discussing Taryn. Not sure why since she’s not my girl. I shake my head and move toward the door. As my hand touches the knob, I hear a loud moan and someone yelling, “Fuuuuuuck!” I’d forgotten about Quint and his latest flavor taking advantage of my spare room. I roll my eyes and call back to Dre, “Make sure they’re out of here before I get back, will ya?”
Without waiting for an answer, I put my cans on, turn the music up, and walk out the door.
Taryn
“Wanna Take You Home” by Gloriana starts playing and I groggily roll over to my side. Letting the music continue to blare, I push myself up and rub my eyes. That might have been the best night’s sleep I’ve had in months. I take a deep breath before checking my phone for messages. There’s one from my mom, letting me know that I’m recording with Trace in—crap! I’ve got one hour and LA traffic sucks even on the best of days. There goes my girl time with Gina.
I throw on a pair of skinny jeans and an off-the-shoulder, long-sleeved shirt, then quickly finish getting ready. Grabbing my phone and a breakfast bar, I race out the door. Rarely do I get to drive myself anywhere, so if I’m late, my mother will never let me hear the end of it.
I pull into the studio’s parking garage next to a brand-spanking new black Escalade with more rim than tires. If that belongs to Trace and his entourage, then that means they’re already here. Shit.
Then again, why do I have to come running just because it’s a good time for him to record? The first day in forever I didn’t have a schedule, yet here I am. Regardless, I’m already here and the faster I get in there , the sooner we get this done.
“Day-um—this is who you’re singing with?” one of the guys remarks as I hurry in the control room, his eyes slowly roaming up and down my body. If I wasn’t flushed from trying to get in here so quickly, I am now.
“Give it a rest, bro.” Trace stands up and my stomach feels like a storm of flutters as he makes his way to me. Silently, I stand there, feeling uncomfortable but drawn to him at the same time. He licks his pouty pink lips while those piercing eyes stare intently at me.
“Don’t mind my boys. They’re…”
“Girl crazy?” I question and laughter fills the room.
“That’s one way to say it, I guess,” he chuckles.
“Hey, I’m Xavier, we met yesterday,” the flirtatious sound engineer calls over. “Where you from?”
“Texas, originally,” I proudly announce. I’m not ashamed of my country roots. “From a little town not too far from Houston.”
“For real?” The guy who was giving me the once-over cocks his eyebrow and I notice Trace gives him a sharp look. Not sure what that’s about.
“I’m Dre, this fool’s cousin.” He nods his head at Trace, who seems to relax a little. “I mix the beats around here.”
“Nice to meet you,” I tell him. As he walks toward the digital audio workstation, I spot my mom sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, urgently pressing buttons on her phone. When she raises her head, I see her throw on a smile I recognize as being one-hundred percent fake. She walks toward us, saying, “Well, hello Trace.” After they exchange pleasantries, she finally looks at me and says, “Taryn, you’re late.” She grabs hold of my elbow, pulling me toward her as though I’m five and just ran off from her at a store.
After a few minutes of a typical Savannah Starr bitch session, I hear someone clearing their throat and spot Trace out the corner of my eye, holding open the door to the room where we’ll record. When my mom notices him standing there, she lets go of me and smiles brightly. “Good luck, guys,” she says in her saccharin-laced voice before returning to her chair.
“Your mom’s a trip,” he murmurs as I pass by. You have no idea .
After a few deliberations with the sound guys, Trace and I take our spots in the “live room.” It feels strange not having my
Without waiting for an answer, I put my cans on, turn the music up, and walk out the door.
Taryn
“Wanna Take You Home” by Gloriana starts playing and I groggily roll over to my side. Letting the music continue to blare, I push myself up and rub my eyes. That might have been the best night’s sleep I’ve had in months. I take a deep breath before checking my phone for messages. There’s one from my mom, letting me know that I’m recording with Trace in—crap! I’ve got one hour and LA traffic sucks even on the best of days. There goes my girl time with Gina.
I throw on a pair of skinny jeans and an off-the-shoulder, long-sleeved shirt, then quickly finish getting ready. Grabbing my phone and a breakfast bar, I race out the door. Rarely do I get to drive myself anywhere, so if I’m late, my mother will never let me hear the end of it.
I pull into the studio’s parking garage next to a brand-spanking new black Escalade with more rim than tires. If that belongs to Trace and his entourage, then that means they’re already here. Shit.
Then again, why do I have to come running just because it’s a good time for him to record? The first day in forever I didn’t have a schedule, yet here I am. Regardless, I’m already here and the faster I get in there , the sooner we get this done.
“Day-um—this is who you’re singing with?” one of the guys remarks as I hurry in the control room, his eyes slowly roaming up and down my body. If I wasn’t flushed from trying to get in here so quickly, I am now.
“Give it a rest, bro.” Trace stands up and my stomach feels like a storm of flutters as he makes his way to me. Silently, I stand there, feeling uncomfortable but drawn to him at the same time. He licks his pouty pink lips while those piercing eyes stare intently at me.
“Don’t mind my boys. They’re…”
“Girl crazy?” I question and laughter fills the room.
“That’s one way to say it, I guess,” he chuckles.
“Hey, I’m Xavier, we met yesterday,” the flirtatious sound engineer calls over. “Where you from?”
“Texas, originally,” I proudly announce. I’m not ashamed of my country roots. “From a little town not too far from Houston.”
“For real?” The guy who was giving me the once-over cocks his eyebrow and I notice Trace gives him a sharp look. Not sure what that’s about.
“I’m Dre, this fool’s cousin.” He nods his head at Trace, who seems to relax a little. “I mix the beats around here.”
“Nice to meet you,” I tell him. As he walks toward the digital audio workstation, I spot my mom sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, urgently pressing buttons on her phone. When she raises her head, I see her throw on a smile I recognize as being one-hundred percent fake. She walks toward us, saying, “Well, hello Trace.” After they exchange pleasantries, she finally looks at me and says, “Taryn, you’re late.” She grabs hold of my elbow, pulling me toward her as though I’m five and just ran off from her at a store.
After a few minutes of a typical Savannah Starr bitch session, I hear someone clearing their throat and spot Trace out the corner of my eye, holding open the door to the room where we’ll record. When my mom notices him standing there, she lets go of me and smiles brightly. “Good luck, guys,” she says in her saccharin-laced voice before returning to her chair.
“Your mom’s a trip,” he murmurs as I pass by. You have no idea .
After a few deliberations with the sound guys, Trace and I take our spots in the “live room.” It feels strange not having my
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