Soooo.....I lied. This isn't the last chapter....but it's close!

Kat

Soundcrush isn't just performing at the festival tonight. The whole entourage is hitting the festival as fans. Since Trace is still adamant that he and I can't appear in public together, he has Tam work us up an incognito look.

Trace has been growing facial hair all week to contribute to his disguise.  He's wearing frayed, loose jean shorts and an oversized tank top that is so subtlty tie-dyed in browns and creams that it looks less like a seventy dollar tank but more like an abused Wal-Mart Special. With his rasta beanie and sunglasses, he looks not at all like the Trace Gallant, hipster-grunge god. But he still looks dirty sexy to me.

Tamara disguises me too, helping me wrap my long hair up in several head cloths, in a style that  mimics dreads without actually being dreadlocks. She chooses an outfit unlike anything I would normally wear--a fringed bikini top, wild paisley bell bottom pants that must be vintage, round hippie sunglasses and tons of bead jewelry. My tats are on display--altering  my persona, too.

When I come out of the house to get in the caravan of SUV's that will ferry us to the festival, Trace and Adam are hanging around in the driveway, bullshitting the drivers. Adam's incognito look is  less contrived than Trace's. He's just removed his edgy bracelets, kept the cargo shorts and pastel t-shirts he's been wearing all weekend, and added a UGA hat and aviator glasses. I smile at him. I like Adam, and he's going through it right now, with Mac.

"Looking all kinds of crazy cool, HellKat," he says.

Trace gives a "Fuck yeah, she does," in agreement.

As I reach Trace and turn my face up for a light he kiss, he says, "Goddamn, Kat. You look so fucking hot. How do you feel about a quickie in the band trailer, when we get to the venue?"

"I'm calling dibs on that trailer," Adam says with a grin, watching Mac make her way toward us. She's gone incognito by abandoning her normal body-hugging clothing and opting for a loose, but obscenely short babydoll dress. I hope she's wearing tiny shorts under there...it's breezy. Her signature rainbow hair is up in a large generic cowboy hat—the kind you might get at a discount store. She's sporting cheap sunglasses and department store flip-flops. I think that's so funny—that Mac's idea of incognito is wearing normal-people accessories.

"Who do you think you are going to be fucking, Preacher?" Mac says to Adam as she stalks past him coolly and loads up in the van without a second glance towards him.

Adam goes from grinny to growly in zero-point-six seconds. He dives in after her. "That's a fucktastic attitude. What are you pissed about now, woman? We were good, just a goddamn hour ago!"

"Don't you fucking talk to me like that, dilhole!" They raise hissing hell, inside the SUV. Trace rolls his eyes, slams the door and says, "Let's go in another one."

"Preacher? What was that about?" I mumble to Trace,  as the driver of the second SUV opens the door for us.

Trace rolls his eyes. "We used to call Adam that back in college, but it always pissed him off. His dad is a minister and we gave Adam shit about being ...traditional. He's come a long way, though. These days...he's just as open-minded as you would expect an LA rock star to be. Mac is playing dirty, pushing that preacher button. He's tryin' to do right by her, and she's acting like he's some kind of...religious oppressor, or something."

"They give me whiplash," I murmur as we load into the second black SUV and relax in the air-conditioning."Is Soundcrush going to survive Madam?"

Trace grunts. "That's a damn good question, KitKat. One I ask myself nearly every day." He plays with a wound-up section of my hair. "I say this with as much love as possible, but fuck Madam. Fuck the whole damn Soundcrush Circle, today. I'm off the clock until 7pm. This afternoon--this is our time—yours and mine. When we get to the festival...let's get lost in the sauce."

That's exactly what we do.

I can't say if it's the festival vibe—the blue sky, warm weather, great music, and energetic crowd—or if I would feel like this anywhere "lost in the sauce" with Trace, but today I am happier than I have ever been.

Right now, Trace is not a rock star. We are fans in the crowd, having the time of our lives. He's my guy, and I'm his girl. We just...groove. We drink domestic beer out of transparent cups and sweat in the sun. We listen to three bands before Strut performs in the early afternoon. When they start their set, we push our way to the front of the crowd and cheer. Row runs the stage like a boss and sings like an angry angel. Strut puts on what Trace says is the best performance of their career. I can see Riley side-stage, simultaneously nodding at Row and chatting with industry types.

Row leans down into the crowd and high-fives Trace. I get a great picture of that. I make a note to send it to Marianne and Matt.

When Strut finishes, Trace and I wander the merch tents and food trucks. He buys a tons of merch  from the vendors--bags and bags of the shit. Not much Soundcrush stuff...more from the indie bands.  He gives it all away to festival goers. 

He buys me a giant pretzel. I eat it greedily, and he licks the mustard off the side of my mouth.

Trace makes sure we are back down front for the first big performance of the late afternoon—an Australian Alt-Rock group called Icarus. They came out around the same time as Soundcrush and are considered the other "pillar" of the Alt-Rock revival. Trace is a big fan, in addition to being friends with band. I love their music, too. As their set wears on, we sing along to their songs. We make out in the middle of the crowd. We laugh and cheer and sway together. Trace holds my beer while I dance around like a lunatic to one of their more rhythmic songs. He takes selfies of us, cheek to cheek and wild-eyed.

We go old school and perpetrate mischief by sneaking backstage during  Icarus territory--before anyone would expect Soundcrush personnel to show up. Eventually, after we help ourselves to the Icarus hospitality bar, we get kicked out by security. They don't recognize Soundcrush's guitarist   in his "disguise."

 Trace never plays the talent card—he good-naturedly lets security walk us out. But he steals a top-shelf bottle of vodka. And a sandwich. 

He just  balls that  bottle and sandwich out in his hand, as security hassles him. 

Back in the crowd, I snap pics of him eating the sandwich, and turning up the vodka. He forwards them to Icarus's frontman and shares the joke—because apparently they are buds.

It's the best day of our first summer together.

Eventually, I have to give my lover up to his fans. I wouldn't mind that, except that while he heads to the band trailer for Tamara to restore his rock star mojo, I find myself backstage, with my pass, searching for someone to hang with.

Finding no one. 

It's not surprising. Everyone in the Soundcrush Circle has a job to do now, and Strut has traded places with Soundcrush—fleeing out into the crowd to party. 

Still, I opted for this. Trace said I could come to the trailer, but I wanted to give the band their normal space. Didn't want to be a clinger.

Pretty soon, I realize most of the women backstage are extremely young like me, and attractive, and sporting media passes. Trace told me that most of the hardcore fangirls these days are bloggers. They post as much about their exploits with musicians "they can't name because of the NDA's" as they blog about the legitimate aspects of the music scene. So I figure most of these women are maybe not really legitimate press.

I'm still incognito—no one recognizes me. They all speak freely, and they confirm my suspicions.

I hear lots of gossip about the Soundcrush guys. Some of it rings true. One girl says that Adam is both the sweetest, but hardest to get with bandmember. All the girls seem to agree that Bodie is the friendliest and best bet. If you make out with him backstage, it's almost a sure thing you are going back to the hotel. I could see that being true, too—Bodie's frenetic energy makes him quick to decide on things.

 One girl says Leed is the best lay, another girl says Trace is better. They all seem to agree that Leed likes fun blondes and Trace is the one most likely to have an actual conversation with a girl before bedding her, but lately he has gotten completely shady—all talk and no action. One girl says he's thrown by the whole Matt del Marco paternity thing and probably off his game. Another lovely young woman figures that "Ballard Bitch" probably has him pussy-whipped.

"She can't have him that whipped," a leggy, tan, platinum blonde with a boob job and a media pass says. "He never takes her anywhere, never posts on her social media. The publicist still says no comment on their 'friendship.' He's probably bored with her already. Trace is not the commitment type."

I turn away from her and roll my eyes while I scan the food table. This hate is nothing new. I've heard this same thing several times  from catty girls this summer. I've even overheard a couple of the WITCHes saying the same thing. 

I just ignore it. They are only half wrong anyway. I don't see Trace getting "bored" with me anytime soon, but he does have commitment issues. That's for sure.

The same mean girl corners me by the hospitality table.

She looks me up and down. Her eyes linger on my generic backstage pass and she says, "Oh, did you win a contest or something?"

Contest? No Girly. I won the freakin' jackpot.

"Or something," I smile, eating an olive off a relish tray.

"You definitely suited up to stand out," she gestures at my hippie-chic ensemble and my henna tats. I say nothing. This girl, in her skin tight dress with cutouts, could hardly be accused of trying to blend in. 

"You'll be wanting Leed, dressed like that," she continues.  Her teeth are perfect, her smile should be nice. But it's not.

"Oh, I don't know..." I play along. "I think Trace is probably my type, but I bet they are all nice guys."

"Honey, don't bother. I'm taking Leed and Trace tonight. They like to share."

I giggle now. The idea is beyond bizarre to me. Leed and Trace are so competitive, I bet they can't even share an umbrella in a rainstorm. I couldn't imagine them sharing a woman in a virtual downpour of fangirls. "Ya think?" is all I say.

"Oh, I know," she says.

She whips out her phone, and proves me wrong. 

The pictures are...graphic.

I have to fight to keep the beer and vodka and pretzel and olive on the inside of my stomach, because they all want to come violently rushing out. I'm staring at pictures of her topless, sitting on Trace's lap. He's shirtless and he looks completely stoned or completely lusty. It's hard to tell which. He's touching her as she looks up at Leed, her hands placed on Leed's bare stomach.

I don't even want to know who took the picture.

"Of course I had to sign an NDA. They only let you leave with pictures after a few times, when they know they can trust you. They like loyalty, you know." She waves a hand at the many beautiful girls with media passes. Then she gives me a piteous look. "With so many proven performers, it might be hard for you to get in the club tonight, honey. Don't hold your breath."

I say nothing. I'm not holding my breath, I'm trying to keep breathing so I don't throw up. 

I thought meeting Molly was bad. But this...seeing the pictures of Trace's touring lifestyle? Is that what Trace really likes—what he's really like?

I'm still breathing through my nausea when the mean girl completely loses interest in bragging to me. She adjusts her rack, flips her hair and strides away.

No surprise...here comes the band.

They really do look amazing—like one of those slow-mo movies scenes. Mac and Leed lead the pack—stalking out front like the killers they are, faces bright with perfect make-up accentuation and their go-time enthusiasm. Adam is a little ways behind—his transformation from the casual Southern Boy to brooding Rock Star is truly unbelievable. Of course, maybe his argument with Mac has something to do with the dark look. Trace and Bodie bring up the rear—laughing together like they are best-for-last. Trace is clean-shaven and shit-cool. Bodie is.. tight.

The Mean Girl heads straight for Leed. Mac flanks away with an eye-roll and Adam follows her like it's a practiced maneuver. Several other girls are approaching Bodie and Trace, but Bodie absorbs them all with hugs and grins. Trace tries to glide past Leed and Mean Girl, his eyes on me, but Mean Girl steps in front of him. 

There's a short exchange in which Trace shakes his head and looks to Leed. Leed grins, gives the room a vague scan in which he clearly registers my location, though he pretends not to see me—god, he has absolutely no fucking ability to lie or pretend—and hooks an arm around Mean Girl's shoulders, delaying her, as Trace comes  toward me.

He sidles up to the hospitality bar and grabs himself a soda. He pretends to look over the food table as he speaks to me.

"Hey." His voice is cool, distant. He doesn't even look at me. Of course not. He's in rock star mode. I'm...nobody to him, in that world. Unofficial. Unrecognized. Off the record.

It's not like I didn't expect it—his dramatic dial-back of affection. It's just that...I didn't expect it to hurt this much. Between his coldness and the images burned into my brain of him, Leed, and Mean Girl...I clench my fist. 

The urge to hurt him is there. I want to slap him. Harder than I slapped him for Ashlynn. But I won't. I've made that mistake too many times.

"Hey." I say. "So...have a good show," I try to move away, but he stops me, wrapping his hand around my wrist.

"Are you okay? You look...upset."

I take a huge swallow of my beer, not trusting my voice. After several long gulps, I can speak."It's not very fun, listening to the fangirls. I think...next time I'll just hang out...somewhere they're not."

He pulls my round sunglasses off my face. He looks very concerned. "Somebody say something to you? Who?"

My eyes go involuntarily to Leed and the Mean Girl. He follows my gaze.

"Linley? Are you fucking kidding me? She has a goddamn NDA." He's glaring at her and Leed. Leed catches his gaze and raises his eyebrows, then bears down on Linley, speaking rapidly to her. She looks over her shoulder at me and Trace—glaring at me.

"Trace..." I want my glasses back. They give me a measure of armor. But he's holding them in his hand, like he might break them, as he stares down Linley. All I want to do is shove him, but I know that's wrong. That hurts us. Instead, I find words. "You really think her goddamn NDA is the issue here? I had to look at pictures of...shit I did not want to see. This is one of those situations where I want to fly off the handle and hit you. But I'm not going to do that this time. I'm really fucking upset, okay? It's really hard for me to be confronted with girls you've been with...especially...fuck...shit like that..."I trail off, flinging a hand at Leed and Linley, clenching my fists, keeping all expression off my face.

Can't make a scene. Can't draw attention. I'm not here, officially. I don't exist, in Trace's world.

Trace shocks me by pulling me into a tight embrace. His hold is hard, but not angry. It's like..a shield wall around me. He stays rigid for a  long time--until  I relax against him.

His hand reaches around to the back of my head . He pulls me closer, my ear to his lips. "I am so fucking sorry. Kat, I hope you believe, all that crazy fangirl shit is so over for me. You are the only one for me—it's just you and me. Solid. Sure. And I've been so fucking wrong, for the way I have been treating you. Fuck this shit—people throwing shade at you, because I make the space for it. I won't fucking stand for it."

As he releases me, he gently shakes out the scarves binding my hair. He looks at me critically. He grabs a napkin and blots my face. Then he reaches down, crushes a strawberry on a food tray, and smears the crushed color on my lips.

"What are you doing?" I ask, totally confused. It doesn't make me feel great, that Trace thinks I need a touch-up right now. Jesus, I've been partying with him for six solid hours. Not only that, I've had to suffer through fangirl hate. He seriously cares about my sweat-shine and lack of lipstick right now?

"Kat, I just want you to...feel confident right now."

"Oh brother," I whisper, "I did, until you destroyed my confidence. Say something much nicer than that before I murder you."

His eyes widen in alarm but then he puts our foreheads together. "You are—hands down—the loveliest girl in the world to me. I'm way fucking in love with you. If you don't believe that, you don't know me. But the thing I'm about to do...well...you'll appreciate the retouch. I could say a long, explanatory thing. It comes down to...do you trust me, Kat?"

I consider for a long minute. "Fuck me, I do."

"Then follow my lead." He holds out a hand for me as he tilts his head toward Leed and Linley. I bite my lip. I don't want to go anywhere near her, but even as angry as I am at her—and at Trace—I love him. 

To pull away from him now, is to pull away from the boy that I spent the day with. The boy I spent my childhood with.My Trace, my partner-in-crime.

I put my hand in his.

He smiles his wicked, bad boy smile. "When I squeeze your hand, you bring the HellKat, okay?"

I nod, still utterly confused. 

OK. What do you think happens next? I can't wait to hear theories! Comment please!

And the other Wattpad stuff too, please. Voting helps me. Following/listing helps you know when I post updates!

P.S. I'm thinking of adding a few bonus scenes after the conclusion of EPIC. This is the place where you READERS totally get to choose!!! What scenes would you like to see that don't necessarily impact the plot of EPIC, or it's sequel Urgent? Would you like to see Riley and Row? Or Tamara--cause you know she's got a side story, right? Do you want to see Ashlynn hitting bottom? Or something completely off the wall--like who in the hell Bodie actually is? Or Ben? Make yourselves heard, friends!