earlier.
“Quint,” I call and motion for him to follow me into the room. There’s no way in hell he’d hear me over the beats blaring. It’s a good thing this suite takes up the entire top floor and my crew occupies the floor below, or I’m sure they’d kick our disorderly asses out of this high-class establishment.
“Yeah, Ace?” he asks once the heavy bass is muted by the closed door.
“What’s the name of that site where they talk shit about me?”
“Which one?” he asks with a laugh. And although I get the feeling he isn’t joking, he quickly says, “Nah, I’m fuckin’ with ya, man. I think you’re talking about Perez Hilton. He’s the go-to guy for celeb gossip. But T, I done told you not to look yourself up, brother. It ain’t gonna do you no good, and will probably just piss you off.”
“Good thing I’m not planning on looking myself up then, ain’t it?” I say and he cocks his eyebrow. “Just cover for me out there, will ya? I need ten and then I’ll be back in business.”
“Dude, you ain’t been in business since this tour started. Don’t think the boys and I haven’t noticed either. What’s up with you? You missin’ your momma?” he asks jokingly. If he wasn’t a friend of mine, I would kick his ass right this minute. But it’s not his fault he doesn’t know. Only Dre does, and that’s the way it’s going to stay.
“Nothin’, Q…just tired, that’s all,” I say through gritted teeth. “Gotta pace myself, you know how it is.”
“Dawg, I ain’t never seen you pace yourself when it comes to women. I thought the more the merrier was your motto. But lately—“
“ Lately , I’m workin’ my ass off,” I snap defensively. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” I say, heading to the bathroom, not caring at this point if I’m being rude. I’m not sure if I’m irritated because I don’t want the stream of meaningless fucks that I could have at every moment along this tour or because I don’t know why I don’t want them.
When I get out of the bathroom, my room is quiet and thankfully Quinton-free, so I grab the duffle with my iPad in it. Firing it up, I think about the conversations that I’ve had with Taryn over the past two weeks. Though both busy touring, we’ve texted a couple times a day, and each back-and-forth makes me want to get to know her more. We’ve spoken on the phone once or twice too, but that’s a little trickier since our schedules aren’t always in sync.
We seem to have this unspoken agreement where we take turns texting first, and I messaged her after the concert in Indianapolis last night. Shit, maybe that’s why I’m so fucking irritable—I haven’t heard from her today. I briefly wonder about the radio silence but figure I can get my fix seeing a picture of her instead.
Pulling up the celebrity gossip site Quinton told me about, the first picture on the “news” feed tells me exactly what she’s been up to. There, in all its high-resolution, pixilated glory, is a photo of Taryn and guitar boy, flanked by two fans. I try to remind myself that she’s not my girl; we’re just texting for God’s sake. But it doesn’t stop the burn I feel in my chest—not a good feeling.
Further cementing my masochistic tendencies, I click on Taryn’s name, bringing up any and all pictures and stories related to her in reverse chronological order. Among video clips from recent concerts, there are paparazzi photos of her leaving a charity event in St. Louis, another of her getting into a limo after a concert, and my favorite, her trying to sneak unrecognized into a coffee shop in Nashville. The braids-and-ballcap look is fucking sexy on her.
The burn intensifies when I scroll down to the next picture, which is one of her and guitar boy by themselves, his arm around her. The date the photo was posted was the night of her first concert and I wonder if it was taken before or after we texted. “Curled up in bed, my ass,” I mutter to
“Quint,” I call and motion for him to follow me into the room. There’s no way in hell he’d hear me over the beats blaring. It’s a good thing this suite takes up the entire top floor and my crew occupies the floor below, or I’m sure they’d kick our disorderly asses out of this high-class establishment.
“Yeah, Ace?” he asks once the heavy bass is muted by the closed door.
“What’s the name of that site where they talk shit about me?”
“Which one?” he asks with a laugh. And although I get the feeling he isn’t joking, he quickly says, “Nah, I’m fuckin’ with ya, man. I think you’re talking about Perez Hilton. He’s the go-to guy for celeb gossip. But T, I done told you not to look yourself up, brother. It ain’t gonna do you no good, and will probably just piss you off.”
“Good thing I’m not planning on looking myself up then, ain’t it?” I say and he cocks his eyebrow. “Just cover for me out there, will ya? I need ten and then I’ll be back in business.”
“Dude, you ain’t been in business since this tour started. Don’t think the boys and I haven’t noticed either. What’s up with you? You missin’ your momma?” he asks jokingly. If he wasn’t a friend of mine, I would kick his ass right this minute. But it’s not his fault he doesn’t know. Only Dre does, and that’s the way it’s going to stay.
“Nothin’, Q…just tired, that’s all,” I say through gritted teeth. “Gotta pace myself, you know how it is.”
“Dawg, I ain’t never seen you pace yourself when it comes to women. I thought the more the merrier was your motto. But lately—“
“ Lately , I’m workin’ my ass off,” I snap defensively. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” I say, heading to the bathroom, not caring at this point if I’m being rude. I’m not sure if I’m irritated because I don’t want the stream of meaningless fucks that I could have at every moment along this tour or because I don’t know why I don’t want them.
When I get out of the bathroom, my room is quiet and thankfully Quinton-free, so I grab the duffle with my iPad in it. Firing it up, I think about the conversations that I’ve had with Taryn over the past two weeks. Though both busy touring, we’ve texted a couple times a day, and each back-and-forth makes me want to get to know her more. We’ve spoken on the phone once or twice too, but that’s a little trickier since our schedules aren’t always in sync.
We seem to have this unspoken agreement where we take turns texting first, and I messaged her after the concert in Indianapolis last night. Shit, maybe that’s why I’m so fucking irritable—I haven’t heard from her today. I briefly wonder about the radio silence but figure I can get my fix seeing a picture of her instead.
Pulling up the celebrity gossip site Quinton told me about, the first picture on the “news” feed tells me exactly what she’s been up to. There, in all its high-resolution, pixilated glory, is a photo of Taryn and guitar boy, flanked by two fans. I try to remind myself that she’s not my girl; we’re just texting for God’s sake. But it doesn’t stop the burn I feel in my chest—not a good feeling.
Further cementing my masochistic tendencies, I click on Taryn’s name, bringing up any and all pictures and stories related to her in reverse chronological order. Among video clips from recent concerts, there are paparazzi photos of her leaving a charity event in St. Louis, another of her getting into a limo after a concert, and my favorite, her trying to sneak unrecognized into a coffee shop in Nashville. The braids-and-ballcap look is fucking sexy on her.
The burn intensifies when I scroll down to the next picture, which is one of her and guitar boy by themselves, his arm around her. The date the photo was posted was the night of her first concert and I wonder if it was taken before or after we texted. “Curled up in bed, my ass,” I mutter to
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