Chapter 19: Rock Stars Trash Hotel Rooms

Trace

I'm lucky I don't get arrested on the way down 85 to the Benz. Somewhere after I hit the perimeter, the traffic starts to thicken, and only the idea that I might cause a crash that hurts other people causes me to slow down, but I'm still, jerking the lambo roughly to weave through the traffic.

I'm furious with myself. All that shit I spouted at Colin was very hypocritical considering I'm the one that started the altercation and sent Kat sprawling on her ass.

I know what I'm made of—what we are all made of, really. We are all just animals. There are only two real reactions to pressure—fight or flight. Some of us push forward in the face of conflict, some of us back away. My natural reaction is to come out swinging, but it's like I told Colin—I'm never going be that guy that hurts somebody I care about. I've spent a lot of time, retraining myself to walk away.

Or in this instance, speed away at a hundred-fifty miles per hour in a rented Lamborghini.

I couldn't stay there. There was no point, really. I'm not going to be able to convince Kat about Colin. You can't drag someone out of a situation before they are ready to go. You would think I would have learned this by now—with my mom, and with Ashlynn. Apparently I'm a slow learner.

Kat just doesn't see what I see in her boyfriend—the potential for abuse. Maybe I'm wrong about him. Maybe he'll never become violent. Maybe he'll outgrow some of those control issues he obviously leans towards. Maybe he'll self-correct. I do it, maybe so can he. I don't know. I just know, he's got issues.

Yeah, I know, because I got 'em, too.

Just now, Kat hurt me. She blind-sided me. She put my back against the wall, and there's no way I could stay there and have it out with her about my dad. Fight or flight. I had to choose flight.

Christ, how could she do that to me? Just spew that shit about my father across the room at me like that? I knew she knew. I thought she also knew, I can't deal with it, on that level. The verbal level. I have to deal with it through the music. It's always been that way. It's not just my career. It's my passion, my therapy, my outlet.

Music has always been my lifeline.

So let's go make some fucking music, yeah?

I roll up in the venue and security is all over the lambo. I take off my hat and sunglasses.

"I'm the talent," I say.

They look at my busted face skeptically and ask me for a pass, and for once, I act like a douche about it.

"I don't need a fucking pass, man! The whole goddamn world knows me. What the fuck? Your prep didn't include knowing who you are working for tonight?"

Suddenly somebody is running up with a picture of the band on their phone and apologies are being made. "Sorry, Mr. Gallant. They are glad to let me pass, so I'll stop yelling at them.

"Nah, fuck it. It's cool." I shoot back, aware that my response probably makes me look like an even bigger douche. Well, Leed can't always be the bad guy. I'm just wound so fucking tight. I need a guitar in my hands, before I yell at some other poor bastard whose just trying to do his job and absolutely doesn't deserve my dumb ass to redirect my anger onto them.

The crew's setting up, Mac and the guys aren't here yet. I find a bathroom, and do what I can to clean up. The stage is set up, all my guitars are prepped. Without a word to any of the crew, I walk out there, pick up one of the acoustics and start playing. There's a little scramble with the sound techs, because they aren't sure what they hell I'm doing, and they are wondering if I want them to adjust the mics on the acoustic, but I just wave them off, and pace the stage, losing myself in a series of songs, ignoring the fact that my knuckles are still bleeding. After a while, Mac and all the guys arrive, along with the various management and PA's.

I don't stop playing. I ignore them all. The band hangs around on the side stage, watching me like I'm an animal in the wild. Dawes is running his mouth to anyone that will listen, getting more and more irritated with the lack of response. He leaves side stage and heads out into the stadium where the sound techs are—probably asking them what the hell is going on with me.

After a conversation with the lead sound guy Andy, which involves Dawes gesturing at me and Andy mostly shrugging, Dawes starts for the stage, seconds from jumping in my shit.

Leed comes out from side stage and takes the mic, gesturing to the techs to turn it on.

"Stand down, Dawes," Leed mumbles into the mic. "We've got this." Bodie's on his kit, kicking the bass already. Adam is getting strapped. Mac pats me very lightly on the shoulders as she slides past. Leed turns to me and squints.

"Wanna talk about it?" he booms into the mic.

I shake my head. He rolls his red head back and laughs, his voice echoing out into the emptying stadium.

"Thank fuck. Nobody wants to hear you whine about your love life anyway. Let's jam, man!"

We play the whole damn set. They play for me, and I play for my sanity.

By the time we are done, I'm feeling the love, not the anger. Even though we've got our petty issues, every one of these guys—and yes, Mac is one of the guys, too—every one is my family, and we love each other. We're there for each other. Sometimes, the best way we are there for each other is the simplest—the music.

Not one of my bandmates complains that we all need a shower before we even get to makeup and wardrobe. Nobody asks me about my face, or my knuckles. I tolerantly suffer through Tamara's makeup corrections. One of the roadie tapes my hands for me—it's not the first time he's dealt with a brawling guitarist. When he's done, I wander off to a quiet corner alone, and take an internal check of my temperature.

Okay, step one was calm the fuck down. Accomplished. Step two is to reach out to Kat, now that I'm calm, and fix my screw-up.

I try to call her. She doesn't answer. That's fair.

I'm well aware of the rock-star stereotype, and the fact that I keep my guard up, reinforcing it. Most people around me would tell you that when it comes to women— I don't go back for seconds, and I sure as hell don't ask twice. I'm not sure if Kat knows that's just a facade, and that she always has been and always will be well inside my perimeter. If she were to feel pressured by my request to get rid of him abruptly; if he were to hurt her because of me...I will fuck his world up.

I think a long time about the text I send. Finally I go with:

I'm sorry about the way I left, but I'm still in this.

Can I send a car for you?

If you need time, we can talk tomorrow.

No response. I try to take it as a good sign. Surely if she were in trouble, she'd send me a 911 text. Or actually call 911.

Or, she wouldn't. Did my mom ever seek help? Did I?

Then the guys call me over for the pre-show toast as the sun is setting and show is rising. I'm still checking my damn phone as a roadie straps on my guitar. When I step out onto the stage, forty thousand fans are cheering and flashing their phone cameras to welcome my band. It's an amazing feeling, the energy of this crowd. I snap a picture of the twilight throng of joyous people. I wish Kat were here to experience it with me—this massive energy is a much different feel from the Fox last night.

"Hey Atlanta, it's amazing to be home with y'all!" Leed yells as Bodie and Adam are pumping out the rhythm for our opening song.

The crowd roars. I miss my intro, because I'm sending Kat the picture.

Adam walks over. "That's two nights in a row, man."

I shrug. Yep, I'm totally unprofessional. What the fuck do you expect? I'm a twenty-three year old rock star and my head's all up in a girl right now.

Leed is already covering my ass, and capitalizing with the performance.

"Hang on friends. it looks like Trace needs to send a damn text—you mind giving him a second, Atlanta?"

The crowd roars again. One loud-ass fan screams "Where's Little Sister?"

The crowd takes up the chant. Little Sister. Little Sister.

I step up to the mic. "Not here tonight," I say, as I type on my phone.

I send Kat the picture and the message:

40k people are asking about you. I don't know what to tell them. U OK?

Adam steps up to his mic, keeping the little stunt going. "Who do you think he's texting?"

The crowd roar goes on and on. Leed laughs and encourages them, chanting Little Sister with them.

Kat's response is immediate this time:

I'm ok. Tell them I said Hi. Me coming to the hotel tonight is not gonna work. I'll talk to you tomorrow. Have a great show.

Fuck, I'm relieved she texted back. I'm disappointed that she's not coming to the hotel tonight, but there are ways I can deal with that.

Leed can see my phone from where he's standing. "Hang on, hang on. Little Sister texted back," he purrs into the mic. The crowd quiets as he pats his hand to stop the chant. Adam and Bodie continue to open our song.

"What's she say?" Another fan screams from the crowd.

Lead walks over to me and leans on my shoulder, making a show of taking my phone and reading the text. We grin at each other, hamming it up, close talking, like we are making jokes. On the inside, I do not feel like grinning.

I pocket my phone and hoist my guitar. "Don't say a fucking thing that's gonna blow-back on her, Leed."

Leed laughs, and slaps me on the back. "I got you, brother. I'm not always an asshole, you know. Anyway, you'll get the girl back tomorrow. We're fucking rock stars, we always get the girl!"

I'm not sure he's right, but at least I feel a little more like laughing now. And I've got to get up for this hometown crowd. They deserve my best. "Hells yeah," I shrug and light into my intro.

He struts forward "Little Sister says hi, Atlanta! Now, Let's get this fucking show started!"

*****************************************

The show was fantastic. Bodie, Adam, Mac, and Leed were on it, and despite my rough start, so was I. I did what I do—what I've always done...take the bullshit and turn it into magic with a guitar. We kept forty thousand people on their feet, caught up in the world we craft, for nearly two hours.

We come off stage high, and a big show like this means a big after party. Lots of shots later, we are all still flying in the limo. I don't even remember the elevator to the suites. Everyone is headed to party in Leed's suite, but I turn towards my room, fuzzy but determined. Won't be the first time I've ever drunk-dialed my girl. I just need to hear her voice, make sure she's okay.

I call her twice on the way down the hall to my room. She doesn't answer. I get nervous. I text her:

Hey, babe. Can I still call you babe?

Nothing.

It's nearly one in the morning. Maybe she went to bed.

Fuck. Maybe she went to bed with him.

The idea gets stuck in my drunk brain and completely derails me. I go insane with jealousy.

I swear to God, I didn't mind the idea that Kat would have boyfriends. I wanted her to. I wanted her to date guys her own age, to figure out all that early dating drama shit. I never, ever had a single thought in my head about being her first, or her saving herself for me, or any stupid John Hughes romantic teen bullshit like that.

But now, I'm pacing in the living room of my suite, wondering if Colin is still with Kat. I pour a drink into a fancy crystal glass, and knock it back. I pour another—a full glass this time--and pace some more, gulping it down. Knowing what I'm almost sure that I know—that Kat's never been with anybody—the idea that she might be amending that very situation with Dickwad tonight—the idea that I—how did she put it? blew in like a damn freight train—that I might have created a pressure situation for her to prove herself to him—

Suddenly there's a loud crash. It takes me a minute to realize it was the crystal glass in my hand, shattering against the wall. Next a lamp flies off the table, sailing a few feet and crashing on the floor. The lamp smash I am fully aware and in control of.

Huh, weirdly satisfying. I see why Leed liked trashing his room in the weeks after finding out one of his best buddies was boning his sister. I'm advancing on the TV when a feminine voice says, "Can I play?"

An empty Perrier bottle sails end over end into the flat dark screen I had every intention of pulling from the wall. The screen shatters, glass spraying everywhere.

For a minute, I stare stupidly. Then I laugh. I admit it. That was impressive.

Without turning around, I say, "Hell, Ash. I didn't know you had an arm like that." Only Ashlynn would throw a water bottle. She rarely drinks alcohol. Makes her head hurt worse.

She comes out of the second bedroom, barefoot, in a gauzy, strappy, too-big sun dress. She shrugs. "There are lots of things you don't know about me, darling." She slides onto the couch like she's melting onto it and lights a joint, taking a long drag and tipping her head back on the sofa. Honestly, I'm relieved to see her smoking weed. She could be doing—has done—much harder. The weed might be a halfway decent compromise, if she won't go to treatment. But I know it's likely that weed isn't her drug of choice right now—just all she could score. She didn't have the contacts for anything more than that when she lived here.

She rolls her head to look at me, "Raging rockstar is not your typical MO. What's wrong? Unhappy marriage?" She laughs.

I'm not going argue with Ashlynn tonight. Not even a little. The urge to smash shit drains away as I stare down at her. Ashlynn makes me depressed, not angry.

I swerve over to the piece of furniture that serves as the bar. I stand there a minute, trying to decide whether to get another liquor drink or a water. In my drunken state, a beer seems like a logical compromise. I stumble back over to the mini-fridge.

I plop down on the couch beside Ashlynn and crack it open. "Why still here? Change your mind about Denver?" I ask hopefully.

She shakes her head. I eye her. The fact that she's here is extremely out of character.

She takes another drag and waves a hand. "Just...too lazy to get my own place tonight."

More like too high, I suspect.

"How did you get in here?" I ask.

"You are always the goddamn Inquisition, you know that?" There's no heat in her words. She takes another drag. "I stole your keycard from Riley earlier."

"Nice."

"Addicts steal, Trace. It's what we do."

That's new—labeling herself like that. I don't know if that's a good thing—like she's admitting her problem—or a bad thing—like she's accepting it as a lifestyle.

She looks at me again. "Seriously. What's wrong with you, Trace?" She gestures at the lamp. "I've never seen you like that. Not even when you are pissed at me."

"Just...feel like shit." I murmur. It's true when they say jealousy is the green-eyed monster. I've never felt as horrible in my life, as imagining Kat following through on the night she had planned last night. Imagining her underneath him. Christ, maybe it was all over. Maybe he was holding her now, just like I held her last night. I'm going crazy, unable to know the truth. I shouldn't have let my own issues drive me from her. I should have planted my ass on her couch, blown off my show, and refused to leave her with Colin. I know she doesn't want him like she wants me. She walked away from him last night after a year with him. She burned in my arms, in my bed last night, after more than two years apart. And I just walked away from her when she was asking me to stay.

I hadn't forgotten what happened the last time Kat felt like I was rejecting her. She got all kinds of wrong with a bottle of tequila and some jock that could be Colin's doppleganger.

"God, I think I'm going to be sick." I try to sit up, but Ashlynn pulls me back by the shoulder.

"Here," she puts the joint in my hand.

I feel a little rush of pleasure at the crackling sound and the first tangy warmth, but one hit doesn't do much. This is not as strong, not as flavorful as the legal dispensaries. "Not quite like back home, huh?"

She shrugs. She's not much of a connoisseur. I take a couple more hits, before I start to feel better.

"Thanks," I pass it back.

"Something you want to tell me?" she asks.

I crack an eye at her. "Like what?"

"Well, I am your next of kin. You're always bitching at me about keeping you informed."

"And you never do," I retort.

"Yeah, but if you're sick or something, somebody should know." she says. Oh, I get it. There's still a tiny bit of Dr. Ashlynn left in the addict.

I wave her off. "Nothing like that. I'm drunk and I'm...ahhh...I fucked up, okay? I think I made a bad mistake. So bad I'm sick over it."

"Something happen with Kat?" she asks. "I thought...I thought maybe she'd be here, with you."

I lift my head and look at her. Christ. Of course. That's why she's still here. To see Kat.

"No, I took her home. I bet she'd like to hear from you."

"You're not scared that I'll tell her about us?"

"There is nothing to tell except I stupidly thought I could save you from yourself," I say sharply. "Unless you lie to her."

"I wouldn't do that. I do remember our vows, you know. I promised to keep us secret and that I would try to get better, and that I would be honest with you. That's all you asked from me. I can at least keep two out of three. The secret, and the honesty."

"That's not what you said earlier."

"I was hurting," she said.

"That's the problem. When you're hurting, you'll do anything to score." I point out. "You don't try to get better. I want to trust you, Ashlynn—I want to get us all on the same page, but I don't know how, because you won't help me."

She takes another drag. "Yeah, I'm the fucking worst."

I'm surprised by the bitterness in her voice. She must not be very high. The last few interactions I have with Ashlynn, she's been so high she's completely emotionless. I sigh wearily. "I'm sorry, Ashlynn. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I just meant, this is a fucked up situation, you and me and Kat. I thought maybe it was time to put everything out there, but I was wrong. It's better to keep it separate."

"You really still have feelings for her, after all this time? After two and half years? After all the other girls?"

"I don't want to talk about Kat with you. I'm sorry Ash, but I don't. We can talk about anything else. About you. About how I can be here for you better. Or about nothing at all. About the fucking weather, if you want. But not about me and Kat."

She just shakes her head,and silently passes me back the joint. I finish it and lay my head back on the couch. I drift off. Sometime later, I wake and find Ashlynn's head in my lap. I stare down at her, wondering how my life got this fucked up this fast. I shift her off and go find a blanket and pillow for her before falling into my bed.

When I wake in the morning, it's actually afternoon. Ashlynn is gone.

I have to be on a private jet headed to New Orleans in about three hours. Fuck.

Not alot of time to work things out with Kat, but it's my top priority. I go in search of my phone, to call her. I must have left it in main room.

My heart pounds at the message I see there. There's still no response from Kat, but there's one message from Ashlynn, from hours ago.

Kat had an "accident" last night. Your "mistake"?

I text back:

WHAT?!?!? WHAT accident?

Adrenaline is already starting to course through me. Kat was fine when I left her. If she had an accident, my money is on Colin as the fucking source.

When Ashlynn doesn't text back, I call her, but she doesn't answer. Fuck, she texted hours ago. I don't know if she went to see Kat, or if Kat called Ashlynn, or if Ashlynn's just high and fucking with me. She's probably scored real drugs by now, and the tentative connection I had with her last night is broken again. That's why she's not calling me back.

I call Kat, over and over. No answer.

I'm already down the hall to Riley's room banging on the door. I need a fucking car. And probably I'll need him to bail me out of jail.

Oh wow. Seems like Trace and Ashlynn don't exactly always hate each other, huh? More importantly..what's happened to Kat? What is Trace going to do next?

Psst. Soundcrush fans. That little vote button is right there. Just sayin'. Help a writer out! Thanks!