Kat

Trace is right. Vegas sucks.

I'm sure it would be awesome if we were here to chill, but since we are here on a scavenger hunt for Row, I am more aware that Vegas is hot and loud and sensory overload and crowded with people doing one of three things that get on my sober and serious nerves: standing in crowds totally oblivious to the people trying to move around them, stumbling drunk, or taking selfies every five seconds. Some people are doing all three at once. I'm sure somewhere there are people gambling, too, but that's not really where we are. Our assignment is part of the Arts District where are all the tiny wedding chapels are located. We take an Uber straight there, bypassing the busy strip.

Okay, I'll admit that Trace's comment about never fucking ever getting married again might also be part of the reason I feel so annoyed right now. Pretty much all I've seen for the last couple of hours are couples determined to do the exact opposite—they are getting married right the fuck now.

A full quarter of these couples look like they have put tequila firmly in charge of their futures.

The other three-fourths look swoonful and sweet, and are probably truly in love—maybe forever but at least for right now.

I have to scan them all, occasionally checking against a picture of Row and Ratch that Bridge texted me. But every couple is hard to look at—the drunk lovers make me think of Trace and Ashlynn. That makes my blood boil. The sweet swoonfuls make me think that will never be me and Trace, and they make my heart hurt.

Dammit, I want to get married some day, ok? I want the full family adventure. It's a been a couple of rough years since Ash got hurt but before that I had a pretty decent family life. I had solid-if-slightly-distracted parents and a good big sister growing up. Not to mention a wonderful childhood with my very own Peter Pan running high crimes. Life in the suburbs was good. I want to pay it forward. Sue me for being somewhat traditional. I want other things too, but I definitely want that—a marriage, a family.

In my marital imaginings, the guy at the end of the altar was sometimes a mysterious Prince. But if there was ever a real live boy down there in my daydreams—that real live boy was always Trace. In a gray suit, waiting before a bower beneath an ancient mossy tree, fairy lights strung above. Devilish and hopeful and happy-go-lucky and playful and joyful Trace—who would climb that tree with me just as soon as we finished the serious stuff. First married adventure—getting my wedding dress dirty with Trace.

I see now...even if Trace changed his mind about marriage one day in the distant future—I'm not going to get my exuberant boy-next-door-at-the-altar. Ashlynn slit that boy's throat. He survived, but he nearly bled out on her altar. He's...scarred now. I don't know if his scars are the kind that will get tough with time, or if they are wounds that don't heal...the kind he will protect always—even from me.

I think maybe...if Trace ever gets married again, it will be the strong, protective, stone-cold sober,intense Trace that takes a wife. The one I got a glimpse of in New Orleans, when he sat on the balcony and calmly mapped out how his tour plans and my college plans could mesh. The man that puts a luxury condo "in escrow" for me to live in, but is fully prepared to "walk it back" if I want to go in a different direction. The man that forces me to talk frankly about our sex life. The man that gives me his credit card because he doesn't want me to swim with the sharks he's so comfortable with.

I'm still getting to know that side of him, and I sure as hell can't imagine myself, like I am right now, married to that guy. That part of him outweighs every part of me. We're still as unbalanced as we were when he was a college student and I was fifteen. I wonder if I will grow to match him, to feel like his equal one day, like Marianne is to Matt—or if I'll crash and burn in LA like Ashlynn.

Either way, I never want to force that man. I never want to kill the joy of the boy—or the sexy, reckless rock star—that inhabits him. So as long as he views marriage like a soul-sucking sentence, I guess we are never fucking ever doing it.

You can see how it's not really a whole lot of fun for me right now to be walking into wedding chapel after wedding chapel, where enthusiastic "wedding coordinators" greet us with a clipboard and say things like "Happy Wedding Day!" and ""Welcome to your forever love!" or even worse things, when they recognize my rock star and forget their pre-planned greetings. One girl leaned in to me confidentially "This place sucks. You should elope to the Seychelles Islands."

Once we get past them into the waiting areas, about the half the time Trace gets recognized and whisper-shrieked at by fans, "Oh my god, you're Trace Gallant and Kat...what's her name...Little Sister?!?!?" At first Trace oozed charm and took pictures and made funny jokes and vague, cool rock star dismissals. He told people "we were on a higher mission than marriage" or "perpetrating a marriage intervention" or stuff like that.

That was three hours ago. Now he's simply saying, "Sorry, not tonight," and giving Matt's loaned security guy the nod to deal with the fans as we scan the reception areas swiftly and leave.

He's getting grimmer by the minute, mostly because I'm getting pissy. The never, ever getting married thing between us is getting harder to ignore when I keep getting a sample bouquet thrust into my hand every five minutes and he keeps giving me apologetic looks.

Finally when the wedding specialist in Rock of Love Wedding chapel welcomes us to our "Happy Ever After," I snap.

"We are never fucking ever getting married," I tell her. "We're just here to observe the torture of the damned,"

Trace sighs wearily, grabs my hand, and says, "Excuse us a minute," as he tows me into a side alcove.

"Okay, I know this sucks," he begins in a harsh whisper, and then a phone camera flashes in our face. "Christ," he mutters turning me away and shoving me into the Restroom. Thankfully it's a unisex one-occupant type and its empty. He locks the door.

"I know this sucks," he begins again, and "and I know you are mad at me about what I said on the plane, so let's just have it out now, so we can make up later, okay?" he says calmly. He taps his chest a little arrogantly with both hands. "Let's go. Lay it on me, HellKat."

"I'm not mad at you," I say. I'm really not. I just can't help the nauseous, roiling pit in my stomach that makes me want to punch him.

"Like fuck you aren't," he shoots back.

"I have no right to be angry over your views on marriage. They make perfect sense, considering your...everything. I get it. What kind of crazy person would I be, to not understand where you are coming from? And it's not like it even matters. We have years before...that's an even an issue. So obviously, I'm not mad," I repeat.

"Bullshit. You're pissed. Just...stop acting like a brat and tell me why."

"Fine. I'm pissed because you are an asshole."

He grins tightly and looks at the ceiling. "So I'm an asshole because I love you and I don't want to fuck that up ever?"

I blink. "No, you're an asshole because you called me a brat!" I yell at him loudly.

"Because you are acting like one!" he yells back. "Don't pretend like you are not upset when you are! That's a shitty play!"

I'm all up in his face screaming. "Don't fucking yell at me when we fight!!!I fucking hate that!!!"

Suddenly, we aren't alone in our discontent.

Somebody bangs on the bathroom door, making us both jump. "I can hear you in there, you know!" The voice sounds like a girl's but the sarcasm could belong to drill sergeant. "Go fight somewhere else! Time to let someone else misuse the shitter!"

Wow, what a lovely young woman. Her bridegroom is a lucky fellow.

Trace yells through the crack in the door. "Give us a minute please!"

He pinches the bridge of his nose as he returns his focus to me. "You're right. I'm sorry I yelled. I won't yell at you anymore when we fight. But you need to back up, baby. I'm making one and only one rule when we are fighting—we can't get physical. Ok?" He puts his hands on my shoulders and gently forces me out of his personal space.

I respond by stepping right back in his space and yelling so close that I'm practically spitting on him, "Not ok!!!!Stop that!!! Stop acting like you are more mature than me!"

His eyes light with fury. "You! Ugghh! Shit!" he hisses, and he turns away from me.

He puts a hand calmly against the door and bows his head in concentration.

More banging on the bathroom door. "Hey! Get a room!" He ignores it this time, his hand twitching on the door.

"What are you doing?" I scream at Trace. He puts a hand up in my face to shut my mouth. I push it down, but slowly, without violence. He lets it drop.

"Running the chord progression for Master of Puppets."

I stomp my foot. "Are you fucking kidding me!?!?" I scream. "We are fighting and you are playing Metallica in your head right now!?!?!" I want to run at him and beat him in the chest over and over, but I can't. I get his rule. He's afraid he needs it. I'm not, but he is.

He makes a disgusted, throaty sound."You won't even talk to me about why you are really mad, you are just talking in circles trying to piss me off. You said I can't yell at you. Then you push me for not yelling at you. I won't walk away from you and I sure as fuck won't start punching shit. So until you say something I can actually respond to, all I have left in my head is music or rage. I choose music," he hisses. And he slumps down on the floor, against the door, putting his head in his hands, rocking slightly back and forth, like he's hearing the song in his head.

My anger wars with my desire to crawl into his lap and soothe him. I wonder if he's hard. Because I'm angry, but I'm also throbbing for him. It's very confusing, being in love and angry with your lover at the same time.

I don't go near him though. We are too new for this kind of angry love. I pace. "I don't know why I'm mad. It doesn't even make any sense to me why I'm mad!" I hiss.

"Well, when you figure it out, will you please clue me the fuck in?" he growls.

Just because shit can always get worse, the persistent person in need of the facilities starts banging. And doesn't stop. "You guys got quiet. Are you fucking now?" After a solid two minutes of keeping up her percussive racket, in which I pace back and forth in the tiny space and Trace continues to air guitar in his head, Trace gets really annoyed and bangs back with a spectacular force that makes me jump. "Fucking occupied!" he growls. She bangs back with as much fury as him.

"Your time for the five minute hate-fuck is up, buddy!" The sharpish young woman's voice sneers. "I think I heard the minister calling your turn—Mr.Douchebag and Ms. Batshit Crazy! Come on out like good little loons and mosey on down the aisle to your doom! You two sound perfect for each other, and I need that goddamn bathroom. I have a bowl to smoke and I can't do it outside on the street!"

Trace stares up at me. "Can you fucking believe this girl?" He pops up onto his feet, twists the lock and yanks open the door, "What the hell is your problem? Go smoke your damn weed somewhere el—"

He stops, and I immediately see why. The girl is dressed in fishnets and all skimpy black clothing, with make-up and moon boots that would make a Kiss bandmember moan in envy. Her hair is dyed the same startling blue-gray as her eyes.

The same gray as Trace's and Matt's.

"You.Have.Got.To.Be.Kidding.Me." Trace murmurs.

"Oh great! I knew they would come, but they fucking brought you?" Row growls, recognizing him at once. She turns to stomp away. Trace is too shocked to react, but I reach forward and pull her around by the wrist, yanking her off balance in her moon boots. Trace catches her as she tumbles into the bathroom with us, and I slam and lock the door, turning around and throwing myself against it.

"It's Row, right?" Trace say tentatively, raising his hand to her. "Listen, your parents are looking for you. Your brother and sister, too. And a bunch of people I don't even know...the entourage to me, but probably family to you. Listen...I'm glad I'm the one that found you. I get it. This is some fucked up shit. If it fucks with you...if I'm fucking with you...just know...I get it."

She assumes an angry face. She's a baby rock star, and it's obvious in the way she rolls her shoulders back, sticks out her chest, and glares at her elder half brother. It's pretty impressive. "You don't get it and you don't know the first fucking thing about me. So stop playing big brother." She sneers rudely.

He nods. "Right. We'll just wait for your mom and dad, then." He takes out his phone and sends a text, sneering back at her as he presses send.

"You can't keep me in here. What are you going to do, fight me?"

Trace looks devastated. He is no way prepared to get physical with this brand new family member. He'll let her walk right past him before he puts a hand on her, I realize. And then he'll feel like he let Matt down.

Suddenly, I'm furious in a whole new direction. Fuck this...I'm pissed at all this marriage bullshit being shoved in our faces, but I'm ride-or-die, when it comes to Trace. I don't care whose daughter or sister she is, this little emo hoochie and her giant attitude are not going to fuck with my man like that.

"He won't have to keep you here. I will," I assure her.

She looks me up and down. "I can take you."

"Try me, bitch," I challenge. "I am tired, hungry, and fucking pissed at him," I jerk my thumb at Trace, "and looking for an excuse to punch something. And you seem like a goddamn good excuse. So unless you want me to show you batshit crazy, sit your spoiled ass down, and shut the hell up."

I have no idea where that came from. I guess I'm just over being blue.

Hell yeah to the HellKat.

Surprisingly, Row doesn't seem to mind that I just cussed her out. She looks at me with a begrudging respect and...curiosity. "Damn, Sister, I hear ya. Take a breather." She pulls out her weed, takes a long hit, softens slightly. "Why are you pissed at him?" She leans against the wall, I watch curiously. I've seen people smoke joints, but never a pipe. Row's a pro, I guess. She's watching me, watch her.

"Tell ya what," she says. "I've got a little time to kill. My groom went on a walk to the dispensary down the street—"

"Gorenson left you at the chapel to score more weed?" Trace laughs harshly. "That's a real keeper you got there, del Marco."

"I wasn't talking to you, Gallant." She kicks off from the wall, pushes past him, and cocks her head at me.

"I'm curious about you, Little Sister. Just like everybody else. I wanna know why you are pissed off at my brother here. So tell me all about why he's such an asshole. I knew he would be."

I shrug. "I'll tell you why I'm pissed at him, if you'll tell me why you are marrying some old dude."

She purses her black lips and squints at me. "Smoke with me and you got a deal."

I give her the chin tip I learned from my rock star and she hands over the pipe.

"Hell no," Trace says.

"Hell no?" I challenge. "I'm sure you mean that like, 'Hell no, I'm not the boss of my girlfriend, and she can make her own decisions,' right?"

The truth is I've only done this a couple of times—just a sneaked hit or two with Laurel behind Colin's back at parties he didn't go to, because my athlete boyfriend would have lost his shit. He never touched the stuff and didn't drink much either during football season, and he didn't like me partying. Yeah, yeah, he was a little controlling as we have already established. But I'll be damned if I'm going down that same road with Trace, who gave me my first drink at fourteen, who parties himself, and who needs to learn to trust that I am not Ashlynn, and I know my limits.

I didn't surrender my will when I gave him my virginity.

"Kat, have you ever even smoked before?" he hisses in irritation.

"Yes I have, Mr-Marijuana-In-My-Travel-Kit-Hypocrite," I hiss back as I fumble with the pipe, trying to imitate what I had seen Row do.

His jaw twitches. He takes it from me. "Like this." He shows me how to cover the carb, takes a swift hit, and hands it back. I stick my tongue out at him, flick the lighter, and...recreate. Trace watches me with icy eyes, his Lucifer eyebrow raised. I can't tell if it's in irritation or amusement. A little bit of both, I think.

I take a good draw. I'm not giving my rock star and his rock star in training little sister the satisfaction of laughing at me. I measure my exhale slowly so I don't cough. Row takes it back, and takes two more hits.

Trace intercepts the pipe and draws hard. "It's cashed," he declares. Then he grins at me. "Oh, sorry baby, did you want another hit?"

I roll my eyes at him. In fact, I did not, so he kind of just saved me the embarrassment of passing after one hit, but I should be irritated that he did that. I'm already feeling it, so instead I just laugh at him. "Asshole," I grin. He puckers his lips and blows me a smooch before exhaling long and slow. I laugh at him again. He looks very sexy like that—with his eyes half-lidded and his lip puckered. Talk about bedroom eyes—that's a full on fuck-me face that he's sporting.

I know I am mad at him, but damn he's sexy. Is it really so bad that a rock star never fucking ever wants to marry me, when he looks at me like that?

Row interrupts my sexual musings.

"You did not just smoke all my weed. You fucking chiefer," Row groans. She gestures irritably for her pipe but he pockets it.

He laughs at her. "Not getting that back. This is a legal state, but doing this—smoking in a public place—is still illegal and you are underage for this. I'm not explaining to Matt that I let you get arrested when the manager comes to break up our little hotbox." Trace leans against the door and smirks at us. "Speaking of which, I figure we have about five minutes. So you chics better start talking." 

Author's Note: Just so you know, I don't condone drug use in minors. Plenty of time to make decisions about experiences like that down the road. These guys are all adults though, and I'm just keepin' it real.  I don't write PC; I write truth. Rock stars (and regular people) smoke marijuana legally these days. Some more responsibly than others.