The Bad Boys of Summer Anthology(144)

“Aww,” the other one pouts, “we could always go with you.” She brushes her long-ass fingernail across my cheek and Cal, who doesn’t take to people touching me without permission, steps in.

“Yo, you heard the man. He’s leaving and it’s time for you to do the same.” Cal’s booming voice leaves no room for argument. They walk off, mumbling to themselves, using words that no “lady” would ever use. I toss a grateful look at Cal and he looks at me questioningly. I shrug my shoulders and point to the limo driver, who hurries to open the door for me. I crawl in, eager for the solitude, and sit back as the door shuts behind me.

I’ve barely closed my eyes when we pull up to the hotel, where there’s a good-sized mob of people waiting outside. Once again I’m thankful for my security team, who pulled up the rear in a black SUV. My cell buzzes and I see that it’s a text from Cal. Damn, I was kind of hoping it was Taryn.

Cal: Str8 thru, Ace?

I’m so fucking tired from the concert and the club, and after already getting rid of one set of women for the night, I know my patience is shot to hell.

Lead the way, bro.

A minute later, the door opens and I’m surrounded by five linebacker-sized men. We move as fast we can through the crowd without knocking anyone down, and once we get to the elevators where the coast is clear, I slap a couple of hundreds in each of their hands by way of thanks. I know they’ve got girls back home and many of them have kids who won’t see their dads for months on end because of me. And even though I know they’re paid well, a little extra never hurts either.

I climb inside the elevator with Cal, who pushes the button for the top floor. Just as I pull five Benjamins out of my wallet, he says, “Don’t even think about it.”

“Please, bro. It’s just my way of thanking you,” I tell him.

“And I’m telling you to put your fucking money away. You wanna spend it on someone else, go ahead, but you’re not givin’ it to me. I already get a paycheck and it doesn’t come from you.”

“That’s why I wanna give you somethin’. I don’t know how much those tight-ass suits pay you, so I gotta know you’re being taken care of, ‘aight?”

“No, not alright,” he says as the elevator doors open.

I sigh and walk out, knowing that this is one battle I’m not going to win—today. But I also know that someday he might need me and when he does, I’ll be there. Cal is one of the good ones and I’m glad he’s on my team.

I put the card in the slot to open the door and head inside the empty room, ready to hit the sack. I strip down as I walk and collapse onto the bed, not even bothering to set my alarm. No doubt Jay will have me up and moving whenever I need to be.

I close my eyes, trying to clear my head, but the one thing that I can’t keep from thinking about is what Taryn’s “usual” celebration might be.





Chapter 7

Taryn



Making my way backstage, I don’t stop to talk to anyone but head straight to my dressing room. I know I’ll only have a few minutes to myself so I decide to check my phone while I wait. I smile when I see a text from Trace, essentially asking if I tossed my cookies before the show. After a little back and forth, he tells me he has to “represent,” and suddenly I’m not smiling anymore. What the hell does that mean? When I hear loud voices on the other side of the door, I type a hasty reply and send it before shoving the phone into my bag.

“Great show, doll.” Ryder walks over and kisses my sweaty cheek. All I want to do is take a nice, long shower, and even though I know it’s not going to happen right away, I’m thankful I can at least take it at home tonight.

“Thanks, you were great out there,” I respond. Ryder is an incredibly talented guitarist and popular among the fans, particularly the girls.

“Taryn, darling…what happened in that last song? I told you that you should have been working out during the break to keep your stamina up.” If she knew me at all, she’d know that I do work out. I’d like to see her ass up there dancing and singing for over two hours.

I glare at her and she smiles back to me while nudging Ryder’s elbow. He looks uncomfortable and it’s obvious he wants out of the conversation but she won’t relent. “We’ll work on it, Savannah,” he says to her and I want to run out of the room screaming. Would it kill him to stick up for me once in a while?

Before I can tell them both where they can go, there’s a knock at the door and the tour assistant enters with a few backstage pass holders. It’s a group of younger girls, probably fifteen years old or so, accompanied by an older gentleman—most likely a dad who was dragged here against his will. Of course, my mom instantly gravitates toward him.

The girls squeal and giggle at the sight of Ryder and me, and the two of us smile at one another before we wave them over. Within seconds, Ryder’s casual demeanor has them eating out of his hand. The one short-haired brunette approaches and asks if she can hug me. When she does, she practically knocks me over with her force. “I’m Kylie, and oh my goodness…I can’t believe I’m hugging Taryn Starr right now,” she exclaims while squeezing me tight. Moments like this remind me why I exhaust myself, night after night, and spend countless hours on tour buses, year after year.

After reluctantly releasing me, Kylie hands me her ticket stub to sign. After I finish, she smiles, staring at me, and I can’t help wonder what she’s thinking. Am I not as pretty in person or is it that I’m nicer than she thought I would be? I don’t have to wait for my answer when she asks, “Are you and Ryder like…together?”

Ryder and I have been in and out of the gossip columns since he joined my band, but truth be told, we’ve never discussed the rumors. He comes alongside me and wraps his arm around my waist, making it seem as if we’re a couple. “No Kylie, we’re just best friends,” he tells her and then winks, causing the girls to practically melt to their knees in front of him. I’m ticked off for being put on the spot like this, but I give them a tight smile and go along with it—for now.

All of a sudden, a flash hits my eyes and I blink to refocus. Max Benson, our press guy for the tour, chuckles and walks away. Kylie and her friends then want to take photos with us, all of which will probably be on the internet before I’m in bed tonight. Thankfully, the tour assistant soon calls an end to the meet-and-greet, and I slip out while my mom and Ryder continue to visit with our guests. I’m sure I’ll get an earful later for being “rude,” but I’m so tired that I could care less at this point.



I slide into my bed, not even bothering to turn on the television—I just want to sleep. My phone vibrates on the nightstand, and even though I’m already dead to the world, I grab it anyway. When Trace’s number appears, I automatically perk up and roll over to my side.

Trace: So…it’s killin’ me. What is the usual?

Although his text from earlier rubbed me the wrong way, it feels good to know that while Trace was “representing,” he was curious about what I was doing.

Me: Hmm…not sure I can trust you ;)

Trace: How about I share something with you?

Hell yeah.

Me: Hit me and we’ll see.

The anticipation is almost too much to bear.

Trace: I may or may not lip sync.

Me: Do you really expect me to believe that?

Trace: LOL…it was worth a shot.

As tired as I am right now, this playful banter is making my night.

Me: Alright, you tried. My usual is…

I leave him hanging since I assume he’s expecting me to have big plans that don’t involve sleep.

Me: …being curled up in my bed.

Trace: I’m so envious right now.

Really? I didn’t expect that, but then again, maybe he’s just being agreeable.

Me: If you started your tour in LA, you could be in your own bed too right now ;)

Trace: Who said I wanted to be in my bed?

My heart skips a beat and I’m pretty sure there’s a three-ring circus going on in my stomach. Without a winky-face, it’s hard to tell if he’s being serious or not. Why isn’t there a winky-face? My fingers hover over the letters, but I can’t think of one damn thing to type. After a minute or so, another text appears.

Trace: You there?

I want to ask what his post-concert celebrations involve, but I’m not sure I want to know. I’m such a freaking chicken.

Me: Yep, sorry…long day.

Trace: I’ll let you get your beauty rest…not that you need it.

Shit, there he goes again. Once again, I have no idea what to say. Thanks?

Me: Goodnight—don’t let the bed bugs bite.

I groan into my pillow, certain that I’m sounding like a hick—one that Trace will probably never be texting again. Just as I decide to go to sleep so I can put myself out of my misery, my phone vibrates again.

Trace: Shit…why’d you have to say that? I’ll be feeling things crawling all over my body tonight LOL. Nite girl.

The last thing I think about before falling asleep is that I’d give anything to be a bed bug if it means I could crawl all over his body tonight.



I wake the next morning dreading that I have to leave the house, despite the fact that it really doesn’t feel like a home and never has. The cleaning crew will come in once a week while I’m on tour, but other than that, it will remain vacant until the next time I’m back in LA. I turn on the television while I finish packing and as I’m emptying out my drawers, one of the many “entertainment” shows comes on. Reaching for the remote to change the channel, I’m stopped by the sound of his name.