Chapter 38: Rock Stars Will Kill You First

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This chapter is dedicated to MikaelsonTargaryen because she left a comment to the last chapter with the question--"What is Kat thinking?" I realized that the chapter I had originally planned to follow Chapter 37 jumps right back into the action with nearly the whole cast of characters. I wasn't really giving proper space to explore Kat's private pain. So I stayed up late last night writing this little weekend-bonus chapter to insert in the already written story, to answer MikaelsonTargaryen's question. Girl, this chapter is literally for you--thanks for the feedback! I think this chapter really makes the story better!

Kat

I lay on the bed, forcing my eyes to stay shut to hold back tears, my heart pounding, my thoughts in a hellish loop of comprehension.

Trace is married. To Ashlynn.

Trace is married to Ashlynn.

Married. Married. Married.

Then, I hear Trace's words over and over.

Ashlynn...I took her to Vegas.

Two years ago today.

I support her.

I did it to protect her.

I've tried to tell you so many times.

He did. He tried to tell me. He kept bringing her up over and over. Every time he said her name, there was a dread at the bottom of his voice, a slowness in the sound of her name on his lips, like there was something he didn't want to say.

Deep down, I knew there was something deeper down.

I tried to ignore it, but I knew.

Married. Married. Married.

Two years exactly. How many days? Seven hundred thirty days. Seven hundred thirty days they've shared a life.

Not a bed, he says. But that doesn't matter. Trace has already told me, sex is just sex to him; he's fucked a hundred girls, most of whose names he probably doesn't remember or maybe never even knew.

And now he's married to my sister, and he can't make me believe that doesn't mean anything to him. I know him, down to his bones. He's intense. He feels deeply. He's loyal. That commitment means something to him, because he lived through his own family imploding inside a commitment his parents probably should have walked away from, but couldn't.

Trace would want to do marriage better than his parents. He would want to do it right.

Seven hundred thirty days, Ashlynn has had his vow. Seven hundred thirty days he's kept his commitment. Seven hundred thirty days, he's tried to offer her his protection. Seven hundred thirty days they've shared a partnership so much deeper than the childhood silliness Trace and I had. Seventy hundred thirty days, they've kept this secret from me.

I used to know all Trace's secrets. Even the ones about his father, that he wouldn't tell me in words. I just knew somehow.

But I couldn't see this secret.

Married. Married. Married.

Why couldn't I see?

Because it's been nine hundred fifty two days since Trace walked away from me and left me standing in the sleet. And it was nine hundred forty eight days that I didn't hear from him. Nine hundred forty eight days that Trace and I were strangers, while most of that time he and my sister have been husband and wife. Nine hundred forty eight days that I was hollow, waiting, wishing, and coping alone, snapping that rubber band.

The rubber band. I sit up abruptly, filled with purpose. I search the bathroom vanity—all my toiletries, and his. Nothing. I stalk out into the suite.

Ben eyes me warily as I go directly to the small kitchen area. He places himself between me and the outer door, watching me silently ripping open the drawers, pilfering through them, not finding the object of my search.

"You need some help, Ms.Ballard?"

I don't need help. I need a goddamn rubber band.

I ignore him and dash into the living area, ransacking the desk, the bar, the credenza.

I turn around and around, my eyes searching.

"There has to be one," I mutter.

Then I see it. Trace's battered guitar case leaning against an ottoman—the one that holds his old Gibson—the guitar he's had since he was twelve years old.

I snatch it up and toss it on the couch, fumbling with the latches.

"Ms. Ballard—"

"Fuck off, Ben!" I yell, flinging open the case and pulling out the guitar.

Ben very gently tugs at my arm. "Please don't. I think you'll be sorry about it, tomorrow."

I ignore him. I'm not going to smash Trace's favorite guitar. Maybe he deserves it, but I could never do that to him. Trace is a liar and a cheater, but I'm no evil bitch. I would never cut his lifeline. Ben the Security Guy has no idea what that guitar really means to Trace, but I do. That guitar saved him when his father's rage threatened to bury him. I know that.

Instead I fumble around in the little compartment beneath where the fingerboard rests. I know they are in here. I've seen Trace change them dozens of times. Triumphant, I pull a coil of new strings and undo the rubber band that secures them.

I slip it on, with a sob of relief. Seven hundred thirty days are like seven hundred thirty lashes on my soul, but I can call them back, reclaim the stripes of pain Trace marked me with. I know I can. I've counted days before. I've gotten through nine hundred forty eight days of blue hell.

Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap.

The sting hurts, because the drugs make my skin more sensitive, but I am glad. It gives me something to focus on.

Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap.Snap.

"Ms. Ballard—"

"Shut up, Ben. I'm counting."

I pace and pull the band.

Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap.Snap.

Each snap is painfully productive now, sending a sharp notification up my arm to my brain.

You will forget.

Snap. Forget his voice.

Snap. Forget his hands.

Snap. Forget his kiss.

Snap. Forget his warmth.

Snap. Forget his laugh.

Snap. Forget his love.

Snap—

The rubber band breaks.

I scream in agony, a long wail that penetrates the silence of the suite. I drop to the floor, holding my wrist as if it were broken.

It is broken, without the rubber band. I'm broken, without the rubber band. Without the snap, I can't forget. And if I can't forget, I will love him. And if I love him, I will hurt.

God, it hurts so much.

Because he's married to my sister.

Seven hundred thirty days.

Married. Married. Married.

My thoughts are on a loop that I can't stop. I start to hyperventilate, my heart beating faster and faster, my panting sobs more and more shallow. Oxygen isn't doing it's job anymore, and my heart is spasming too fast to pump my blood smoothly. This must be what a heart attack feels like.

"Kat, listen to me," I hear Ben's voice in the distance behind the pounding in my ears. "Anxiety is sometimes a side effect of the kind of drug you took. You'll be ok. Everything will be ok, this is just a bad trip. Try to slow your breathing."

Nothing will be ok.

Because he's married to my sister.

Seven hundred thirty days.

Married. Married. Married.

I really sob, giant gulping heart-broken sobs and my heart feels like it will run out of beats. I futilely try to tie the broken rubber band back around my wrist so that I can snap Trace away. I can't tie it one handed, with my vision blurred by tears. Ben won't do it for me. He just keeps telling me to breathe.

Finally, he gives up on me breathing and thrusts a glass into my hand. I gulp, thinking it's water, and choke on vodka.

"Try to drink a little more," Ben sighs, pushing the glass to my lips. "Christ knows you need a sedative."

I gulp and choke and curse and sob. Eventually, I take the glass from him in two hands. By the time I finish, the alcohol is already hitting my bloodstream, and my heart is reclaiming its rhythm. I start to feel my thoughts slowing on their punishing track.

I sit on my knees for a long time, until my thoughts don't feel bent in a vicious circle against my will. Until I can breathe and speak normally.

I calmly rise, pouring more vodka.

"I don't think you want to mix too much of that with the drugs you had, Ms. Ballard," Ben warns.

"It was your idea in the first place," I remind him, wincing as I take another small sip.

"I gave you enough to take the edge off your anxiety attack. You don't want to go down this road, Ms. Ballard. Drunk drama queen? Doesn't seem like it really fits you. "

"I'm so confused, Ben," I snarl. "Is your job security guy, therapist, or judgmental asshole?" I take another small swallow.

"Any medical conditions I should tell the paramedics, when I have to call the ambulance for you?" he snarks.

"Go to hell, Ben."

"Apparently that's my job tonight, Ms. Ballard," he sits down and crosses his arms. "I don't know what Trace did, but if it makes you feel better, I'm the proxy that takes the grief you think he deserves."

"Oh, he deserves it. He married my sister, Ben. That's what he did." I see Ben's eyes go wide but I turn away from him.

I stare at the glass, thinking of what Ben just said, about taking the grief. Grief is exactly what I feel. I feel like the Trace I knew as a girl is dead to me. My Trace would never have chosen Ashlynn while he ignored me at home. And I don't care if they had sex or didn't—what I care about is that he chose her. He made it sound like helping he was nearly accidental, or even maybe a reluctant, guilt-borne endeavor. But buying her a ring and marrying her?

No. He chose her, and then he willfully froze me out.

Knowing that feels like dying.

With my brain still randomly firing with drugs, a song lyric that isn't one of Trace's bursts like a firework in head, so vivid I can hear it perfectly.

I've come to the conclusion, you can't kill me if I kill you first.

That's what I'll do. I'll kill him first.

I'll drown him.

I feel a sob rising up in my chest, and in my haste to stop it with another painful swallow of vodka, I bump my teeth against the glass.

Thankfully, that's the last painful thing I remember of that horrible night.

Damn. My girl is in a bad way right now. Send her a little love, please, with that star button. Thanks so much!

You are reading the story above: TeenFic.Net

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