Kat

When I wake, everything is pounding.

Music is pounding. My head is pounding. There's a pounding noise coming from downstairs.

I scramble to my feet from the floor, where I had collapsed earlier, and my heart pounds, too. Crap, that needs to stop. I refuse to flip out with fear over every little thing just because I got smacked in the head last night, courtesy of an asshole.

From underneath the mess that newly covers my floor, I find my phone. It's cracked, also thanks to last night's violence. Although the phone was me, because I slapped him in the face with it.

Oops. Reflex.

I can still make out the time through the cracked screen. It's after one in the afternoon. Shit! Trace! Scrolling my notifications, I can see his dozen calls and a several frantic texts. Dammit! Has he left town? Did I miss my one last chance to make something happen between us?

The pounding from downstairs gets louder.

Maybe I should be cautious, considering what happened last night, but I'm pretty sure that I know who's pounding, and I'm done b himeing cautious when it comes to him. I do some pounding of my own—down the stairs, as fast as I can go. I can see Trace through the sidelight in the door, looking sexier than sin, all furious as he beats on the door and shouts my name.

Yep, that's my rockstar.

When I throw it open, the furious haze of color drains from his face. He goes from brute anger to pale-faced concern in point-six seconds. Shit, I forgot what I must look like.

"I'm okay," I say quickly.

He backs me into the house, taking my face in his hands gently, turning it to examine the two inch cut on my temple that a very nice physician's assistant glued together for me at the urgent care last night. He searches my face, his gaze intense, like he's trying to penetrate my soul and make sure there's no real damage there. What he sees in my eyes lets him relax slightly. No, I'm not traumatized.

He touches just below the cut.

"This is all?"

"Yeah. It's wasn't as bad as you are thinking. I'm okay."

He nods, like he's trying to convince himself. He pats my arms gently. "I know. I know you're strong. I know you're finished with him now, right?"

I nod my head in agreement and the relief on his face is evident.

"Right. Good. But that doesn't change the fact that I'm going to beat the shit out of him."

"You're not going to jump Colin," I say firmly.

"Like fuck I'm not." He hooks a thumb to the car. Riley's out there. "Look, don't worry, we've got this. I'll get arrested, Riley will post my bail. Lawyers will make it go away, Dickwad will get a big fat settlement—that part I will regret— but he'll never forget the beatdown I give him. And I promise you, he will never touch you again. So are you gonna tell me where that piece of shit lives, or do I have to put Riley on that too?"

I let out a slow breath. "Wow, you've really thought this through. You're not kidding, are you?"

"Not even a little bit."

I lick my lips and grasp his arms, stepping close to him. "You're really hot when you're...well, hot. And all...defendy." I slide my hands up around his neck, into his lanky chestnut hair. "Kiss me, okay?"

"Kat, it's not the time," he growls.

"I think it's the perfect time," I insist.

"You're so wrong," his eyes flick to the cut on my temple.

I pout. "Why won't you ever kiss me when I ask you to?"

"Because you have terrible romantic timing, Sweetheart. When you ask, I'm always in the middle of some kind of intervention with you..." but he looks me up and down, like he's strongly considering the possibility of changing his mind. Of course, what he sees in my appearance makes him take a step back. Not the lack of makeup or the dirty hair or even the look of fatigue that I'm wearing up around my eyes. It's the overalls covered in paint, he's taking in now.

"You've been painting?" he asks. "Your room? Now?"

"All night," I nod, my eyes shining. "Come see," I purr, drawing him towards the stairs.

"Kat," he stops me, clearly confused. "It's not that I'm not glad to hear that, but is this maybe a little bit of a...I dunno...a denial thing? Maybe we need to talk about the fact that your boyfriend hurt you last night before we talk about your paint choice?"

I still have my hands on Trace and I find myself smoothing them along his shoulders. I'm not the one that needs to talk about being hurt by somebody they were supposed to be able to trust.

I don't know if I have a glass face, or if it's just that Trace knows me so well he can read what I'm thinking, but he shakes his head at me. The rock star mask goes up. "It's not the same, Kat. My dad and Colin...it's not the same."

"I know," I find myself repeating the words he said to me. He's right. It's not. Trace was a kid. And I'm pretty sure he lived in a state of anxiety that ran from dread to real fear—for years, thanks to his father. It's not the same at all. He can never really be finished with his father, the way I can close the door on Colin, or the little episode that happened last night. "I know," I repeat. "I know you're strong, too."

I want to add, but you don't have to be with me. I don't. I don't push.

He understands that I'm not going to redirect this conversation to his dad, and the mask falls away. "What did he throw at you?" he asks gently.

"Nothing," I say. My shoulders slump. Trace is not going to want to hear what I have to say. I'd almost rather leave him thinking Colin did this, but I can't. That's not right. "It wasn't Colin," I murmur.

"It wasn't Colin?" he repeats. His eyes widen. "Not...shit. Don't tell me...not Ashlynn?" He asks with a strain in his voice.

"Ashlynn?" I'm surprised. "No. Wait—how did you know she was here?"

"She texted me," he said hurriedly, and his face changes.

Damn. There it is. The rock star mask. At least I understand why he throws that up, when it comes to Ashlynn. He feels as guilty as I do, about her.

"So she did come to visit you?" he asks warily.

"This morning."

"What...how...how was that?"

She said a lot of things, but I'm not sure I believe half of it. She was high out her head. A lot of what she said didn't even make sense. I shake my head. "Mostly the same old shit. Although she caught me off guard with some of the things she said. I'll tell you the details later, nothing you need to hear now. The upshot is we argued. I begged her to stay. She wouldn't. It's been a shitty eighteen hours, between Colin and Ashlynn," I murmur.

"Kat, for Christ sake, tell me what happened with Colin last night."

"I broke up with him," I said simply. "He wasn't trying to hear me, at first. There was a lot of yelling, but no violence. He left. He knows it's over, for good."

"For real?"

"For real," I confirm.

"But you said...he'd been the one that was here for you, these last couple of years...you said I didn't know you anymore."

"He was...here," I agree. Then I shrug. "When you drove away, I realized, he's not the one I want. And Trace...I said you didn't know me because I was angry. You know me. Like I know you. We just have to learn the updates, is all."

Trace closes his eyes and pulls me into a fierce hug. He kisses my forehead, my unwounded temple, my cheek. I turn my head to catch his lips and just as we are about to meet in a real kiss—finally—he pulls back, irritation sharp in in his eyes. I push forward, insistent on the kiss, but he lunges back.

"Not yet," he says sternly.

"Fuck me." I groan in disappointment.

His eyes flare a little. Ha. You're not the only one that could read thoughts, Rockstar. The snarky reply doesn't come from his lips, but the sentiment is plain on his face.

Soon, Sweetheart, his eyes say.

God, I hope so.

"Katheryn," his mouth forms my name slowly. "Please tell me how you got hurt before I punch a wall, okay?"

"Oh. After, Colin left, but before Ashlynn came, I decided to go get some paint. I didn't even think, Trace...I just got in my car and went. It was my fault, for being so stupid..."

"It was a goddamn paparazzi," he groaned.

I nod. "They just took pictures when I went into the store. But when I came back out, one got in my face, asking questions. I ignored him, but he wouldn't stop. I was trying to close the car door. He never touched me, but he was blocking my car door. I yelled at him to get back, and he did at the same time I pulled on the door. I got smacked with the corner of the door frame. Hurt like a son of a bitch, but I don't think he meant to..."

"They never do." he says tersely. He runs a hand through his hair and looks out the door. Hurriedly, he plants a quick kiss on my forehead. "Hold this thought. I need to let Riley know I don't need bail money, but I still need the lawyer."

"Trace, just let it go..."

"Fuck no, Kat. Do you think I'm going to let some aggressive pap sell the pictures he took while you were bleeding? I don't give a damn if it was an accident or not, he crossed a fucking line. He has to be identified, the pictures killed, and everything has to be documented. He does this shit again, he's getting slapped with a restraining order."

"Uhh," I give Trace a cringing smile. "The restraining order might already be in the works. Except maybe, in reverse."

He looks surprised. "What did you do?"

"Well, nothing for a minute, because I was seeing stars. But then I was bleeding and he just kept snapping away. I asked him to stop and he laughed and asked me...he asked me how old I was the first time you fucked me. I just got so pissed.... He didn't actually touch me, but I hit him. With this." I hold out my broken phone.

Trace stares, then barks out an abrupt laugh. "Christ, I wish I could have seen that. Hold on. Riley needs to hear this." Then he's making the timeout gesture as he backs out the door and motions to Riley.

The next ten minutes are spent recounting the story in full detail while I make tea. Riley takes the proffered cup and one sip, and looks directly at Trace.

"Clearly, I've got some work to do to handle this with Dawes and Marcy. But we've also got wheels up in two hours. Not a lot of time. What's the plan, boss?"

He and Trace seem to be having some unspoken conversation. Finally, Riley grins and nods. "Right. I'll start making a few calls. I'll give you guys..." he gives me a quick look, "half an hour? It's as long as we can probably argue to hold the plane."

"Twenty will do." Trace says with the cocky rock star grin. "Show me that paint, babe?"

He takes my hand and nearly drags me around the corner to the stairs. He stops suddenly, whirling as I slam into his chest. He takes my head in his hands again, and the look he gives me—Christ it's no wonder this man has thousands of girls who would spread for him on a moment's notice. The look of such raw hunger and utter assurance that he's about to make a fine meal.

"I don't say this much, so don't get used to it. I was...somewhat wrong. You were somewhat right."

"About what?" I say breathlessly. I feel loose and warm beneath his ravenous gaze. Trace's eyes on me is better than two glasses of champagne and a nap.

"About it being the right time. It's maybe not the perfect time, but it's definitely about damn time," he whispers in my ear. Then he's pulling me firmly behind him up the stairs.

The pounding is back. The music above, and my heart inside my chest.

Is Trace really thinking what I think he's thinking?

What's going to happen at the top of these stairs? The long-overdue kiss? Or my first time?

Honestly, I'm good. Either way.

Ha! I'd love to hear your predictions for what happens in Kat's bedroom! Hey guys...do me a favor? Tap that vote button. It's like, so simple. Thanks!