Chapter 44: Rock Stars Make Miracles

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, and I go upstairs to change into tennis shoes.

Ten minutes later we are standing eight doors down from my house, behind the Emerson's house, staring up at our old climbing tree. The rain has stopped but the tree is dripping, it's leaves springing in release as they yield collected water.

A large plop of water lands in my eye and I gasp in surprise and then giggle. Trace smiles and wipes beneath my eye. "I love the sentiment but this is a bad idea, Kat. The tree is going to be slippery as hell. Let's do this another time. Why don't you go put on a pretty little dress that's going to torture me, and let me take you downtown for a nice dinner? We'll stop buy a jewelry store, and I'll buy you some fucking ridiculously large diamond earrings, or whatever you want." He pinches my earlobe. "Bling would be a nice start to me earning your forgiveness, yeah?"

That irritates me. Ashlynn likes jewelry, way more than me. I wonder how much bling he bought her, over the last two and half years. "You can't buy my forgiveness, asshole."

He frowns slightly. "How long are you going to end every sentence by calling me an asshole?"

"Depends," I shrug and tilt my head toward our climbing tree. "Are we doing this?"

He puts his hands on his hips and toes the ground. He glares at me. "No. As much as I want to do whatever the fuck you want to earn your forgiveness, this just isn't safe. It's too wet. I don't want you to get hurt."

Ha. Too late for that. Breaking my leg falling out of this tree would be nothing compared to the way you squished my heart in your guitar-playing fingers. I sling the sport sack with my PB&J's and sodas onto my back. "I'll climb by myself. Go away, pussy," I sing the words sweetly, and turn away from him, and step up into the low lying branches.

The first three branches are easily claimed. The fourth will require me to pull-up and hoist a leg over. Trace knows this well.

"Shit-fuck-fire, you are the most stubborn girl I've ever met," he snarls from below as I start hauling myself up to the fourth branch. "Wait! Just wait a goddamn second!"

He's up the tree in a matter of seconds, beside me, bracing his body against the trunk and pushing me up by the waist. I sit, wrapping my legs around the branch, and reaching down for him. He automatically takes my hands with one of his, his other hand grappling the branch. I lean back, using my body weight to pull him up. We continue, like this, him hoisting me above him, me bracing, leveraging, pulling to aid his ascent. We've climbed this tree a hundred times. We know exactly how to do it, and it feels good to work together, to accomplish something. For a few minutes I forget that I'm angry with him.

Trace is right, it's slippery. The higher we go, the leafier and wetter it is. We're about halfway up when my foot slips off a branch, and I correct by plopping down on the branch like it's a horse. Trace eases down beside me, scooting me backwards against the tree trunk.

He leans forward on both hands dipping to catch my gaze. "Please Kat, this is high enough."

"We aren't nearly as high as we used to go."

"I know," he whispers. "But back then I was an idiot, and I didn't realize how precious you were to me."

I smile at him; I can't help it. He's actually a little bit scared for me, and it's cute. He smiles back. That feels good; sharing a simple positive interaction. I wiggle the sack off my back and we decide to split a sandwich and soda. I hold the sandwich, he holds the can; that way we can each keep a handhold on the tree for balance.

"So you know why I wanted to climb this tree?" I ask casually, and after he tips the can to give me a drink. "Because I want to talk—in a situation where I can't knock you on your ass and you can't back me up against a wall with your sexiness."

He laughs. "You always did go to extremes." He chins for a bite of the sandwich. A little jelly dribbles on his lip. I want so badly to lick it off and yet I don't. My emotions are running wild, and in opposition. It's truly weird, being so angry with someone you love madly. I settle for wiping the jelly with my thumb and popping it in my mouth.

He chews slowly, watching me suck my thumb. His gaze is different than it was before. I thought he looked at me with longing before, but I realize his look was more like wishful thinking. Now, he's very clear about what he wants, and its plain in his gaze. He wants to fucking devour me.

"Where are you staying tonight?" I ask abruptly.

He shrugs. "Here. Your dad said it was fine. I'm assuming you want me to take the guest room."

I nod, covering my discomfort with a bite of the sandwich. Christ. I'm never going to get to sleep tonight.

He smirks at me. "That what you want to talk about? Tonight's sleeping arrangements?"

"No. I want you to explain it to me, Trace. How you ended up married to Ashlynn."

The smirk drains from his face. I hear the can popping as he squeezes it, and his other hand picks restlessly at the tree bark. "Everything started like I told you. I kept running into her in LA. Every time she was worse off, and with a shittier piece of shit. That night we went to Vegas, she was with the shittiest yet—this D-list Hollywood douche promoter type.

"It was my fault she met him—he was somebody Dawes trades the kind of favors I don't want to know about with. The guy's like forty and has probably snorted his weight in coke. I saw Ashlynn doing lines with him. Then later, I saw them arguing. He was trying to get her to ride him on a couch in the VIP section of the place we were." His eyes flit to me, "Even for LA, that's pretty fucking crazy. Of course she said no, but he was..." Trace grimaces, his eyes flashing and his mouth tightening. "It was bad. He had his dick out, and he wouldn't let go of her legs, even though she was trying to move away.

"I went over and ripped her off the guy, and started shit-talking the dude. Telling him he could do me a favor and if she was willing, he could lent me his bunny for the night. Of course she was willing, to get away from him. He was thrilled because he's a motherfucking asshole that would easily trade any woman he was with to a celebrity just to hold a favor in his pocket. I pretended to take Ashlynn to the bathroom to you know...anyway, I paid the attendant to kick everyone out. I lit into her for hanging around that guy, and she popped back. We went at it—the way we always used to argue...exhaustively.." he gestures behind us, towards my house, and his old one, to indicate the way they were in the our childhood. "We had a terrible fight. Finally she'd just had enough and she was going to walk away from me. I grabbed her waist and the dress she was wearing sort of...malfunctioned," he looked away. "There were bruises on her everywhere." He gestured over my chest and stomach. "And bite marks—real bite marks. Even some marks...I dunno, maybe some kind of burns? I...I couldn't fucking stand it. God knows, she wasn't my favorite person growing up, but she was a good girl, and she was your sister and I...I couldn't fucking stand it, because she was only there because of me...she was drugged up because of me...she only met those fuckers in LA because of me...you see, right?"

I nod, blinking back tears.

"So I asked her to come live with me. For a while, until she got straightened out. She laughed. She told me I would kick her out inside a week, or worse send her back home. She told me about the conservatorship, then. I promised I wouldn't kick her out or send her home. We argued some more...by then I was just fucking...crazed, you know? You have no idea how exasperating she is, coked up, and I...Kat, I'm not going to lie. I was blitzed. Very, very drunk. It just...I don't know where it came from. I said...'Fine, we'll get hitched in Vegas. That way you'll know, I can't kick you out and your parents can't take your rights away.' She said she I was bluffing. She said I would never go through with it. That just pissed me off more. You know how I am..." he looked away embarrassed.

"You hate to back down," I say softly.

He nods, "Especially drunk. It happened fast, after that. We took a limo to Vegas, I drank some more, while I got the lawyers on the pre-nup. We stopped at a diner. I started to approach sober, and that scared the shit out of me, so I doubled up when we got back in the car. I tried to make her sober up, to sign the pre-nup, but I'm sure she wasn't—I was hardly a judge of her sobriety, as drunk as I was.

"Somewhere along the way I bought her a ring...we were at the Palace, probably in one of the shops at the Forum, you know..." he looks down into the trees. "I honestly don't remember that part. Or getting into the suite, or whoever brought the pre-nup papers. But I remember signing them, and somebody was there to notarize them and take them away, and I remember the vows," he looks into my eyes. "Because I was fucking terrified to promise anything I knew I couldn't deliver. I vowed to be her friend. I vowed to help her get clean, and take care of her until she could take care of herself. I vowed to be honest with her. That's all. I never vowed to love her or be a real husband to her, or be faithful in a romantic way. It was never like that. I did kiss her on the lips when we they said "kiss your bride." I dunno maybe a few other times--but just LA style. Like I kiss Mac at award shows if we win.  We never slept together, never had any other romantic contact." He shrugged. "Well, a couple times we fell asleep on the couch together, watching movies. One time I woke up and held her for a few minutes, pretending it was you," he smiled regretfully. "But that's it. I swear."

Even though the facts aren't as bad as they could be, I feel sick, hearing the story. Still, I believe him. "I know," I say. "Ashlynn said the same thing. Like the exact same thing."

He looks shocked. "You talked to her?"

I nod. "Yesterday. She called. She apologized. She told me she wanted to make things right. She told me...she said..." I squeeze my eyes shut and my mouth feels dry. I gesture for another swig of soda. He tips it into my mouth. "Trace, I think it was more complicated for her. She said that's why she left. Because she knew you would never feel for her, like she was starting to feel for you."

He meets my eyes. "I know she has feelings for me, but it's not real love. Love goes two ways."

Well, he told me what I wanted to know. There's no pointing in making him go through it all again. I'm done talking about Ashlynn...for now. I cock my head at him. "Love goes two ways. That sounds like a song title."

He smirks as he puts a hand on my thigh. "Maybe it is. I've been writing this week. All about you. Love songs. I could play some for you, tonight, if you want."

I watch his long graceful fingers, gently resting on my tan skin. My body is a traitorous slut when it comes to Trace Gallant. My inner fangirl would very much like for him to play her those songs. And she's also very displeased that his fingers are about ten inches short of where she would like them to be right now.

Fortunately my inner fangirl is not running the show. Self-respecting Kat is all up in this tree right now. That might change though, if Trace's sexy songs summon my inner fangirl to the surface. I still Trace's hand, lacing his fingers in mine. "Or we could just watch a movie," I says lightly.

He rubs his thumb through my palm. Holy Mother of God, does every nerve in my body route directly between my legs? Everywhere he touches me sends a shock to my already throbbing fangirl button. I gently pull back my hand, busying myself with putting the  empty can back in my sport sack.

"We should climb down, while the light is still good." The fireflies are starting to rise, twilight will fall in a matter of minutes.

Trace shimmies closer to me on the branch, so that he can touch my face. He pinches my chin, and I meet his eyes. "I was going to tell you everything, you know. Before we...before things went any further with us. I swear."

I meet his eyes. I cup the cheek I slapped earlier. I can't help myself. I've been wanting to soothe it since the moment I struck him. "I know. That's why you wouldn't sleep with me, even though I practically begged you. And on our date...you didn't want to go to the club, you wanted to go back to the hotel and talk..."

"Yeah. I had decided I was going to tell you then, but you were rollin' and..."

"You didn't want it to go all kinds of awful like it did."

"Ben told me about your anxiety attack." Trace voice was hoarse. "I'm sorry, Kat. I'm so fucking sorry. For all of it. I wish I had never taken you to New Orleans. I wish I had told you straight up that first night after the Fox."

"I'm not sorry," I say softly. "Up until this moment, I thought you should have told me that first night. But if you had, I would have walked away. We wouldn't be sitting here right now. I would have slept with Colin that night, for all the wrong reasons. We would both still be in the wrong relationships, and Ashlynn would still be high, and she and my parents would still be estranged. I would still be living in a blue room. So I guess, a lot of good has come from the hell you put me through." I shrug and give him another small smile. "But I still kinda hate you."

He returns the careful smile. "You said you hated me that first night—while I was trying to convince you to get in the limo. Later, you slept in my bed." There's a devilish suggestion there.

"Huh," I scoff, patting his cheek with a gentle caress. "How about we see if we can get through a movie without my hand itching to slap you?"

"I can take care of that itching sensation." He grabs my hand and voraciously licks my open palm. God, his tongue is...wet, and thick...and...

Nope. Shut-up, Inner Fangirl.

"Gross! Get off, freak!" I squeal, jerking away and pushing at him at the same time.

"Christ!" He grabs my shoulders, steadying us both as we nearly topple off the branch. "Shit! You're going to fucking kill us, Crazy!"

I giggle. "Well, I did kinda decide you can't kill me if I kill you first."

He rolls his eyes. "Don't even. I'm tryna sing you love songs, and you throwin' lines from break-up/rebound songs at me."

"It's a good song. You know, maybe Soundcrush should feature a little hip-hop—"

Trace puts a hand in my face. "No. If we are going to argue music, all hell will break loose, and we are getting down out of this tree first."

My Inner Fangirl bursts to the surface. I return the lick to his palm, deliberate, with as much flattened tongue as I can. He does not pull away, or call me a freak.

"Get it, girl," he challenges, his lips staying slightly parted as he watches my open mouth intently.

"Yuck. Your hand tastes bitter, like tree sap," I laugh and push his hand away, slipping down to the branch below.

Whooo, Kat gonna make that boy work for it, huh?

Seriously though, Kat's still hurt. I wonder how long their miracle will take....stay tuned! Let me know how you liked their reunion. I think Kat feels bad about slapping Trace...what do you think?