The Bad Boys of Summer Anthology(177)
“Yeah, thanks for the heads-up,” I say, unable to keep the sarcasm from my voice. I pull away from her and she steps back, glaring at me. Trace is speaking in hushed whispers with Jay and meanwhile, the cameras are clicking while accusatory words are being tossed at us from every direction. Abortion. Teen pregnancy. Babymama. Blackmail. Payoff. I can’t even see straight and my body starts shaking uncontrollably.
My mom jerks me toward her again and doesn’t even attempt to be discreet when she yells, “I’ve worked too hard for you to destroy everything for love, Taryn. You really think he’s capable of love? I’ve read the papers and seen the pictures…he sure as hell doesn’t love you.”
“Can we talk about this another time?” I ask with a low, unsteady voice. Not that she can hear me above all the shouting right now. I seriously feel sick and I’m not sure how much more I can take at this point.
“I’m sorry, Savannah, but we’re leaving,” Trace declares. That must have been what he was talking to Jay about. “Taryn doesn’t need this and she sure as fuck doesn’t deserve it,” he says, glaring at her. He steps in front of me protectively, ensuring that she can’t grab me again.
“The hell you are,” she sneers, unwilling to back down.
“Could you for once give a shit about your daughter?” Trace asks through clenched teeth. Everywhere, cameras are continuously clicking and flashing.
Ignoring Trace, she focuses on me. “This could be the end of you, Taryn. You’ll be marked as undependable and no one will want to work with you.”
Anger boils and I place my hand on Trace’s arm as I move forward to look her in the eye—I don’t want her to misunderstand what I’m about to say. “I’m done, Mom. I’ll finish the tour and then I want out.” As soon as I say the words, I know that they’re the truth. I do want freedom from the constant, often ruthless scrutiny of her and the world, freedom from Backlash telling me what to do and how to do it, and freedom to make the music I want to make, when I want to make it.
“Will you ever stop being so ‘me, me, me’? That’s ridiculous, Taryn, you can’t just quit.”
“I can and I will. We can announce it after the tour is over.” With that, I turn away, not wanting to deal with her anymore. A flood of relief flows over me until I run smack into more paparazzi.
“So, ‘America’s Sweetheart’ isn’t so sweet and the ‘Bad Boy of Rap’ isn’t so bad. The son of a preacher man, huh?” Trace tries to ignore him and push past, but we are soon swarmed from all angles with cameras in our faces. Not able to handle anything else, especially after the confrontation with my mom, I begin to shut down. I cover my face with my hands and Trace pulls me into his chest, shielding me from the cameras as he places one hand in front of the lenses, attempting to block the shots.
“CAL!” Trace screams. The big guy is instantly in front of us, creating a path for us to escape. Once we break away from the masses, Dre stands on one side of me and Trace on the other, while the other guys and a team of security surround us. As we wait for Cal to bring the Escalade back around, nonstop flashes overwhelm my already blurry vision and the invasive questions continue in a relentless fashion.
Once the vehicle is in front of us and we’re all in, Cal speeds off. Trace whispers to me that everything will be alright, and though my mind is numb, I can’t stop my body from shaking.
The further away we get, however, the more I begin to relax. He kisses the top of my head, holding me tight against his body. “I’m gonna kill that fucking weasel,” Trace says, though it’s unclear who exactly he’s talking about.
“Oh, don’t worry, that fucker from Texas will be taken care of,” Cal adds, continuing to stare at the rearview mirror. Ah, that weasel… “Shit man, they’re trailing.”
“Lose ‘em,” Dre instructs from the front seat, where he’d climbed in to serve as Cal’s point man. Trace’s head quickly rotates back, then left and right, as he assesses the proximity of the cars that are chasing us. Unfortunately, the size of the vehicle we’re in won’t allow a quick getaway.
“Man, just get us the fuck away from them,” Trace yells.
The large vehicle accelerates quickly and begins to weave in and out of lanes, causing those of us in the back to hold onto anything we can. I begin to feel even more panicked than I was on the red carpet. One of the cars, a nondescript blue one, manages to make it alongside us and Dre lowers his window, screaming for them to ‘back the fuck off.’ As expected, they completely disregard him, only appearing more determined as the car comes closer than it was before. The out of control situation has me on edge, gripping Trace’s hand as hard as I can.
Taking a tight corner, I wonder if it’s possible for a vehicle this size to flip. Before I can ask, Cal shifts over three lanes with unbelievable speed, and one of the cars who has been on our tail the entire time bumps us in the back, making the Escalade’s rear sway to the right. Cal attempts to correct but instead of going straight, we tailspin, straight into the path of an oncoming truck. All I can hear is the screeching of tires and the sound of our screams before darkness envelops me.
Chapter 20
Taryn
Four Months Later
It’s been a year since the last time I sat in these uncomfortable seats. A year since I first stared into those strikingly beautiful blue eyes. A year since my life changed forever. I still feel the chills as I remember the way he leaned down to whisper in my ear. I hurt as I think about everything we had to endure in the past twelve months, but then smile when I consider who I am now because of it all.
The room darkens and the audience quiets as the large screen slowly descends from the ceiling. Regina takes my hand and looks over at me with sad, sympathetic eyes. I try to fix my face to assure her I’ll be fine, but I’m not as good at faking it as I once was. I’ve always hated the memorial segment at award shows—all the talented artists being recognized because they’re now dead. Seeing faces filled with life because they were able to wake up every day and do what they loved has the tears flowing down my face.
The pictures scroll by with the years of the births and deaths of those being honored. I cringe when I see the many whose time on earth was cut short, which is exactly what happened—he had so much more to give. When the picture I’ve been waiting for appears, one of him looking relaxed in the recording studio, I close my eyes. Gina squeezes my hand before passing me a tissue, and I blot my eyes just as the lights turn back on.
“Excuse me, Miss Starr.” One of the show’s assistants taps me on the shoulder and I twist around, swiping my finger under my eyes. Already knowing why he’s here, I slowly rise and straighten my long gown, thanking him as I leave my seat, which is immediately occupied by an overeager seat filler.
I walk down the aisle, oblivious to the chatter in the room indicating that the show’s on a commercial break. When I arrive backstage, I’m greeted by the usual flurry of activity— individuals with earpieces and clipboards rushing around while appearing to talk to themselves, no doubt trying to keep the event on task.
Watching my feet as I walk, my forward progress is suddenly stopped by a hand on my arm. My eyes travel up a well-built body in an overpriced black tuxedo until they rest on a pair of familiar caramel eyes.
“Ryder,” I softly say.
“Hey, doll.” He looks uncomfortable, as if he doesn’t know quite what to say. That’s fine—there isn’t really anything to say. Probably sensing that I want to be alone right now, he quickly says, “Good luck out there, you’ll knock ‘em dead.”
Immediately, he realizes his poor choice of words, adding, “Sorry, girl, you know what I meant.” Giving me a kiss on the cheek, he says, “I’ll see you after the show” before striding away. I smile a little when I spot the cowboy boots he’s wearing with his tux. Ryder may be a huge star in his own right after having recently released his highly successful debut album, but I’ll always see him as the guitar-playing, truck-restoring guy from Texas. It’s only fitting that my mom is representing him now, and even though she and I hardly speak at all anymore, I wish her only the best. I sober though when I think about the fact that, as well-deserved as Ryder’s fame is, I fear he doesn’t truly understand how harmful it can be. There’s always a price to pay—and some even pay the ultimate price.
I change into my performance outfit as my stomach begins to churn with anxiety. It’s been a while since I’ve performed in front of anyone, and I don’t plan on doing it again after tonight. At least I can be comfortable in what I’m wearing—a western-style Balmain minidress with my favorite pair of Lucchese boots. Once I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, I work my way toward the wings, the sound of my boots echoing throughout the long hallway.
The sound of an immensely popular rap song, the one that the radio stations can’t get enough of right now, fills the auditorium. The venom in his voice still surprises me every time I hear it. My shock is quickly replaced by amazement though, because despite the anger-laced lyrics, he’s definitely showcasing his talent tonight in front of all these people. The crowd’s earsplitting response is evidence of why he’s currently at the top of the charts. I stop short so I can watch. As his body paces back and forth across the stage, he rests the microphone against his lips as he spits rhymes at a breakneck speed. The familiarity of the image isn’t lost on me. If people didn’t know better, they’d think he was—