“Sugar?”
I can’t stop the smile, hearing her frequent term of endearment for me. “Yeah, Stella?” I ask, turning back around.
“When you’re out there with all of those hussies throwing themselves at your feet,” she starts to say, and I can’t help but roll my eyes at her outdated word for the ‘hos’ that will unquestionably be at every stop on the tour. “Don’t you forget that there ain’t nothing like the real thing.”
With that, she heads inside the office, leaving me to stare after her. Trying to not think of what she is really trying to tell me, I smile wider at the fact that Stella managed to get in two Marvin Gaye titles in one conversation. That has got to be a record.
I wake up in a cold sweat, the luxurious hotel sheets twisted around my legs, and a massive headache replaces my usual hard-on. No doubt another teeth-clenching nightmare is to blame for my less-than-perfect start to the day. It’s always the exact same one, and there’s never anything I can do to change the horrific and very real outcome. I’m just thankful I had the nightmare here in my private suite and not on the airplane, where one of the guys would have definitely questioned me about it. Only Dre knows about my past and I want to keep it that way.
Knowing that the hotel gym isn’t an option at this point, the only alternative to rid my head of the throbbing ache and the painful memories is to go for a run. Washington DC in March will be fucking cold, but at least I can hide in plain sight easier with all of the extra clothing on. And I’ll need it too, because I don’t feel like having the label’s security team following me around today—or any day, really. Cal’s going to be pissed that I’m shaking him and the rest of his guys, but he’ll just have to get over it. He knows I need my space from time to time and I have no doubt he’ll cover for me.
After disentangling myself from the sheets, I hop out of bed, thinking only of getting the hell out of here and completely forgetting about my pounding head. Shit, that hurts. I locate the luggage that has my “winter wear” in it and pick out a black knit beanie cap, sweatpants, and a hoodie. Thank God I packed my own stuff or I’m sure I’d never be able to find anything without help. I’ve learned that when you let someone pack your shit, then you need them to find your shit, and pretty soon, you’re completely dependent on someone else and can’t go to the fucking bathroom without them. No thanks.
So it’s a damn good thing I fired the assistant that the label tried to stick me with. The last thing I want is to rely on someone…anyone. It’s bad enough I’ve got the suits up my ass every second of every damn day. I sure as hell don’t need someone going off and telling the whole world my secrets, the biggest of which is that I’m not the motherfucker everyone thinks I am.
I find an old pair of running shoes, since I obviously can’t go traipsing around town in an expensive pair of kicks when I’m trying not to call attention to myself. I quickly get dressed and throw on some sports sunglasses, eager to get out of this stuffy hotel room and into the fresh air. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that the “Presidential” suite is so fucking formal—this is DC, after all—but I feel like I’m going to go crazy in here. Fortunately, it’s only one more night and I know I’ll be dog-tired by the end of the show so I won’t care where the fuck I’m at. Then in the morning, we’re off to Boston or Philadelphia or Pittsburgh…hell if I can remember.
The one good thing I can say about this penthouse suite is the view. Because I have a panoramic perspective of the city, I can see most of the monuments from up here and therefore, I know exactly which way I need to go. Asking the concierge for directions is out of the question unless I want a dozen photographers waiting for me when I arrive.
I decide to take the stairs down, hoping that there’s a door at the bottom with an exit leading outside so I don’t have to leave through the lobby. Although it feels good to get my muscles warmed up, I sure as hell won’t be taking the stairs on the way back up—this hotel has way too many floors for that shit. Once I get to the bottom, I peek through several doors before finding the right one. I walk outside and inhale a huge breath of cold air that feels like freedom.
I break into a jog, heading in the general direction of the Jefferson Memorial, since I’m fairly certain that’s near where I want to be. While I run, I think about how my mom always talked about wanting to take a trip to DC to see all of the museums and monuments. Besides having a lot of pride in our country, she also loved the fact that the best places to visit here are all free to the public. She also joked that, like everything else in this world, they aren’t truly free—we pay for them with our tax dollars. Smart lady, my mom.
Once I get to the Tidal Basin, I continue along the paved path until I reach my destination. Although it wasn’t around when she was alive, I know without a shadow of a doubt that she would have wanted to go to the memorial honoring the late Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Mom respected the hell out of that man, and I figure the least I can do is pay my respects to him.
Because it’s still early, there aren’t tons of people around and I’m happy to have the place practically to myself. I stand and stare at the larger-than-life figure for a minute before realizing that it isn’t the image of the man that I came here to see. It wasn’t his picture that graced the walls of the home I grew up in, rather the words he spoke that were lovingly cross-stitched on a framed piece of fabric.
Walking along the crescent-shaped granite wall, I recognize many of the quotes from King’s sermons and speeches. I stare at each quote in turn, committing them to memory before coming across my Momma’s favorite:
The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.
When I reach the end of the wall, I continue along the tree-lined path, wishing it were a couple of weeks or so later. I remember learning in school about the cherry blossoms that supposedly cover this place in the spring. Apparently, the beginning of March isn’t spring in DC because there isn’t anything blooming that I can see.
I walk aimlessly, enjoying the tranquility of the morning and knowing that this will probably be the last time I’ll feel this way for quite some time. As I meander down the path without any clear destination, I begin to see various bronze sculptures. It’s obviously some sort of memorial, but I still have no idea what or who it’s for.
When I come across the sculpture of Eleanor Roosevelt, I am instantly reminded that she was also one of my mom’s favorites because she championed human rights at a time when no one else did. Not only that, but the things she said and did clearly showed that she wasn’t like other women back in those days. Hell, she wasn’t like most women these days.
Even though I desperately wish I could spend all day just touring around like everybody else, I’m not going to complain about it. I’ve got a sell-out crowd coming to see me perform at the Verizon Center, the biggest venue in DC. Most musicians would give anything to see their name on a marquee like that.
I check my phone to see what time it is. Damn, I’ve got to get back. Rehearsals start in an hour and I’ve got to take a shower beforehand. I sprint off, a shit-eating smile on my face, because I was able to enjoy an entire morning to myself in public without being recognized. I could get used to this.
Taryn
“So, how was recording?” Ryder asks me, but the tone of his voice and the look in his eyes convey what he really wants to know.
“Surprisingly, really well,” I say and he raises his eyebrows. I’m just as shocked as he is, but then again, Trace isn’t who everyone thinks he is. I glance over at his tour poster—who the hell came up with that messed-up name?
“I wouldn’t know, that friend of his kicked us all out,” my mom sneers while standing to her feet. “Hi, Ry,” she says and kisses his cheek.
“Hi, Savannah,” he croons, embracing her in a hug. From the gleam in my mom’s eyes, I know exactly what she’s thinking. She has never been quiet about wanting me to date Ryder…except when Maverick was in the picture. My mom has always been on the, shall we say, opportunistic side and Maverick’s stardom was an opportunity she thought was too good to pass up. “And you let them kick you out? How out of character,” Ryder jokes and my mom gives her annoyingly fake giggle.
“Oh Ryder, I didn’t want to cause ripples when the collaboration has been going so smoothly. You know that’s not my style.” She’s using her southern drawl that she usually tries to conceal and I roll my eyes in irritation. When I look away, I find my own tour poster being hung up by a man wearing a blue uniform.
He gently encases it in the glass and I want to vomit when I see the picture they used. I’m wearing jeans and a plaid button-down with a studded black belt. If that’s not bad enough, I’m standing in a field of wheat grass with a damn daisy in my hair. Not quite sure who put this together or what they were trying to accomplish, but I look like some confused country/granola girl. Racking my brain, I try to remember ever wearing that ensemble and it dawns on me—the photo shoot a few weeks ago when they wanted to try a few different looks. They told me it was just for fun but obviously not. I decide I’d better get over it since there’s no changing it at this point, but then gasp when I read the tour title, splashed across the bottom.