Kat

We have to leave to go to Matt's in a few minutes. I'm sitting on the bench in his closet, watching Trace's every impatient shirt change. I don't know if it's because I'm still drugged up on love hormones , or maybe it's just because now that we are in LA, Trace is automatically oozing rock star pheromones in his natural rock star habitat, but I can hardly tear my eyes off him. Everything he puts on looks equally great, but I'm enjoying the in-between-shirts-moments the most—the way his six pack rolls a little as he jerks the shirts off over his head.

He catches me looking at him shirtless and grins. "Fuck it, I should just go without, right?" he winks.

"Hhmmm-mmmmm," I purr.

I think it's finally hitting me. I'm in love with the world's hottest rock star, and he's all mine. I would love him if he were still just my Trace, the boy next door, but...damn that I love that swagger. I wasn't joking at all earlier, about his sauce. He can pour himself all over me any time he wants.

Right now, he don't want. His style is effortless, but for some reason he's stressin' what to wear. He pulls on another shirt, his shoulders twitch in irritation, like it doesn't sit right, and jerks it off.

"I don't want to look like the douchey Matt junior wannabe," he sighs. "But I don't want to look like I'm trying not to be the douchey Matt junior wannabe, either," he says.

I sigh, pick up a plain black T-shirt off the floor and plaster it to his chest. "If there's anybody on this planet that knows what kind of big brother you would make, it's me. You're funny and helpful, and cool and easy to be with. It doesn't matter what you wear. Just do you."

"Thank you," he says and kisses me. "But please don't ever think of me as your Big Brother ever again."

"Says the guys who made me Little Sister."

"Yeah that was dumb."

"Nope. That song is part of who you are now," I whisper, licking up his neck. "And I like you, your talent, your confidence, your swagger, very much. And your house."

Trace runs his hands up my back and softly strokes the back of my neck. "Thank you. I like your...everything, Kat. Your sweetness, your mischief, your sexiness, and especially your smart mouth. But...you like the house? Really?"

"Yeah. Maybe...don't sell it."

He pull back, searching my face. "Tell me what you're thinking," he asks softly.

I shrug. I'm working really hard to bury the past. It doesn't seem right that Trace should have to sell his house, upend his life because of my petty jealousy. I KNOW he loves me, not Ashlynn. There's no doubt in my mind. The way he looked at me while we were making love, the sweetness in his kisses, the catch in his breath every time I felt a twinge of discomfort—it's like in we are in total sync. And I have forgiven him for keeping the truth from me. But it doesn't mean I can just forget that he was married to her. It's stupid, I know, but I still can't shake it. I'm so...territorial when it comes to him. I kinda feel like him keeping this house would be...therapy for me. Force me to confront that I will never know exactly what it was like between Ashlynn and Trace. Maybe I'll just get desensitized, you know?

"I really like your house. And I really love your bed," I say with a wicked grin. "And maybe I'm just an evil bitch and I wanna rub my scent all over Ashlynn's old territory." I admit with a hoarse whisper. "Make what was hers, mine."

He nods, rubbing my back with strong fingers. "You're are not an evil bitch, you're just human. And I was never hers, baby. She did occasionally buy shit to put in the house, though—during the four months she was clean and we hung out here alot. You can redecorate the whole damn thing, if you want. How bout we sleep on it tonight before I cancel the realtor? You see how it feels to wake up here?"

I nod. "Deal." I bite my lip. "Will you do one thing for me, though?"

He smirks. "Probably."

"Tonight, when we get home, will you fuck me on that purple couch?" I ask.

"No," he says automatically.

My eyes go wide. Oh my god, is he saying the couch is a him and Ashlynn memory? "No?"

He leans close, and his oaky-leathery scent invades me. How the hell does he smell like leather when I have yet to see a leather jacket within six feet of him in the summer swelter? Fucking rock star, leather seeps from his pores. I breathe him in involuntarily as he whispers. "I don't think we are ready for what I have planned for that couch yet. Did you see the giant mirror on the wall in that room? I'd really like to lean you over the arm of that couch and take you from behind, so you can watch. So you see, the couch might have to wait awhile...if we even keep the house," he trails.

The way he says we, so casually, makes me shiver.

My gulp is audible. "Oh, I don't know...that sounds pretty good to me already. And I know you'll be gentle, even in that position."

"Nope," he whispers with a sigh. "I might lose control, watching us together like that. You've got to wait for the dirty fuckings. I am nowhere close to being over learning to make love to you."

Trace whips on the shirt and strides into the bathroom. I smile as he rakes his hands through his hair a final time. I check my own reflection in the mirror. I'm wearing a mustard floral skater/boho dress, with a v-neck and cap sleeves. It's cute, but it's off the rack from a discount store. That black t-shirt I picked up off Trace's floor probably cost as much as everything I brought to LA.

Trace sees me fingering my dress. "You look really pretty in that, Kat."

"Thanks. It's not too...Georgia?"

He turns to me. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't worry that you aren't trendy enough."

"You were just worried about what shirt to wear."

"Not really. I'm worried Matt's kids are going to think I'm some kind of douche, and you helped me feel better about that. So let me return the favor, and make you feel better. You are beautiful and poised and that comes through no matter what you are wearing. LA is not about fitting in. It's about standing out, working your style. If you wanna be a Sweet Georgia Peach, fucking own that shit. If you want find a whole new style..." he pulls a black AMEX from his wallet and slips it in my hand. "...you don't have to fund your wardrobe by taking money from strangers who want to make more money off you."

I look down at the card. It has my name on it. He must have had Riley order when I went to New Orleans with him. "So you think it would be better for me to take your money?"

Trace's brows furrow and he gets a confused look on his face. "Well, obviously. There are no strings attached to my money. What's mine is yours."

I snort. "I think you have me confused with Ashlynn." I wince. I don't want to be like that—bitter when it comes to the things he did for her—but it just popped out.

Trace's expression is unreadable, but he says very evenly. "No, I really don't. I felt responsible for Ashlynn. I'm in love with you. But I don't have a problem with giving either one of you money to make sure you don't owe favors to assholes."

I feel pricks on the insides of my fingers, and I realize it's from holding the card too tight. "You're still planning on supporting Ashlynn?" I ask casually.

He shakes his head. "No, but I feel like you need to know, I paid for her rehab, and she got a generous settlement. It was part of the pre-nup. My hope is...she's going to get well enough to make good choices with that money. And if she does, she has more than enough money in her own bank account now to do whatever she wants in life. Don't take this the wrong way, but can you say the same? How much money could you lay your hands on right now, Kat?"

"There's about five hundred bucks in my bank account. I...I left my emergency credit card at home. It didn't feel right, taking it, when I know my parents aren't going to be on board with my decision."

"Five hundred bucks won't last you a week in LA," he says softly. "The WITCHes like their photo ops. Lunches, coffee dates, club nights, events, concerts...it's how they raise their celebrity and make money. But it also takes money to live like that, unless you are one of the WITCHes that has hit as an Instagram Star and you get comped everything. And she doesn't pay them, you know. The WITCHes are an internship kind of thing. Her vetting process. Marianne wants to give people a chance, but she's been burned before by people wanting to get close to Matt. She's had a couple of nannies, and a couple of women that work in her charity come on to him. Big time."

She developed the WITCH program as a way to make sure she knows a person before she offers them a permanent job. The WITCH gig is all casual—no paycheck, no employment contract, nothing like that, so she can ask them to leave the program if things don't work out. She gives them free room, board, experiences, learning, training—and the money flows to them LA style. They earn their money from branding themselves. It's not that Marianne is not looking out for them...it's just the LA way."

"I know. She explained all that to me," I say a little defensively.

"So, you are ready for that? The club appearances? The attention from fans? From men?" He brushes my cheek gently. "I'm not asking as a jealous boyfriend. I'm asking as your friend, and the only person that knows about what...almost happened with Chaz."

"I don't know," I say. "It's kind of intimidating. After the Chaz thing, I never wanted to put myself out there, to attract attention. But I do know...I want to grow and not feel intimidated anymore."

He nods. "So take my card. Take some time to get comfortable in LA. See how the other WITCHes manage themselves and their income stream."

I nod. The prideful girl in me wants to hand Trace back his card, and tell him I'm not Ashlynn. The practical person knows Trace means what he says about their being no strings attached, and that I would rather be able to take my time and make careful decisions about how I earn money than end up desperate quick.

"I'm not saying I won't figure out a way to make my own money, but...truthfully, I'm probably going to need a little help, for awhile," I say, my cheeks burning. "So, thank you."

He breaks into a huge grin and steps close, enveloping me in his arms. "You really aren't going to fight me on the card?"

I sigh. "I don't have much of a choice." I stick a finger in his face. "But when I do start making my own money, you need to send me the bill."

He waves it away. "I don't deal with the monthly petty cash, just the big investments and decisions. You'll have to hassle Riley if you want to know your monthly expenditures. But Kat, there's no limit on that card. Spend what you need to—LA style. I want to make sure you can take care of yourself when I'm out there on tour. And don't feel like you have to rush to take over the bill. Be choosy about your income stream, ok? Don't do anything you aren't proud of. I would much rather you spend money I won't even think about, than do something you don't feel good about."

I rake my fingernail over my name on the card. "Eighteen and a kept woman already."

"Kat..." Trace chides. "Don't fucking say that. It's not like that between us and you know it. I help my mom, even though she works. I give Marianne a couple cool million a year to help strangers. And then there was Ashlynn. Do you know how shitty it would make me feel to know I have all this cash I can't ever spend, and the person I care about most in the world is struggling to scrounge for a Starbucks run, or an UBER ride home from a club? Please baby, don't make a thing. Please."

I draw in a long breath and exhale a smile. "Ok. It this better?You are amazing, and I love you. Thank you for having my back in every way. And for the card."

He frowns slightly. "It's better, only if you really feel that way."

"I do. You're gonna get right with my choices, I'm gonna get right with your credit card," I say sweetly, and he laughs.

"See, it's all about compromise," Trace winks.

Just then, Trace gets a call, and his face goes all uncomfortable and smiley at the same time.

"That must be Matt," I smirk.

He squints at me as he answers. "Hey, man, we are heading your way. What? No, man...we can't...shit, are you serious? Fuck. Lemme call Marcy...oh. She's already got the blogger on his way? Damn that was fast. Look man, you sure you don't want to reschedule...this seems like a bad time...ok. You sure? Ok. Yeah." Trace is looking at me but listening hard. "Fuck, that's impossible from where I live. Alright, alright...damn...I'll take the Porsche, we'll haul ass. See ya in forty."

He shoves his phone in his back pocket and grabs up our suitcases, which are still full packed. "We gotta go, KittyKat. Wheels up in forty-five minutes."

"What? Where?"

Trace rubs a hand over his face and does the neck crack thing that's his irritation tell. "So, Matt says Row flipped out when they broke the news about me to the family this afternoon. I guess...I don't know...she and Matt are really close and she's like the heir to the family music legacy, you know? She's young, and Matt's been trying to put off her band getting signed but they are good enough. So she didn't take the news that her dad already has a famous rock star kid too well, since he's been sort of...delaying her career.

"Apparently our family dinner has turned into an..intervention. It's totally fucking weird he wants me to come, but he's insisting. He says I might as well be there to learn to how the punches are thrown.

"Plus, he wants to go ahead with the interview, as soon as possible. He's afraid of the timing--that the blogger might have second thoughts about killing the Ashlynn story.  Marcy's just been stringing him along to take a meeting with me—he has no idea what's coming. Matt says we need the guy to sign the NDA's and tell him the truth right now, before Row makes news. Marcy sent a car for the blogger so meet us and get it done before we take off."

Trace is dragging the suitcases through the house as he explains, and I am following. He grabs one of four sets of keys off a hook and bounds down into a six car garage. Apparently he owns more than a couple nice ones, but he throws our bags into the back of an insanely shiny red Porsche.

"More words, Trace.  I don't get it--if the blogger doesn't know you and Matt are related, why would Row making news prompt him to release the story that you were secretly married?"

"Because media stories come in themes, you know? A hate crimes gets caught on video, and all the sudden you hear about every hate crime that's ever happened before. Row's about to do the same stupid thing I did."

I'm starting to get the picture. "Trace, where are we going?"

He's already holding my door open for me. "Vegas, baby. Matt says Row has run off to marry some punk ass drummer twice her age."

Wha!?!?!? VEGAS!?!?!!? Oh HELL!!!! This could be a bad thing....or a good thing. Thoughts???? Y'all do the things, pretty please. Y'all know what I'm talking about...vote, comment, share, etc...thanks!