Girl on Tour (Kylie Ryans) (5 page)

“W
here
in the hell is my left boot, Lily? I’m serious!” Mia shouted from the back of the bus where she was digging through her closet.

“I don’t know! Hey, have you seen my straightener?” Lily called back. “Oh, is this your boot?”

Kylie stepped out of her room and ducked just in time to narrowly miss being nailed in the head by a flying Frye boot. They’d just parked outside the Fall Festival fairgrounds in Denver where the girls would be performing in a few hours. She picked up the boot that had nearly maimed her and carried it into Mia’s room. “Looking for this?”

Mia looked up from the pile of clothes she was digging through. Relief smoothed her features as she crossed the room and took the boot. “Yup.”

You’re welcome.
Two weeks together and Mia was still an ice queen set on freezing Kylie out. She’d even started being friendlier to Lily. But every time Kylie walked into a room, Mia’s posture stiffened and her eyes went hard.
Like I ran over her favorite dog. And laughed about it.

The Pistol Annies were blaring from Mia’s iPod. “They’re my favorite,” Kylie told her, nodding at the dock.

Mia raised her eyebrows as if to ask why the hell she thought she gave a damn. Then she stepped over to the vanity and began rifling through her makeup as if Kylie weren’t even there.

“Hey, can we talk for a sec?” When Mia ignored her, she tried again. Louder this time. “Mia! Can you turn that down for just a minute? Please?”

Mia glanced over at her. “What?”

Kylie sighed and made a series of hand motions as if she knew sign language or baseball signals. Mia gave her a weird look and silenced the iPod. “What the hell?”

Kylie leaned her head out of the room. “Lil, can you come in Mia’s room, please?”

Mia glared as if she thought Kylie was staging an intervention. Kylie forced a small smile. It wasn’t anything like that. The only person who needed an intervention was Lily the clothes whore, but that wasn’t what she wanted to talk about either.

Once Lily stepped inside the room, Kylie backed up so she could look at both of them while she spoke. “Um, I wanted to talk to you both. About how we close the show each night.”

“Oh no, Oklahoma. You are not going to strong-arm us into letting you close every night. I don’t give a shit who your boyfriend is.” Mia crossed her arms over her chest and took a step closer to Lily.

Whoa.
What the hell?
Kylie backed up a step, nearly backing into Mia’s dresser. “Wow. Thanks, Mia. You can cross being a bitch to me off your list for today. For the record, I would never do something like that. And technically we’ve closed the last few shows together—singing that song the Vitamin Water people told us to. And that’s what I wanted to talk about.”

“What about it?” Lily asked, plopping on the bed.

“Do you know who wrote it?” Kylie asked. She knew because Chaz had told her.

“No, why?” Lily glanced over at her reflection in Mia’s mirror. Girl had some serious attention deficit issues.

“Lauryn McCray wrote it,” Mia offered. “So what?”

Kylie bit her lip. If it didn’t bother Mia, maybe it shouldn’t bother her. Except…it did. A lot. “It’s kind of strange, don’t you think? She wrote it when she thought she was going to be on this tour. Now she’s not and we’re still singing her song.” In the past week, the rumors had been confirmed. Lauryn was, in fact, pregnant. By her agent, Scotty Brasher, who no one knew much about except that he wasn’t commenting publicly about Lauryn or the baby.

What made Kylie even more uncomfortable was the fact that the song was called
All My Life
and was about working hard to realize your dreams. Every time she sang the line
I gave it all up, gave it all away, dreamin’ of the day when it would be worth it, knowin’ I deserved it,
she felt sick. Like her heart was plummeting to her gut. Lauryn had worked hard and had overcome a pretty rough past, according to her CMT Backstory, to get where she was. Then she got pregnant and her career was pretty much over. Or on hold indefinitely at least. And now Kylie, Mia, and Lily sang her song every night. It was weird. And depressing.

“I don’t get it,” Lily said, pulling her hair into a high ponytail and glancing back in the mirror as she did so.

“Suddenly Oklahoma here has a conscience.” Mia snorted. “Boo hoo. Lauryn got knocked up. Not our fault, and I bet she made enough money selling that song to decorate one hell of a baby nursery. So I don’t see what the big deal is.”

Kylie frowned. Why the hell did Mia think she didn’t have a conscience before? Whatever. That wasn’t the point. “The big deal is, that could be any of us? And if something happened and I couldn’t be on the tour, I don’t know how I’d feel about three random chicks singing my song—you know?”

“Couldn’t be me. I’m a virgin,” Lily announced.

Mia rolled her eyes. “Good for you.” She looked at Kylie for a few seconds before adding, “Okay. So what song are the three of us going to sing if we scrap that one? If we’re even allowed to do that?”

She hadn’t gotten that far yet. “I don’t know.”

“Ooh, we could write something together,” Lily suggested, practically bouncing up and down with excitement.

Well, that was one idea.

“We have a show in a few hours. We’d have to write fast.” Mia’s voice was even but Kylie could see she was interested. And that she was only looking at Lily. She was going to try and shove Kylie out of this too.
Like hell she is.

Kylie stepped forward so they couldn’t ignore her. “Anybody got a pen?”

Three hours, two dozen sheets of paper, and more dirty looks from Mia than Kylie could count later, they had a song. Or something that looked like a song at least. They’d get to practice a few times at sound check and then give it a go for real. Misty Cole, their contact at Vitamin Water, had been surprised about their request but said she didn’t see any problem with them performing a new song instead of Lauryn’s. Kylie was relieved. Every time they sang it, she’d pictured herself having to tell Trace she was pregnant. How he would react and how much it would hurt both of their careers. Before she saw him again, she was going to buy the biggest box of condoms she could find. And she was going to start taking her birth control pills religiously.

“Think the audience will like it?” Lily asked after they’d finished rehearsing.

“Hope so,” Kylie answered. Mia said nothing. She was in one of her moods where she acted like they were beneath her. Kylie knew twenty-one-year-old Mia felt like Lily was too young to be touring. She’d said so out loud. And Kylie kind of agreed. But what the hell her problem was with her was a mystery. Unless…it was the one thing they didn’t discuss. He who shall not be named. She really hoped that wasn’t what was bothering Mia. Because it was sure as hell starting to bother her.

I
t
was Mia’s turn to close the show. Once she’d finished her set, Kylie and Lily joined her on stage. Kylie’s heart was racing as she took her seat on the stool between the two of them. They were going acoustic style for the debut of the song they’d written together.
Your Time to Shine
reminded Kylie so much of Trace she feared she’d tear up during her solo. But she sucked it up and sang the first verse.
Don’t know who deals the cards that decide the hand we’re dealt. But I know I’ve seen my lows and I see you goin’ down that road.
The other two joined her on the bridge.
And it’s a long, dark path. No end in sight. Just before you give up, you’ll see the light. ‘Cause, baby, it’s your time to shine.

Lily’s clear voice was soft as she sang her solo.
You made your bed on a wish and a prayer. Looking up on that stage sayin’ one day you’d be there.
But it was a long, dark path. No end in sight. Just before you gave up, you saw the light. Baby, it’s your time to shine.
The three of them harmonized as they sang the part Lily was so adamant about adding.
Ooohh oooh ooohhooo. Ooohh ooh ooohhoo. Baby, it’s your time to shine.

Mia’s voice was strong and had a deep southern twang similar to Kylie’s, even though Kylie knew she was actually from Detroit. But to hear her sing, anyone would think she was from the Deep South.
And that spotlight’s bright when you finally get there. Not much you can count on, besides a dream and a prayer. And they’re all gonna say that you’ll fall any day. But lucky for you, you know that’s not true. They just wanna be in your shoes.

Kylie sucked in a breath to sing her final solo.
When you fall back down, on that unforgivin’ ground, that’s okay. ‘Cause if there’s one thing you’ve learned along the way, it’s how to pick yourself back up. You didn’t get here on luck
.

The three of them sang the final chorus and another string of Lily’s Oooh oooh oohoos. When the song ended, Kylie took a deep breath. Her ears were filled with applause.
Thank God.
She smiled and glanced over at Mia and Lily. They’d written and sang together now, and even if they didn’t like each other very much, she respected the hell out of both of them.

“H
ow’s
that pretty little girlfriend of yours?” Rose asked Trace as she touched up his makeup. He couldn’t help but grin. He’d just seen Kylie’s latest post on her tour blog. There was video link of her and the two girls she was on tour with singing a song they’d written together. He’d been so damn proud watching her he’d nearly burst. They didn’t get to talk much with their busy schedules, but he checked in with her blog every day, hoping for a picture of her beautiful face. God, he missed that face.

“Too good for me, Rose. Too good for me.”

The woman guffawed and slapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Nah, you’re not so bad.”

Trace gave her his best wounded puppy expression. “Then how come you never would give me the time of day?” He winked at the woman, who was well into her fifties, maybe older. Though she dyed her hair and wore enough makeup that, from a distance, you wouldn’t guess she was a day over thirty or so.

“Now, darlin’, you know I’d be happy to use you for your body, but I’m a happily married woman.” She shrugged.

Trace laughed out loud. Rose always was good for a laugh. “My loss, sweetheart.” He jumped out of the chair, momentarily distracted by the teasing. Today he and Gretchen had their promotional photo shoot for the tour. They’d be in a bar, play-acting like they were drinking and throwing punches. Except Gretchen would probably actually be drinking and he might actually punch someone before the day was over.

He sauntered into Whiskey Jacks like it wasn’t the absolute last place he wanted to be. Even though it was. The label had rented the private room out for the day so it was empty save for himself, Pauly, a photographer, and a bunch of assistants. Most of who were probably useless.

“Okay, let’s get some lights over by the pool table. We’ll do a few shots there.” A man dressed in black with a nasally voice that was already grating on his nerves was giving orders. “And somebody line some shots up on the bar. And grab a few bottles and set them in the background.”

Trace took advantage of the rare moment of free time to text Kylie good morning and that he’d seen her video and loved the song. Before he had a chance to see if she’d texted back, Nasally Voice Dude turned to him. “Okay, Mr. Corbin, let’s get a few of you alone while we wait for Gretchen.”

Great. Day one of this shit and they were already “waiting” for Gretchen. Professionalism was not her strong suit. Not that he was necessarily one to talk.

“Sure thing.” Trace stepped over to the spot by the pool table where the photographer indicated. Someone handed him a pool stick, and for a moment he just wanted to be a regular guy. Shooting some pool on a Friday night with the guys after a long week of busting his hump wherever he worked. He could practically see Kylie sauntering over and challenging him to a game of pool. She’d probably kick his ass at that too. His girl was full of surprises.

“Mr. Corbin, can you lean down and pretend to line up a shot?”

Trace glanced down at the table. “Uh, I could, but there’s no cue ball.” He stepped around and checked each pocket, but the cue ball was nowhere to be seen.

“Okay, forget the cue ball. Just lean down and pose like you’re about to sink the orange ball.”

“Yeah, I would. But I’d look like a jackass aiming my stick at the nine ball when there’s no cue ball on the table. Isn’t the idea for it to look like Gretchen and I are out on the town actually playing pool? You can’t play pool without a cue ball.”

The photographer lowered his camera and rubbed his temples.

Trace huffed out a breath. “Dude, I’m not trying to be a dick here. I can stand with the stick and look like I’m planning my next shot or whatever, but I’m not going to pose like I’m a fucking moron who doesn’t realize he needs a cue ball to play pool.” Trace lifted the stick behind his head and rested his arms on it while he waited for someone to use their brain and realize how asinine the whole thing was.

“Can somebody please get Mr. Corbin a cue ball? Now!” an assistant called out and a few people scrambled to do as they were told. The photographer glared at him. Trace glanced at Pauly and shrugged. His manager just shook his head.

This was the part he hated. He didn’t want to “pretend” to shoot pool. He really didn’t want to be in a bar period. And he sure as hell didn’t want to be arguing with some tight-ass photographer about the importance of a cue ball. He wanted to be at home, snuggled up on the couch with his gorgeous girlfriend. Writing music, watching a movie, making love. Any and all of those options would be better than this.

“We have a cue ball,” someone called out. The cue ball in question was passed to several people before it made its way to the table. Once it was in place, Trace leaned down and pretended to shoot. He held that pose until his back ached. He’d unloaded several hundred bales of straw at the farm last week. When he couldn’t take any more, he stood. He met the photographer’s gaze and the expression he found there said he was still supposed to be bent over the table like his bitch. Oh well.

“Now what?” He turned and cracked his back.

Before the photographer could answer him, there was a commotion up near the bar. “Actually, Ms. Gibson, those are just for looks,” an assistant told Gretchen as she waltzed in and snatched a shot off the bar. Her sunglasses were still on and Trace had a feeling he knew why.

“Where the hell is the fun in that?” she asked as she downed the shot and set the empty glass back down on the bar. The assistant grabbed it and refilled it.

“Nice of you to show,” Trace called out to her.

“You’re welcome.” She finally took off her glasses as Rose converged on her with a handful of brushes. The woman wore a tool belt full of makeup for God’s sakes. The world was a weird place.

But one look at Gretchen and he was grateful for the woman’s emergency makeup skills. Gretchen was hungover as hell. Normally she was kind of pretty, but today her face looked like road kill. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy, the skin beneath managing to be swollen and saggy at the same time. He knew she was a few years older than him but that was still too young to have deep-set lines around her mouth. Without makeup she looked like she was pushing fifty. She made Rose look like Miss America.

“Rough night, Gretch?” he asked quietly as he approached.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” She sneered at him from under Rose’s meticulous hands.

Okay then. Operation Make Peace with Gretchen was a no-go. Abort. “Well, is it okay with you if we go ahead and get this shit over with then?”

“Yep, I’m ready.” She hopped down off the stool even though Rose was still attempting to swipe brushes all over her face. “Cut it out. That’s what Photoshop is for, dammit,” Gretchen snapped, leaning away from the makeup woman’s efforts.

“Easy, cowgirl. Don’t be a bitch to Rose. She’s trying to help you. God love her, I’m not even sure that’s possible.”

“Fuck off, Corbin. Really not in the mood for your shit today.”

He laughed harshly. “My shit? I’m not the one who was—”

“Okay, everybody smile,” the photographer interrupted. On cue, Trace and Gretchen turned and smiled wildly.
I am a fucking puppet of epic proportions
, he thought to himself.
Just what I always wanted to be when I grew up.

He kicked his pride along as he posed with Gretchen at the bar and at the pool table. The photographer had him blatantly check out Gretchen’s ass while she bent over and pretended to take a shot. Then he had one of the assistants step in and stare at her ass as well. They did a little scene where Trace caught the guy staring and he got to throw a few pretend punches at the dude. Sadly, that was the highlight of his day.

The photographer got pissy when Trace demanded his shot glasses be filled with water instead of alcohol during the part of the session where he and Gretchen were ordered to pose like they were taking body shots off each other.
This is not going to go over well. Sorry, Kylie Lou.
He’d have to be sure and tell her Gretchen was hungover, had breath from hell, and smelled like a homeless guy.

If he ever got time to talk to her that was.