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good,” she says. Is that disappointment I hear in her voice or maybe just my own feelings echoing around in my head?
    I grab the music sheets and turn to leave, but notice that she hasn’t moved from her stool. “Are ya headin’ out?”
    “I will in a sec,” she says, looking up from her guitar. “I have a few minutes before I have to leave and I want to work on this a little more, if that’s okay. But if ya’ll need me to get out of here…”
    “Nah, you’re alright. Take as long as you need,” I offer.
    “Yeah baby, I’ll be here all night,” Xavier says suggestively. I slap the back of his head as I follow him out of the room.
    “Bye,” I hear before the door slams shut. Damn, I feel like an ass—didn’t even say goodbye before I left. Too late now though. I’m late and the fucking execs are gonna ride my ass if I fall out of line for a split second. Plus, how would it look if I went back in there just to say goodbye now? All kinds of stupid, that’s what.
     
    Taryn
     
    I strum my guitar, jotting down a few notes to help the song flow better, trying to shake off the way the sound of his smooth-as-molasses voice made me feel. His usual music doesn’t hint at the thick and rich vocals I just heard flowing out of him with ease. Don’t get me wrong, he can rap with the best of them. On the way here from the airport, I downloaded his latest album—the one that beat mine out for a Grammy—and it really was amazing. And even though he sounded irate through most of it, I was surprised that the lyrics never once disrespected women. That’s more than I can say for the other rappers in the business.
    As uncomfortable and angry as I was feeling before walking through these doors, once we sat down at our instruments, his presence instantly calmed me. Except the ‘America’s Sweetheart’ comment. I hate that damn nickname. My mom probably started it, since she’s always wanted me to portray an angelic goody-two shoes image. What’s ironic is that she never fails to remind me how imperfect I really am.
    The ding of my cell phone pulls me away from the jumbled thoughts in my head. I place my guitar down and pick up my phone from off the table. I don’t recognize the number but slide the bar over to read the text anyway.
    Trace: Look down when ur mom comes in
    Me: ??
    Trace: 3-2-1…
    A second later my mom walks through the door, barking that we need to go, and as she turns to walk back out, I see the trail of toilet paper clinging to the bottom of her high heel.
    Me: LMAO
    Trace: Did u tell?
    Me: Hell no!
    Trace: LMFAO
    Me: Gotta go
    Trace: Later ;)
    I smile as I start packing up my notebook and guitar, wondering where on earth Trace could have gotten my number. As I pass through the lobby on my way to the elevator, the mystery is solved when Stella smirks at me as she speaks with someone on the phone. I playfully roll my eyes and then join my mother in the waiting elevator.
    “What?” I ask as she stands, tapping her foot impatiently, the toilet paper still stuck to her shoe. “Places to go, people to see,” she says as if I need the reminder. There’s always somewhere to go and someone to see.
    We venture down to the ground level. With the exception of a few paparazzi milling about, the sidewalk is bare. Climbing into yet another limo, my mom gives the driver the address of wherever we’re heading next. I think I remember something about a photo shoot, but I sincerely hope not, since I’m sure I’ll have bags under my eyes from the lack of a good night’s rest.
    Regardless, I’ll be thankful when it’s over so I can finally have some time away from my mother for the first time in three days. Too bad most of it will be spent catching up on sleep. Getting my own place a few years back was the best decision I’ve made. And while I bought a small house in Studio Hills, my mom went all out with a five thousand square-foot mansion in Calabasas. I still think she overdid with that purchase, but as