Kat

I soak a long time in the tub, and it's wonderful. The bath is great, but the knowledge that I'm in Trace's suite and he will soon return is the wonderful part. He's mine and I'm his and it feels totally right and comfortable to be awaiting him, naked in the tub. Maybe we aren't having sex tonight but we're going to have dinner and pillow talk and lots and lots of touching, and possibly I will sleep in his arms as naked as I am right now, and even that won't be close enough for me.

Dammit, why is he so amped to take things slow? I mean, I'm a little nervous about my first time, but only because no matter how ready I am, it's an unknown. I know there's a huge range of possibility in how it's going to feel, and no matter what Trace says about being emotionally ready and physically aroused, part of the experience is an anatomy thing. Every girl is made a little differently, and no one else can tell you exactly how much pleasure or discomfort might be involved. But I do know that nothing has ever felt more right to me than being with Trace. I want him so badly, and I...I trust him with this. I feel like, with Trace, even first-time sex will be the best it can be.

I get lost in the fantasies of how it's going to be. The water goes cold, and when I finally get out, I realize Trace has been gone an hour. It's almost eleven pm, and I'm starving. We haven't had anything but drinks and apps on the plane all day.

He doesn't answer my text. He must still be with Riley. I pull on some soft shorts and a tissue T that I plan to sleep in and put my damp hair up in a bun. I just sort of sponged my makeup off in the tub and my eyes are a little smudged, and I look a little dewey, but I don't feel like pulling out all my toiletries and washing my face. I just leave it, liking the dirty, smoky look around my eyes. I feel great when I'm with Trace. Comfortable. Myself.

I bite the bullet and send my parents an email, letting them know where I am. They don't have phone service on the ship, but I know they are checking email when they are in port. I don't go into too much detail. I just say Trace and I reconnected and I decided to take him up on an invitation to visit him in New Orleans for a concert. Trace has provided all the transport and there's a huge entourage with the band and security and I'm perfectly safe, and I'll check in with them every day. I decide to wait to tell them about Ashlynn when they get home.

It was a shock to see her this morning. She looked so different—so skinny and jumpy and sick. She was totally high, and the things she said really pissed me off and made me sad at the same time. She didn't make much sense. She said she left because our parents wanted to have her committed. They never told me that, but I know they didn't believe she was in pain all the time, and they were very very angry with her about her drug use, so maybe it's true. She told me she had gone to LA, that she had run into Trace and he convinced her to come home the first couple of times. That I could believe, but I could hardly believe that he hasn't told me that. Then again, I've told him twice I don't want to talk about Ashlynn.

Truthfully, I don't want to. For a long time, all I could think about was Ashlynn. To the point where I tried to do things like she would, sort of in her honor. I would ask myself..."What would Ashlynn think about this,' or "what would Ashlynn, do in this situation?" and I would try to do it. In some weird way, I guess I felt like I was keeping the old Ashlynn alive, keeping a space in our family that she could walk back into if she ever came home. 

But I couldn't keep it up. I wore myself out, living her life. I feel...numb, when I think about her now, and that makes me feel like a bad sister and a terrible person, so for the last six months or so, I've tried to avoid thinking much about her at all. But the decisions I made, the life I created when I was channeling Ashlynn—it was already in motion, and it keeps going forward, and dragging me with it.

Being confronted with the new Ashlynn this morning shows me how weird my thinking was. The old Ashlynn is gone for good, and I can't bring her back by stepping into her shoes. The new Ashlynn—I wish I could help her. I hate that she's out there, hurting herself and me not able to do a damn thing about it.She said she's living with a guy, but the way she made their relationship sound, the things she said about Leed...I don't know what to believe. I can't believe my sister is actually selling herself to the highest bidder.

Honestly, I think maybe she came to the concerts to see Trace, but she didn't want to tell me that.

It's weird that both Trace and Ashlynn drop back into my life on practically the same day. Something is not...right, there. All these thoughts make me anxious, and I want to know where the hell Trace is.

Finally I break down and call him. He answers.

"Hey babe. Shit, sorry I missed your text. Just saw that." There is lot of noise in the background, I can hardly hear him, but he sounds...off. Tense. Vague. Not at all like when he left.

"Trace, where are you?"

"I'm in Leed's room. Adam's here. Kind of a...thing, you know?"

No, I don't know. I guess he means they are cheering Adam up over the Mac thing, but it's not like Trace to completely blow me off. Well, it's not like the Trace I know. I remind myself I really don't know the Rock Star at all.

"Okay, well, I'm kind of hungry. Have you heard from Riley?"

"Uhhh, he's been back awhile. I had to put him on something else. I've got the food with me. Come down, okay?" He gives me Leed's suite number. Before I can protest, he hangs up.

Come down, he says. What happened to our quiet dinner, and "talking?" Did he just forget about all that, and decide to party like a rock star instead?

I have the strong urge to text that I'm going to bed, and that he can go fuck himself, and Leed and Adam too, but it's just a fleeting flare of temper. Okay, deep breath. I'm not a high maintenance bitch. This wasn't how I thought the night was going to go—this wasn't how I thought Trace wanted the night to go, but apparently touring is a roving, impromptu party for these guys. I just need to relax and go with the flow. I want to be a part of Trace's life. That means adjusting to his lifestyle, right? I mean really...I am in the Soundcrush inner circle. Who else in the world but me would be irritated right now?

I pad down the hall in my bare feet and knock on the door. Leed throws it open and clobbers me with a hug, dragging me inside, trying to pour tequila down my throat. Uggg, tequila is never my friend, and as soon as it hits the back of my tongue, I'm gagging.

"Get off!" I snap, shoving at the bottle.

"Alright, Sister, sorry. I was just trying to make you feel welcome. But I get it, you only like to play with Trace," Leed raises his hands in surrender, stepping away, looking a little...rejected. For Chrissakes, he's such a baby. What is up with him, anyway? Drunk obviously, but is he always so sensitive?

I pat him on the shoulder. "No, I'm sorry, I just really don't like tequila."

He lights up. "Ahh, that's right, you're probably a champagne girl, like your sister." He loops my arm and drags me into the suite towards the bar full of bottles. "Trace, your woman has arrived! Unlike you, I'm not neglecting her!" He shouts across the room as he pours me a coffee mug of champagne. Trace looks up. I'm surprised he can hear Leed. Or see me. There are about three dozen people in the room. Some of them I recognize as sound techs and stage crew, and Tamara is here. But there are also at least eight or nine girls I've never seen, all dressed in club clothes and fuck me shoes. I cross my arms over my chest. I'm not even wearing a bra.

Trace is making his way across the room, but he gets stopped by two of the girls, one who takes his arm, while the other puts her arms around his neck. She's trying to touch his lips, and she forces her beer bottle into his mouth. He's pulling back, shaking his head no and grinning sheepishly. His eyes meet mine. I hear him loudly tell the girls, "Ladies, I have a date here tonight. Please, help me out here. Hands off, okay?" He puts his own hands up like a shield. The insistent one makes a whiny sound and pats him on the chest again.

I have to turn my back before I cut a bitch.

"Thanks," I say to Leed, taking the mug. I decide to turn my ruthlessless on Leed, like it's my job. Since he brought up Ashlynn, now I am wondering if what Ashlynn told me about him is true. "So you know my sister."

"Shit," he mumbles, and then meets my eyes. "Yeah. She's been around, some. Trace should have told you that." He shrugs. "I'm sorry if he didn't, but I'm too drunk to lie for him," he grins at the idea of getting Trace in trouble.

"So, what kind of drugs does Ashlynn like, Leed?"

His eyes go wide in surprise, and I think for a second he might say something honest. But apparently,  he's a better avoider than  straight-up liar. He puts on his rock star face, which is more cocky and less cool than Traces. He smirks as he looks me up and down. "Why would you ask me that, Little Sister? You want a crash course on candy?" he takes a wobbly swig from the tequila bottle.

"Not at all," I assure him. "I was under the impression you and my sister were working up a thing."

He blinks and looks away. "Yeah, what kind of thing?" Ahh, there is some small kernel of truth to what Ashlynn said. He won't look me in the eyes. He's trying to get Trace's attention.

"You know. An arrangment. Sex for candy."

He chokes on the tequila. "Fuck!" His eyes goes round, he takes another swig, and stares at me. and then he points the bottle at me, "You're fucking with me aren't you?" He swings around. "Trace, get the hell over here and deal with your woman!" Then he swivels back around to me. He looks a little pissed. "You know, Kat, I don't mind if you fuck with me a little, but you shouldn't say shit like that about your sister. Ashlynn is a good person, she's just been through a lot of shit."

Now it's my turn to blink. What the fuck does Leed know about Ashlynn's problems? What the hell?

"What's going on?" Trace asks as he almost tiptoes up, looking between us.

"She's diabolical and I'm drunk—I can't deal." Leed stumbles away and wraps his arms around the two girls Trace just abandoned. They seem completely thrilled with the substitution.

"Hey," Trace says softly. He looks...guilty. "What was that about?" He hooks a thumb in the direction where Leed has wondered off.

"What was that about?" I repeat. I sling a hand toward the girls, now ensconced on either side of Leed. "I could ask you the same damn thing. You have a date here tonight? That's all I am? A date for the evening?"

He puts his hands beneath his armpits and looks across the room, the cool look firmly in place.

"Kat, this," he gestures to party. "Nothing's going on with me and those girls, if that's what you are thinking. Some are pushy when they are drunk, that's all. You are more than a date—we are dating. You are my girlfriend, haven't I made that abundantly clear? But obviously, I'm not going to tell some randoms that, if we aren't commenting about our relationship in the press. Is that your beef? That I didn't label you as my girlfriend to strangers?"

I shake my head, frustrated with where to even begin. There are like five things going on at once here. I'm completely caught off guard by this party and totally underdressed, I'm irritated with Trace that he changed our plan without even telling me, I want to know where the fuck all these women came from and if they are hookers or fangirls. I'm starving. I'm  wondering what's up with Leed mentioning Ashlynn  and what he means by "she's been around," and most of all, I can see that in the hour and half since Trace left our suite, he's been drinking pretty hard. He's trying not to act drunk, but I'm pretty sure from the nearly empty bottle of bourbon in his hand, he's fairly polluted.

"So these girls are...regulars? They're with the band?"

He runs a hand through his hair and looks confused. "No. They are some women the sound techs met in the bar downstairs. We don't keep a bunch of groupies on a bus, following us around, if that's what you are thinking. I don't think anyone does that." He frowns, getting a little lost in drunken speculation. "Well, not anymore. Maybe not since the eighties, you know? I heard this one story from Matt del Marco..."

I clap my hands in his face. "I don't want to hear about Skid Marc's Harem, Trace. Is this what it's going to be like if I stay? You bullshitting me and then doing what the fuck you want? I mean, I'm right the fuck here, Trace." I stomp my foot. "You say you want only me, but you can't go an hour apparently, without running off to a fucking orgy."

He laughs harshly. "Orgy? Christ Kat. Is this what it's going to be like? You not trusting me at all and flipping out over some randoms that I haven't even spoken to?"

"You more than spoke. Those two were all over you." I gesture to the two girls Leed is now making out with on the couch.

He leans forward, backing me into the bar, trapping me between his arms. "They asked if I wanted to party. And I told them no thanks. Look, there's always girls around. But as we have established, I'm definitely off the market as of now. If you're here with me on tour, if you go home, if you're at Duke, as long as we're together, I'm not fucking anybody else. I'm not even looking at anybody else. I told you that and I mean it. Kat, I've waited a long time for me and you. I'm not going to fuck it up, ok?"

He's so close to me now, I can smell him. He smells different that he used to, but I like the new smell—the foresty scent of a cologne I don't know yet and leather. Well, right now,  he smells of bourbon too, but I don't mind that. His smell and the way he's looking at me makes me melt. He seems intensely sincere, even if he is swaying slightly. I actually do believe him. I have to, right? That's what a relationship is: trust.

I reach out and touch his chest. "Ok. I believe you. I'm just...irritated, Trace. I thought you were coming back to our suite. I thought we were eating dinner together. If you wanted to party, you should have told me."

He smiles, and put his hand over mine. "We are going to eat dinner. I didn't want to or plan to come in here.  Adam literally dragged me in for one drink, and I..." he looked down at the bottle clutched in his fist, and seemed surprised. "I...lost track, I guess." He sits the bottle down, and looks at it for a long moment. I get the feeling he's surprised by how much he's drunk. "Let's go," he mumbles.

"We can stay," I say. I mean it, sort of. I don't want to stay, but I don't want to drag Trace away like a scolding shrew, if he doesn't want to come.

He looks me up and down and sighs. "I don't want to stay. I want to hang out with you. And I shouldn't have asked you to come down without...telling you how it was. A party. When I realized how long I had been here, and that I missed your text, I just thought, you know...I want you to be a part of this. I want you to feel like you belong, like you are welcome. But I know you can't be comfortable with everyone else dressed up and you in your pj's. I didn't think, Kat. This is new to me. Let's just go, ok?" He scans the kitchen. "Wait, where the fuck did our food go?"

Nobody bothers to answer, but I can see empty bags on the counter. Someone must have helped themselves.

"It's okay, Trace." I pick up a nearly full bottle of champagne. "Who needs food? Just come party with me, ok?" I smile sweetly. Trace looks at me with one of those tender expressions. He hooks his arm around my shoulders.

"God, I love you," he mumbles as we head out the door.

I stiffen. My irritated feeling is back. He's never said he loves me before, and now he's saying casually, like he might say, "God, I love bourbon. Or "Man, I really love my old Schecter."

I turn up the champagne. I don't know what else to do. Is he just so drunk he doesn't know what he's saying or is that how he really feels about me—casual? How did things go from feeling better to feeling awful again?

He fumbles with the key card at our door. Yep, he's way drunker than he's fronting. I take it from him wordlessly and lead him. He sits down on the bed, falls back. It's dark in the room, only the light from the bathroom illuminates him. He looks gorgeous, even drunk, even sprawled out across the bed. Despite my irritation with him, I feel heat pooling below.

"Kat, I'm so fucking sorry. I'm a douche. You're amazing and I'm a fucking douche." I watch him for few minutes, taking a few long swallows of champagne to quell both my hunger and my irritation. I'm pissed but something is up with him, and I just want to know what it is, more than I want to fight.

When I start to take off his shoes, he protests.

"Fuck Kat, I'm not that drunk. You don't have to..."

"Fine," I say, dropping his foot. He struggles to sit up. A few minutes later he has his shoes off. When he tries to take his pants off, I find myself laughing at him as he stumbles around.

"Oh you think I'm funny, huh?" he slurs, grinning at me.

"Pretty fucking funny. Pretty fucking drunk too. What's up with that, Trace?"

"Come to bed. I'll tell you."

I throw myself down in the chair. "How does anything that happened in the last hour and half make you think I want to come to bed with you? You said you were going to Riley's room for a few minutes and you never came back. You'd still be down there partying with those girls if I hadn't—"

"I wasn't partying with those girls. I was having a drink with Adam. I said I was a sorry. I lost track of time..."

"You didn't have a drink. You're wasted."

"Look, Kat...I drink. We all do. Not every night but it's a night off. We have two nights off, actually. We always cut loose when the schedule makes room. Fuck," he grumbles, "is me drinking going to be a problem, too?"

"No," I snap, "no problem at all." I leap up and grab the champagne bottle and guzzle it. I saunter into the main suite and pull out the mini bottles, choosing one at random.

Christ, what the fuck is that? Some awful shit that tastes like licorice. I wash it down with champagne and search the bottles for something that goes down better. Ahhh, cinnamon whiskey, I like that.

Trace is standing in the doorway in boxer briefs, his arms crossed against his muscular chest. "What are you doing?"

"Catching up," I shoot off, looking for another flavor.

He crosses and takes the bottle gently from me. "Don't. Please. Us both drunk and both upset is not a good combination," his voice is low, pleading.

That catches me off guard. "You're upset? With me?"

He pulls me to him, "Fuck no, of course not. That's why I stopped for a drink with Adam. To calm down, before I came back to you."

"Who then?" I press.

He sighs heavily. "It doesn't matter. I'm over it."

"Is it Marcy? Something to do with the press stuff?"

"Not this time."

I lean my head against his chest. It's obvious he doesn't want to talk about it. Why is this so hard? He keeps swinging from giddy to uber-intense. It was never like this with Colin. Colin was steady. I knew what to expect. I want to know what's up with Trace, but honestly I'm not sure how he'll react if I press him. I decide to let