saccharin-laced voice before returning to her chair.
“Your mom’s a trip,” he murmurs as I pass by. You have no idea.
After a few deliberations with the sound guys, Trace and I take our spots in the “live room.” It feels strange not having my guitar with me since the small space is set aside only for singing. I reach for the full bottle of water left beside my stool and straighten just as Trace strips off his black hoodie, revealing only a white wife-beater shirt underneath. And muscles…lots of muscles.
Fortunately, he seems to be concentrating on the sheet of music in front of him because I know I’m gawking right now. Trace’s body is nothing short of amazing. I knew from the video I saw last night that the guy’s ripped, but seeing it in person is a whole other story. His biceps bulge and his broad shoulders narrow down to his taut stomach, where I clearly recall a defined six-pack is hiding. I’d like to see that in person.
“Here you go.” He hands me a piece of paper and I attempt to conceal my obvious appraisal of his body. His cocky wink tells me I’m not doing a good job of it.
“What’s this?” I ask him, glancing at the sheet. There are lines scratched through lyrics and new ones replacing those that have been crossed out.
“Changed things up a little,” he shrugs his shoulders and chuckles. “Let’s call it artist overrule. You game?” he asks.
After I read it over, I look up to find those blue eyes watching me intently. He’s right, we should have a say in what we’re singing. Looks like neither of enjoy having the label tell us what to do. “Always,” I say and he gives me his signature wink.
Xavier comes across the mic, asking us if we’re ready. Trace nods, still staring at me, and I’m thankful the room behind the glass has emptied out—it’s only Xavier and Dre from the looks of it. My mom has disappeared, along with the other members of Trace’s crew. I laugh to myself at the thought of her out there waiting for me with all of them. She probably has her head glued to her phone anyway.
The sound of heartbeats fills the room and I focus on the words as Trace begins to rap, raising my eyebrows at the words “lil’ country girl.” Someone has been changing things up. I get through my part without any problems, although I know this is just the beginning—it’ll require several takes to get it right.
Just as I predicted, the guys stop us and ask us to start again from the top. When Trace gets going again, his eyes veer toward mine as he starts to rap:
There ain’t nothing okay about this, I swear