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 is 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.”
If I wasn’t so damn tired, I’d head to the gym to escape this drunk-ass crowd. Instead, I walk away, pushing through people to get to my room. On the way, I run into Quinton and remember something I’d wanted to ask him
“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 is 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.”
If I wasn’t so damn tired, I’d head to the gym to escape this drunk-ass crowd. Instead, I walk away, pushing through people to get to my room. On the way, I run into Quinton and remember something I’d wanted to ask him
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