This chapter is dedicated to another Soundcrush Fan DestinyBenton3  cause she can't decide if she wants Kat to keep with Trace or lose him. DestinyBenton3 I hope Trace convinces you  he could be a miracle worker....

Kat

I don't like to schlep around in the rain, especially when it involves being trailed by a security guy who also has to schlep with me, but I spend my whole day avoiding my house anyway. No way am I spending my day pacing the front porch, wondering if today is the day Trace might show up, practicing my furious speech which I half imagine he will promptly dismiss with a passionate kiss while the heavens pour upon us, soaking us to the bone and washing away the hurt between us.

Yeah, fuck that. This is not a Nicholas Sparks novel.

But-wait—it could be. Doesn't someone usually end up dead at the end of one of those?

It's late afternoon now, and I'm having trouble finding more excuses to avoid home. I've been to the gym with Colin, to lunch with Laurel, then Maddie met us for a little shopping. I needed to pick up a few additions to my wardrobe to take on my internship, but there's only so much retail therapy my dwindling bank account will allow. I went to the art supply store, just to browse, and now I'm at the book store. I pick up a romance novel and Twelve Things Every Young Adult Should Do. Better to have a to-do list than a don't-do list, right? My don't-do list is filling up quite nicely without the guidance of a self-help book.

Don't run away with rock stars.

Don't drink Mollycocks.

Don't date your brother-in-law.

Don't throw away the most real thing you've ever felt.

Shit. No. Scratch that last item. That's the kind of thinking that's going to put me in the summer rain with Trace laying one of his epic, reality-bending kisses on me. And I can't let him do that, because it's not that simple.

He lied. He hurt me more than I thought it was possible to hurt. And it wasn't even the first time. I knew about hurt already—because he hurt me before. It wasn't a summer rain that time, though. Standing in the middle of the book store, I can almost feel the cold January sleet...

We stood on my porch that day, too. He'd just brought me home from visiting Ashlynn at the hospital. His Jeep was already packed for LA, loaded with several suitcases, a box of random stuff, two amps, three guitars, foot-pedals, coils of cables.

He held my hand as he walked me to my front door. We'd probably held hands a thousand times, running through sprinklers, playing Red Rover, hauling each other up from stumbles, diving together in my pool. But it was the first time he ever laced his fingers through mine, pulling me against him, his heavy arm keeping me close. The first time I ever felt the weight of his possession. He thinks, in his old-fashioned way, that "taking" my virginity would be the thing to cement us, but the truth is, he claimed me that January day, on my porch, with the sleet dancing on the roof. The New Year's kiss had been epic, and the way he had been there for me during the Ashlynn crisis, constantly by my side in the hospital, was beyond comfort, but that January moment on the porch, with his fingers warming mine—the expression on his face as he brought my wrist to his lips and pressed so sweet, so slow, like he meant for it to last forever—it wrote his name on my heart, indelibly.

I was permanently marked by Trace Gallant.

Then he let go.

That was my first warning of the pain coming.

The second was the blank look that descended over his features— the first time I ever saw the Rock Star face. Stoic, guarded.

"Kat—"

"Ashlynn's going to be okay," I assured him hurriedly. I already knew I wasn't going to like what he had to say.

"I hope so." A small frown marred his beautiful features, but otherwise the mask remained in place.

"You'll call me, when you get to LA?" I asked, already shivering. I stepped in toward him, hoping he would put his warm arms around me, like I had quickly become used to in the last three days. An arm around me had been my constant shelter as we sat waiting in the hospital. He'd only removed it when my dad noticed, and glared at him. His arms were keeping me comforted at night, too. We were sleeping poorly, slumped on my couch, because I kept asking him to stay until I fell asleep, and he was staying until I woke up, too. My parents were sleeping at the hospital, and I didn't like to being alone in our empty house.

He frowned again, making no move to shelter me in his embrace now. "I don't think that's such a good idea, Sweetheart."

"Why?" I asked suspiciously. My heart—the heart he had completely claimed—sped up in alarm.

"We can't keep doing this. The thing where we text all the time, and I drunk dial you."

"Why?" I repeat dumbly.

"Kat..." he turned, leaning on the porch rail, watching the tiny balls of ice bouncing on the driveway. "You need to forget about this..." he gestures between me and him, but he doesn't look at me. "It's not happening, okay?"

"But...you said the kiss amazing. You said we would come back around...and the last three days..."

"The last three days, I knew you needed me. But Ash is awake now, and she seems...okay. And I know what I said. But you're fifteen, Kat. I like you—too much. I can't...it wouldn't be...I'm not fifteen. I want more from you than fifteen year old stuff. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

A small gasp escaped me, the kind of sound you make when the knife slips or when you lose your balance. I knew the pain was coming then, it just hadn't set in yet.

"Yeah, I understand. I understand you're going to LA and you're going to party like a rock star. Make a ton of money, snort a little coke, sex a bunch of randoms, and fucking forget about me."

He stared into the cold grey morning. "I gotta go. Be good, KitKat."

He walked off the porch, his head down, avoiding the sting of the sleet.

I didn't even decide to chase after him, I just did. I grabbed his arm, sliding around in front of him. "Kiss me good-bye," I demanded.

He shook his head. I pushed him a little.

"I know you have to go. But kiss me, and tell me good-bye like maybe you are coming back one day." I just needed something—some kind of hope.

His Rock Star facade never faltered. He took my head in his hands, and turned it up to his, leaning down over me to shelter me from the sting of the sleet. "No. I won't ever kiss you and feel bad about it again. If I ever do kiss you again, the time will have to be right—no obstacles between us. Because I promise, if we do come back around, I won't hold anything back from you."

And then he stepped around me, got in his Jeep, and drove away with my heart. He hollowed me and the freezing sleet couldn't even numb the pain.

That memory has haunted me constantly, since I found out he was married to Ashlynn. Maybe I could learn to accept and forgive the fact that he married my desperate drug addicted sister in an a reckless, probably drunken, attempt to save her from herself. But I'm not sure if he even understands that I felt like he made a promise to me, and he broke it.

He kissed me again, and he was holding back the whole time.

I spend the day, wandering in the rain, thinking about that, wondering if he's still "coming for me" like he said in his text yesterday. I haven't heard from him today. Maybe Ashlynn didn't get released, or refused to get on the plane with my parents to go to Florida. Maybe he's forgotten all about his plans to come here. Ashlynn is clearly his priority, maybe he's still taking care of her right now.

I hope so, I don't want to fucking see him anyway.

As we pull into my driveway in the late afternoon, I realize that's a lie. I was expecting to see a rental car, or even better him waiting, drenched and shivering on the porch. I park carelessly in our circular drive. Before I get out, Ben tells me he's going to walk the perimeter, which is weird because it's pouring and we've had no trouble inside my gated community, but he's a dedicated guy. I dash up the steps before I'm completely drenched and punch in the code for the front door.

The house is grim and shadowy with the heavy downpour darkening the day. I trudge to the kitchen, dumping my purchases carelessly on the counter, and stand there for a moment, undecided. Should I put the kettle on for a cup of tea, or dampen my disappointment that Trace isn't here by finishing the bottle of wine I opened last night? Yeah, Dad's probably going to be pissed about all the wine I've been drinking, but I don't really give a fu—

"Kat."

I turn slowly at his voice. Trace is standing with his hands braced in the doorway to the dining room, fingertips gripping the frame. The first thing I notice is he hasn't shaved in days. He looks good like that. Then I check myself for thinking that and focus on his expression. His expression is all wrong. He should look...unsure, or guilty, or something. But his face is lit up with wonder, his eyes shining like he's standing at the gates of heaven.

"Christ, you look beautiful," he says. "I missed you so fucking much."

In the five steps it takes to reach him, without even meaning to, I've drawn my arm back for maximum force.

His eyes never leave mine. In the second before I make contact, Trace flinches.

The crack of my slap cuts the air like lightening, and I see a furied flash in his eyes.

I thought I was heartbroken before, but that flinch, and that look in his eyes, makes me ache in an entirely different way. He's remembering the strike of a more forceful hand than mine.

There's a moment of silence as I press my stinging hand to my mouth, and he calmly rubs his reddening cheek with his knuckles. He's still staring at me. The expression is no longer one of wonder, but of struggle.

"I shouldn't have done that." My voice is shakier than I want it to be.

He sighs heavily. "I deserved it. But my dad slapped me around a lot, and it makes me angry to be hit like that, even by you. Please don't do it again."

It's the first time he's ever shared a specific detail about the abuse he suffered. I'm conflicted. I'm angry at him, at the same time I want to pull his head to my shoulder and comfort him.

I nod. "I'm sorry. I won't hit you again. I promise."

He reaches for the hand that just slapped him and twines his fingers in it. I twist them away. "Don't. I'm sorry I slapped you, but don't touch me. Fucking hell Trace, you're married to Ashlynn!" I push him, just enough to get past him and move forward into the dining room, because there's no way in hell I'm backing up. I'm not retreating. I'm fucking pissed.

"I know you hate me. You have every right to. But technically, I'm not married to your sister anymore." He flips on the light and gestures to the neat pile of papers on the dining room table.

Annulment papers. Signed. Sealed. "Delivered to the court today," he confirms. "An annulment, not a divorce. Because our marriage was never valid, never consummated, never meant to be a real union. It's like Ashlynn and I were never married."

I'm surprised. They went through with the annulment already? I was sure they would stay married, at least until Ashlynn went through rehab. A small measure of the pain weighing me down releases but I don't show it. I'm still so fucking angry. I laugh bitterly.

"Like you were never married, huh? You keep telling yourself that, asshole."

"No, I know it's not enough. And I know, I can tell you a thousand times how sorry I am , but those are just words." he agrees. "So tell me, what's it going to take?"

I turn around and stare at him, uncomprehending. He advances on me. There's no swagger, no sexy. His eyes are sad now and he moves slowly, his hands raised slightly, like I'm a wounded animal. I shake my head. He keeps coming. I back up, hitting the wall, but he keeps coming.

He stops inches from me. He doesn't touch me, because I told him not to. "How do I earn your forgiveness, Kat?

"Back up," I command him, putting my hands up between us before our chests make contact.

He shakes his head, "I'm sorry, I can't do that. I can give you time all the time you need to be angry. I can make any act of contrition you want. You want me to walk across hot coals? I'll fucking do it. You want me to admit what I did on MTV? I'll do it without one second of hesitation and take the hit to my career. Whatever you need from me to prove I know fucked up, to prove how sorry I am, I'll do it. But the one thing I can't do...is keep my distance. There's been far too much space between us, this week, these last two and half years. I'm not backing up, KittyKat. Not one goddamn inch. Not until you tell me what it's going to take."

"I don't know," I say hoarsely. "That's the truth. You betrayed me, and I don't know how to forgive you. You crooked your finger and I came running into your arms. I gave up my boyfriend, my parents' goodwill, my comfort zone—for you. I offered you everything—my trust, my love, my virginity—and the whole time you knew you were going to hurt me. Devastate me. How could you let me try to give you everything, when you knew how it was going to end!?! " I'm streaming tears now, and my voice is shaking with fury, and he's far to close to me for comfort, but I don't push him away. I look him square in the eyes, so he can see my pain. "What's it going to take? It's going to take a fucking miracle, Trace! I need a miracle. Because I don't know how to stop loving you, but I don't know how to forgive you either."

"But...you want to try—to forgive me?" he looks half hopeful, half disbelieving. I stare up at him, taking in determined set of his square jaw, the blistering intensity of the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen, the unconscious sexiness of his eyebrows arching over them. He's mesmerizing. I close my eyes, afraid of getting lost in Trace, of numbing my pain prematurely.

"I don't think I can do anything else," I admit.

He puts his forearms on the wall beside me head, and leans close, so that his large body is literally cocooning me on the wall, but he still doesn't touch me. "Then, I will make us a miracle, baby. Someway, somehow, I'll earn your forgiveness."

Minutes pass, with me plastered to the wall, and Trace sheltering me, neither one of us sure how a miracle starts. Then, Trace starts to sing.

"I wish I wished I never kissed you, that night," he croons to me softly, and every line of Little Sister if filled with his pain, as much as mine.

When he finishes he says, "That song is all out of order, you know. I wrote the verses about our New Year's kiss. I wrote the chorus after Vegas. I wrote it imagining your pain, because I knew one day I would have to tell you about Ashlynn, about Vegas. And everything I've done in the last two years is all fucked up and out of order. I wish I had done things right, baby. I wish I had helped Ashlynn the right way—by bringing her home a third time, by helping her stand up to your parents. I wish I had waited for you. Most of all, I wish to God I hadn't kissed you in your orange room, because I went back on my word. I promised you no obstacles, nothing between us the next time we kissed." He's still not touching me, but I'm slowly melting beneath his heat, his breath against my ear.

So he does understand why I am so hurt. He remembers what he promised that sleeting January day, and he understands why I feel so betrayed.

He knows me.

Fuck me, I love this asshole. Goddammit, motherfucker, shit, shit, shit.

I place my shaking hands on his chest. He sighs in relief, or happiness, I'm not sure which.

"Thank you for touching me, Sweetheart. It feels so good, your hand above my heart. But there are still obstacles between us, aren't there? New ones, that I put?"

"Yes. Pain. Mistrust."

He makes a sound of frustrated pain himself. "I hate myself for putting us back to square one."

"I just need a little time," I whisper. "Forgiveness doesn't happen all at once."

I feel his head nod slowly against mine. "You got it. How about this? The next time we kiss, you have to be the one to kiss me first. Hard and long, like you mean it—like the New Year's kiss. But don't kiss me like that until you are sure you've forgiven me. And after that, I'm doing shit in the right order. First, I'm going to kiss your delicious lips, your neck, your pretty little collarbone, your breast bone, your gorgeous tits, your sexy tight belly, your hip, your tender thigh, and finally your heavenly pu—"

"Okay, okay, okay," I practically yell, slipping beneath his arm. "I get the idea. And by the way, nice try, asshole. Dirty talk is not the way to earn my forgiveness."

He groans, peeling himself off the wall. "Well, you can't blame me for floating the idea."

"I can, and I do," I huff. "You were married to my fucking sister just what, five minutes ago?"

He checks his phone. "The judge signed the decree three hours ago," he says solemnly, without any inflection.

"Hmmmm. Maybe you should be divorced from my sister—oh, I don't know— a day before you try to get some from me?" I hiss with disdain.

"I'm not trying to get some from you. I was just reminding you that when you're ready, I'm going to love all of you with all of me," he says lightly. "And anyway, I'm not divorced," he reminds me. "Technically, an annulment means I was never even married."

"Yes, you were," I poke him in the chest.

His eyebrows arch in mischief. "Was not. Our marriage was never a legitimate union. It was a contractual mistake. It was voided."

"Goddammit, Trace. Admit you were fucking married."

The mischief spreads, his eyes glint like steel and his smirk turns up at the right corner of his mouth. "Will you kiss me if I admit it?"

I roll my eyes. "Of course not. You think it's going to be that easy? I'm still so fucking pissed, Trace."

"No, I suppose not," he looks a little disappointed, and cracks his neck, which is something he does when he's irritated. Well fuck you, buddy. Be irritated all you want. I'm still mad as hell. Actually my hand is itching to slap him again, but I won't.

"Fine," he says, crossing his arms with his thumbs pressing against his well defined pecs. "I don't wanna fight, you don't wanna fuck. So what happens now? What can I do?"

"I don't know," I wander into the kitchen, staring out the window. Our manicured backyard gives way to a swath of trees that screens the adjacent backyards of our next-street-over neighbors. Suddenly, I know what happens now. I turn to the pantry and start pulling out bread and peanut butter.

"What are you doing?" Trace has followed me. I shove the pantry items across the island to him and toss him the jelly from the fridge. "Make us some dinner, okay? I'll be right back."

"I'll take you anywhere you want to go. Somewhere fabulous.We don't have to eat fucking PB&J—"

"Shut-up and make the sandwiches, asshole," I snap, as rummage in the fridge for soda.

"Yes ma'am," he says tolerantly and untwists the bread,