“Trace’s tour debut wraps up with women—what’s new?” the anchor announces and my jaw drops. The accompanying clips show him exiting a private room at a nightclub with a smirk on his face and then skips to him greeting two barely-dressed girls leaned against his limo. Right as the clip cuts off, one of the girls reaches up and looks as if she’s caressing his face. I feel the vomit start to rise in my throat as I hear the announcer make some snide remark about how it must be tough being Trace. I shut off the TV, seriously wanting to smack myself across the face for thinking he was flirting with me last night. Those comments probably just flow out of his mouth like water from a faucet.
Trying to push him and his stupid texts out of my mind, I finish packing my bags and wheel them outside where the limo is waiting—I’ve got a tour to begin.
Five stops and a week into it, I’m already exhausted. My voice is hoarse and no amount of herbal tea seems to be helping. I stay holed up in my bus as much as possible, strumming on my guitar and playing around with song lyrics. It’s my favorite way to relax before going onstage, which is where I have to be in a little over an hour.
As I’m jotting down notes for a song that’s been floating around in my head, a knock at the door makes me lose my train of thought, and I let out an exasperated breath. I don’t mind living on a tour bus, but the constant interruptions are starting to grate on my nerves.
“Hey doll, I brought you some tea with honey,” Ryder says as he walks in, making himself at home. “Still working on that song?”
I accept the steaming hot mug and thank him before putting my guitar down with a sigh. “Yeah, I just can’t seem to get it right—something’s missing.” I lean back against the sofa and curl my legs under me.
“Do you want me to help you tonight after the show?” he asks with a grin, making it obvious that there’s a not-so-hidden meaning behind that question.
“Nah…it will come in due time,” I deflect, waving him off. “I know better than to force it.” I don’t miss the disappointed look on his face. There are way too many things that could go wrong if Ryder and I were to get together, and breakups among couples in my industry are just a matter of time. I hate the thought of that happening since not only would I lose the best guitarist I know, but I’d lose a friend too.
“Well…if you change your mind, let me know,” he says, standing up. As he leans in to look at my notebook, I close it as nonchalantly as possible. Ryder has helped me out in the past when I’ve struggled with certain parts of songs, but this time it’s different.
“I will. Thanks, Ryder.” I hold up my cup of tea and he winks before leaving the van. The guilt hits me as soon as I hear the door close. Sometimes I think I should give him a shot—maybe it could work out for us. We’re both from Texas, though we didn’t know one another when we lived there, and we both love country music. That’s more than Maverick and I had in common, and a hell of a lot more than a certain blue-eyed rapper from Chicago who, despite the recent video clips I saw, still seems to be stuck in my brain.
The sound of an incoming text pulls me from my thoughts—probably my mother with some last-minute instructions. I set the cup of tea down to answer it. Well, speak of the player…which, by the way, is exactly the name I used when I saved his number—just so I wouldn’t forget that that’s exactly what he is. I am tempted to erase the message without reading it but curiosity gets the best of me. Trace hasn’t texted since the night we both began our tours, and I can only assume it’s because he’s had his hands full…literally.
Hey, haven’t heard from you. How’s your throat feeling?
Okayyy…I don’t hear from him in a week and this is what he asks? Unsure what to say, I respond with the truth.
Shitty, actually. It’s raspy and sore.
I don’t bother asking him about his voice because I don’t care—at least that’s what I keep telling myself anyway.
So my cure didn’t help?
Cure? I scrunch my eyebrows, trying to figure out what the hell he’s talking about, but I’m coming up short.
You lost me.
While I wait, I drink some more tea and glance at the clock. Almost showtime. His next text still has me scratching my head.
Those fuck-ups. I’ll get it to you before your next show. Promise ;)
He sent me something? I want to ask, but I guess he would have said what it was if he wanted me to know.
Me: Okay… but you didn’t have to get me anything.
Trace: It’s all good.
Me: Well, thanks?
Trace: Don’t mention it. I’m on in five so good luck tonight. Albuquerque, huh?
Holy crap, he’s checked my schedule? I’m saved from responding by another text.
You available to talk tonight?
Um, yeah…though do I really want him to know I’m a loser who doesn’t go out and party after my shows? Unlike Mr. Jetsetter, I have to hop back on my bus to get to the next city. I know my band usually parties it up in the bus behind mine, but I never join them. My fingers flip from Y to N before I finally give up the fight.
Yes
The thought of talking to him tonight thrills and scares me at the same time. I pick up my tea again with shaky hands, and I know they aren’t from pre-concert jitters.
Cool…talk to ya after the show.
With a burst of inspiration, I toss my phone down and write the words that just popped into my head. You are so much more than I gave you credit for. It fits perfectly where I’d gotten stuck earlier. All of my creative energy vanishes though when the door to my bus flies open and my mom enters, hollering that it’s time to go. After hiding my notebook, I grab my guitar, check my appearance in the mirror, and walk toward the door.
“Oh, I almost forgot. This came for you,” my mom says, exchanging my guitar for a large wrapped package. I tear off the paper like a kid on Christmas morning, hiding my smile when I discover that the mystery gift is a cool-mist humidifier. So that’s the cure he was talking about.
“The record label must have sent it. How thoughtful,” my mother remarks before heading out. I wonder if she would use the same word to describe who really sent it. There’s a plain white envelope stuck to the side, which thankfully my mom didn’t see, and I quickly open it.
I know how hard it is performing every night when you’re on tour—puts a strain on those chords. Hope this helps. – Trace
I shove the card in my notebook, not bothering to contain my smile this time. I consider firing off a quick text to thank Trace but recall that he’s getting ready to go on as well. I smile wider when I remember that I can tell him how grateful I am when we talk on the phone tonight. Even my mom yelling for me to ‘hurry the hell up’ doesn’t damper my mood, and I run out the door and toward the arena, ready to put on a performance—one where I won’t have to act happy because I truly am.
Chapter 8
Trace
Whoever decided to name Detroit the “Motor City” obviously wasn’t hanging around me because my ass hasn’t moved from this hotel. Apparently, there are some people here that don’t think I’m “black enough” and are looking for any opportunity to start shit with me and my crew. So word came down, and now, aside from the stadium, the only view I’ve seen of the city is out of the limo and hotel windows. The concert was a blast though and the crowd one of the biggest I’ve seen, so I guess I’m more loved than hated in Detroit. Nice to know.
Not heading out on the town after the show wouldn’t be so bad…hell, I’d love it actually, except that the party decided to come to my hotel suite instead. I love my boys, and not to diminish what they do, but they have no fucking clue how tiring these concerts are on the one actually performing. I have the utmost respect for professional dancers because, whereas we rehearse for a couple of hours before each performance, I know they practice all day every day, and they don’t get near the money or respect that they deserve.
Speaking of which, it looks as if the guys invited every backup dancer from the tour to my place, along with the usual out-for-celebrity-cock groupies. I scan the opulent and soon-to-be-trashed room, not missing the fact that there are a hell of a lot more girls than guys in here. I also notice that the extra thirty minutes I spent showering and changing after the show appears to have been enough time for everyone to get sufficiently sloshed, because I’m pretty sure I’m the only sober one in this room right now.
As if on cue, I hear, “Trace, my man, help a brother out…” I roll my eyes at Xavier, thinking to myself that this is never a good start to a conversation with any of my boys.
“What’s up, X?” I ask.
“You good at gettin’ pussy, Ace,” he slurs. Oh good Lord, where is he going with this? “Why don’t you tell this lovely lady right here,” he says, indicating the “lady” on his left versus the one hanging on his right arm, “why she should join ‘ol T-Rex for a little midnight ménage à trois?”
Not even justifying his idiocy, I begin to walk away but not before I hear, “Fine, motherfucker. You can have one of ‘em if you gonna be like that.”