Chapter 6: Rock Stars Don't Give Out Their Number Lightly

Trace

Of course I take Kat down to the tiny hospital room to wait for the doctor. I thought it would be an opportunity for us to finally have a quiet conversation, but that doesn't happen. By the time I explain about the history of the room, how they used to have a doctor at the shows in the Roaring Twenties—probably for when people got poisoned by their own bathtub gin—and she has a moment to exclaim over the charm of the room—I knew she would like it, all girls love that Gatsby shit—our privacy is blown out of the water.

First Riley bustles in with snarky comments and an ice pack, and bustles right back out. Next comes Bodie, offering whiskey. I toss the ice down and opt for a swig. Then he offers me a handful of colorful pills.

"Blue is best," he advises.

"I might need them all," I say with an edge in my voice. We've been through this before. He looks a little irritated. He pops a blue one, but shakes the rest of his stash into my hand.

Kat watches the pill exchange silently, with a judgey look that reminds me very much of her sister. Well, the real Ashlynn. Not the new, damaged one. The damaged one would already be asking me to share.

I kick Bodie out and dump the pills in the sink. Any pills I can get out of Bodie's hands is a good thing, but to be honest, I might have taken a Vike if Kat wasn't watching. Only because my face is throbbing and my head hurts like a son of a bitch.

She doesn't say anything at all about Bodie's pills. I guess it's pretty obvious that I was just trying to flush his stash, but I trust Kat not to tweet that the Soundcrush drummer has a habit. Honestly, I was surprised to see him with a pocketful. So much for thinking his substance issues were behind us.

"Alone at last," I say, leaning against the wall and watching her. She's rumpled and a little sweaty, but I am much worse. It's not like I haven't seen her covered in mud, sweat, suntan lotion, blood, snot, whatever. We had an active childhood.

She moves slowly across the room toward me, like she can't help herself. She touches my busted face so lightly I can't even feel her fingers. I have a strong desire to kiss her, but I know it's probably too soon. She likes that guy, even though he's a real dick that doesn't know he's a dick yet. I know his type—everything has always rolled his way. His pride has never really been challenged and the first second it is, the aggression comes out.

I might have grown up with money, but it sure as hell wasn't easy. My dad was also real dick. Blame it on his dad, who was the same. I decided to break the cycle and leave my marks in the music industry, not on women or kids, if I ever have any one day.

Not that I'm against cracking the skulls of a few Colins if I have to. The look of concern on Kat's face when he hit me is the only reason I didn't beat the shit out of him. Because then she would have been looking at him the way she's looking at me--all tender and biting her lip.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers, her fingers trailing my cheek to my jaw.

I can't stand it anymore. I take her hand and kiss her fingertips. There's so much I want to say, but I have to go carefully. She seems...different. More cautious. "Worth it to rid our date of your boyfriend," I joke.

She rolls her eyes but she can't keep the smile off her face. Her fingers are soft, pliable in mine. She likes the way I'm kissing them, and the way I keep calling this a date. I like the way I can be so sure, about the things she likes.

Then Mac and Adam bustle in, and she pulls away. Adam gives me a bunch of shit and Mac fusses over my face. "Tamara is going to have a fit," she says. Tamara does the hair and makeup. I turn and look in the mirror. The left side of my face is swollen. It looks like someone dotted me all over with blue and purple markers. "So she'll earn her money for once. She doesn't have to do much to keep you looking good. All right, you've seen the spectacle. Get out!" I say bluntly, pushing Mac through the door. Adam follows but Dawes is coming in.

"Goddammit," I sigh and sit down and motion for Kat to join me on the bed. Dawes gives me a lecture, tells me five different things our publicist might say depending on whether news of the punch leaks out on social media, and I choose one, virtually at random. As soon as I think I'm getting rid of him, Riley returns with the doctor. He shines a flashy light in my eyes, says I might have a mild concussion, hands me a bottle of pills, and tells me to take them as needed for headaches but that I should try to get through the first few hours without them, because they might alter me, and I have should have someone stay close tonight and wake me every few hours to check my awareness. I break into a big grin at that, my eyes immediately going to Kat.

"Hear that? That's your job."

"I'm not staying with you tonight," she says immediately.

"What if you stay in your own room, and just check on me every three hours? Least you can do, since your boyfriend suckerpunched me."

She nods agreement, looking away so I don't see her smile. I don't even have to glance at Riley; he's already on the phone with the hotel.

Finally, after what seems like an hour in that tiny white tiled room, Kat and I are in car on the way to the hotel. I lean my head back on the seat.

"Fuck, my head hurts," I admit.

She pulls away, and it's only then that I realize I had taken her hand automatically. Christ, I'm out of it; I really do have a concussion. She's busy pulling Riley's ice pack from her bag. "I thought you might still need this. You have the same expression as the time you broke your collarbone."

I put it to the side of my head. "Thanks. So, do you want to talk about Ashlynn now, or in the morning?"

"Is she strung out?"

"She's using on and off, I think. But she's clothed, fed and she has a place to stay."

"She told you all that?"

"Yes," I lie.

Kat sighs. "Details in the morning, then."

"Okay." We are silent for a moment. "Ice isn't going to help."

I pop one of the prescribed pills and wash it down with a beer from the car bar. I hesitate, trying to decide whether or not I should offer Kat a pill. I don't want to treat her like a kid, and I would share with any random girl, but Kat is not random, and she didn't like Bodie's handful earlier, and given that her sister's worse off than Bodie...I put the bottle away.

She tries to keep her voice casual. "The doctor said to wait."

"Don't worry Kat. I don't have a habit, I have a massive headache. Your boyfriend fucking clocked me. What is he, a boxer?"

"Football player."

"Is he always a dick, or just when he drinks?"

"He's not a dick."

I pull on the shoulder of her jumper thing and it slides down her arm. I can see purple fingerprints on her arm. "Your arm and my face say otherwise, Sweetheart."

"He's never done anything like that before." she protests.

I shoot her a look.

"Really," she insists. "What you said really upset him."

"What the fuck did I say? Nothing," I protest.

"The part about getting lucky tonight." she murmurs.

"I don't think I said it exactly like that," I frown. "But even if I did, that was nothing to get physical over."

She shakes her head. "You don't understand."

"Then explain it to me."

"It's none of your business."

"No, Kat, explain it to me, because otherwise, he just looks like an abusive motherfucker that flies off the handle and hurts people. Hurts you." I touch her shoulder, and then I pull the sleeve back up.

"We were planning to...have a romantic evening after this."

"So? He can't handle a little delayed gratification?"

She takes a drink of her beer and looks out the window, mumbling something about big deal and leveling up, and I start to get the picture.

I know I should let it drop, but I can't stop myself from clarifying. "Are you telling me I just cock-blocked your boyfriend from his first night with you—ever?"

She nods, and gulps her beer.

The laughter erupts from me before I can stop it. I put my hands on my head. Shit that hurts. But I keep laughing anyway.

"It's not funny," she says.

"Oh yes, it is." It makes me elated to know they aren't even sleeping together yet. He must be a brand new thing. He'll be easily discarded.

She pushes me. "Shut-up. Stop laughing." I laugh harder. She slaps a hand over my mouth "Just shut up, Trace!" She's ten year old Kat again. I pull her hand away and cackle evilly, and suddenly she's scrapping with me to cover my mouth. It's no contest. I'm much stronger than her.

"God, you're such an asshole!"

Unable to get any leverage to cover my mouth again, she jerks her hands away and I let her go easily, but I keep laughing despite how hard it makes my head hurt. Out of nowhere, she launches herself at me, straddles me and clamps both her hands over my mouth. "I said shut your stupid, ugly, piehole!" What is it with this girl, and climbing on my lap? I love it, though.

The urge to kiss her is back. Should I? Obviously, she and the boyfriend aren't that serious. But then again, if she's not having sex with him, maybe she's decided she's more of the go-slow type of girl. Maybe I did that to her. The thought makes me sad and glad at the same time. I wonder if she remembers what I told her the last time I saw her, two and half years ago—the heated words that I meant, I just didn't meant to say. I decide it's too soon to make good on them.

But I've got to make some kind of move to keep the fun going. So I pick up the bag of ice and rip it open against her bare back. She shrieks and wiggles as water and melting ice flow down her jumper.She arches her back, frantically trying to pull the wet cloth away from her skin. I laugh some more, but soon realize I made a big mistake. She won't stop moving on my lap, trying to dislodge the ice. Christ, I've had lap dances from professionals that didn't get me this excited.

"Kat, you've got to get off," I warn. It feels like New Year's Eve, two and half years ago, all over again. I made her get off my lap then, too. This is much more...urgent.

"Why?" she says breathless, still flapping her clothes.

"Because if you don't, I will," I'm joking, sort of.

She looks a little scandalized, but she immediately slips off my lap. She's crouched in the space between the seats, struggling with the ice down her shorts and gasping. The sounds coming from her, combined with the friction she just provided are making me want to tackle her into the other seat. That jumper looks hard to get off, but easy to tear.

I shake my head. What the hell is wrong with me? Why does Kat always bring out the creep in me?

"I've got an idea," I open the sunroof, push her up. She tentatively puts her head and shoulders out of the car, but she's twisting around trying to get the ice out. This thing she's wearing is tight around the waist.

"Turn around," I order and she faces front. Now I have a fantastic view of her backside, made only more fantastic because her romper thing is now soaking wet. This girl definitely works out. I admire her for only a few seconds, and then get to work, reaching just inside the waist band for the pieces of ice. She shivers, and moves her hands to help me, but I still them. "I got it," I say, and she relaxes, letting me remove the last piece, which is a little lower, caught in the band of her panties. I don't even have to imagine the color. With her romper wet, I can clearly see. Black lace.

I rest my hands on her hips and swallow the taste of desire. I'm not gonna lie, I haven't been saving myself for Kat, but it's been awhile since I wanted a girl this badly. Maybe because lately, I can have any girl I want. Well, maybe not any girl I want, but I've got quite a few options, usually.

Fuck, I've got to get Kat's gorgeous behind out of my face. I pull myself up through the sunroof, into the wind.

"It's nice up here," she smiles as her hair blows. It's a warm weekend night, and Midtown is buzzing with people between the towering buildings all prettily lit up. I can see our hotel. It was a short drive. I have half a mind to tell the driver to take us down around Piedmont Park, because Kat seems to be enjoying the sunroof experience, but I don't want pictures of Kat and I together to fuel to the media fire that Leed's stunt has surely started. The last thing I need is the media digging too deep into a girl with the last name Ballard. Not until Kat and I have had some time, and some serious talks about everything that has happened in the past.

"This is our stop," I motion up at the impressively lit, classically built hotel.

"Four Seasons, huh? Fancy," she smirks.

I shrug. "Secure."

"Is security a problem for you?" she asks.

"Not when you stay at the best," I assure her.

I give the limo driver a few hundred bucks for his jacket. He's more than happy to pass it back through the interior window. I hold it out for Kat. "It's ninety degrees," she protests.

I roll the window back up before I say, "This thing you are wearing is completely soaked and clinging to your fabulous ass. Personally, I love the impression of your black lace panties, but I figure a good girl like you wouldn't want to show the whole lobby."

She blushes slightly but says, "Who said I was a good girl? You hardly know me anymore."

"Oh, you've got good girl written all over your cowboy boots. How long have you had Cols on the hook, Miss Ballard? Three dates? A month? Longer?"

She goes even pinker. "None of your business."

"I beg to differ. A guy should know what he's in for," I joke.

"Shut-up," she says.

"Have you noticed you keep telling me that? How are we supposed to talk if I have to shut-up every five seconds?"

"We aren't talking. You're just running game."

"I thought you liked my game," I say.

She grabs the jacket. Her face is still hot, and she's upset now. "That's the problem. I do. But I shouldn't. Because you're just fucking with me, and in a couple of days you will be in a different city fucking with a different girl."

"And will you be fucking that dickwad that left his handprint on you?"

I regret the words as soon as they are out of my mouth, because her face just sort of...blurs, and she looks completely lost. Shit. How can one stupid sentence I say make her disappear like that?

She struggles into the jacket and tries the door but it's locked. I signal to the driver and he comes to open her door. She's out of the car like a shot, spurting into the lobby.

A scary thought runs through my head. It's possible that Kat might actually be more mature than me, now. Not more worldly, but possibly more mature.

I follow behind her. Riley is already here. I have no fucking clue how he does that. He swings in beside us and directs us to the elevator for the secure floor. He passes us each two key cards—we each have a card to the other's room. He tells Kat everything she needs for the night will be arriving shortly. She ignores me in the elevator. When the doors open, Kat turns to Riley and says,

"Thank you for everything you've done to make my night go well. Please don't go to any more trouble, getting me any clothes or anything. I have no problem with a Walk of Self-Respect in the morning."

She goes immediately to her room and shuts the door in my face. Somewhere on Riley's person, I hear my old phone ping.

He pulls it and we both read the text.

I'll check on you at 3am, asshole.

Riley make a distinctly British sound of approval. "Gallant, I like her."

"Me too."

"Bit of a handful, though. Sure you're up to this ?"

"Most definitely."

I slide my key card and stroll into her room. She turns around, indignant, but after a long moment, she softens.

"No more games. Not tonight. I'm confused and you're medicated. Let's just say good-night for now, and—"

I hold up my hand to stop her and say. "Your phone, please."

"Why?"

I sigh. "Just give me your goddamn phone."

She hands it over.

I find my contact and replace my number.

"My old number is the one I give to people I want Riley to manage for me, which is...everyone. Only ten people have this number. You make eleven. My grandmother doesn't even have this number. Girls I've been with casually—celebrities, even—never get this number. I am not fucking with you, Kat. I may have been an asshole, but going forward, I plan to be...far from that, when it comes to you. If you don't want to come to my room at 3, you can just text me, okay?"

I hand her back her phone. I may have slammed the door behind me.

How are you liking the story so far? Do you think Trace and Kat like to spar more than they like to kiss? What kind of interaction do you think Trace has had with Ashlynn? What's the backstory there? How did Ashlynn go from over-achiever to strung out? What do you think will happen if Kat goes to Trace's room in the middle of the night?

Please vote, comment, follow, share, if you like the story! It's very helpful! Let's get Soundcrush a big fan base--I want to be able to take to the time to write Leed, Mac, Adams and Bodie's stories, too! I already have them in my head! Thanks so much!