Chapter 72: Little Sisters Make Mistakes

Okay guys, I know everyone is worried about Babycakes...but we have another situation to deal with, too..

Kat

I pace the photo set in Seb's bohemian loft strung with Einstein bulbs and dream catchers and soft, dusty-colored tapestries on the wall. I haven't been here before...I'm surprised by it. Beyond the space he's specifically arranged for the shoot, it's not as immaculately decorated as I thought it would be.

It seems a little...cluttered, maybe even a little disorganized. The edges of dust and grime cling around the edges, like Seb is more likely to sweep troublesome crumbs to the corners rather than dutifully deal with them.

I chide myself for falling into stereotypes. Just because Seb is super outgoing, friendly, fun, encouraging and gay...doesn't mean he's a good decorator or immaculate housekeeper.

Seb is smoking a cigarette on the balcony, on the phone with his boyfriend who is in Italy.

I check my watch. This is supposed to be just a quick pit-stop for me. I just come back from Napa yesterday evening. It's my day off, and I am supposed to meet my witch friends for a day at the beach at some super-secret-celebrity house party. They won't even tell me which celebrity...I guess they don't trust me 100% yet. I get it. LA is a crazy place, where people who seem perfectly genuine lie to your face and turn around and screw you. I'm still learning to see the lies behind people's perfect smiles and colored contacts. Until I learn whom to trust, I guess I can't be trusted myself.

I wish Trace were here more, because I always feel one hundred percent safe with him. I know he would never do anything that wasn't in my best interests. Part of me knows that's why he won't go official with our relationship...because it will increase my "dollar value" to the paparazzi and increase my appeal to the fame jackals that prey on celebrities. He doesn't want that to happen until I've had a little time to get used to this lifestyle. Or maybe he doesn't want it to happen until his tour is over and he can be here with me to face all the publicity.

Or maybe he's just not sure he'll ever want the things that I want one day—a marriage, a family, kids—and so he doesn't want to lead me on.

I reach automatically for my rubber band, to dismiss him from my thoughts.

Fuck. Why did I do that? I don't have a rubber band anymore. I don't need a damn rubber band, I have the man!

But there's no denying, that sometimes I get the same feeling I used to have back in high school, when I was with Colin or Maddie or Laurel and he would pop unbidden into my thoughts. The feeling that he wasn't a part of my life, that I need to push him out of my thoughts and get on with the business of my day.

Even though he's the best part of my life now, he's hardly ever in the day to day, and I can't spend every single moment of my day wishing he was. He's out there living his dream, right? So I need to live mine. I tug on the bead bracelet I'm wearing and snap thoughts of him away. Right now, I need to focus on this project—my Loving Marcs Art Auction.

Today is Seb's very last photo shoot, before he begins selecting the shots he will paint. I just came by to meet Street's girlfriend—I mean, his ex-girlfriend—and thank her for being part of the project.

In two months, we will have the art auction—all the photo series, as well as the paintings he made from the best shots. Today is a critical shoot, though, because it's Street's shoot, and we all know the del Marco photo's will bring in the most money. Especially the elusive, non-conformist del Marco—the intellectual artist of the family. Street thinks no one will be interested in his series, but Marcy says the industry has been trying to get a read on him since he hit the hot-sexy two-oh.

He's twenty, looking like a del Marco should, and LA is taking notice.

I check my watch. "He's late," I call to Seb, who takes a draw and waves a hand dismissively.

"He's never been on time to an art lesson."

I toss my bag down and wander around Seb's loft. When I arrive at this full length floor mirror, I take my bathing suit cover up off and admire the henna tats on my back.

Street did a really good job—they look professional.

I shouldn't be surprised...he's a perfectionist, just like Matt and Trace. Everything they do, they give it their all.

I need to thank Street again for going all in, especially given the situation we were in.

When we figured out we were locked in the closet, I was irritated. Street isn't one to sweat the small stuff. He cracked open a wine bottle for each of us and said... "Worst case, we are here until they break down the set and come to take the massage tables away. It's only a day shoot, right? So probably six or eight hours max. No worries. Let's just...party and make art."

So that's what we did. It was pretty fun actually. I painted Bridge and Street painted me. Spending six hours locked in a closet with Trace's siblings? I feel like we are super tight now. I heard all kinds of crazy stories about their childhood adventures being on tour with Skid Marcs. They told me all the dirt on the different band members, and of course, the most about their dad.

The funniest thing they told me is that Matt is terrified of swimming in oceans, lakes, or rivers because he saw a baby goat get consumed by river piranha in South America thirty years ago. Skid Marcs was on a world tour and they took a few days off to go on an Amazon trek, and he always says it was the most horrifying thing he's every seen...that poor baby goat screaming as it was drug deeper into the water by a swarm of fish and eaten alive.

Bridge says she's never seen him in a body of water except a pool, and he wouldn't let them swim in the ocean when they were kids, either. They say he gets piss drunk at the beach when the family goes to their Hawaii beach house now, because he can't stand seeing his grown kids in the water where something might take a bite out of them. He refuses to take the little kids down the beach...he and Marianne fight over it but he always wins. Lane and Ally always stay at the pool with Marianne or nannies, because if Street, Row or Bridge go to the beach, he goes too, and paces the shore with beer and binoculars, looking out for sharks.

I laughed and laughed at the idea of Big Bad Matt del Marco being scared of a dip in the ocean and prowling the beach like a lunatic, yelling at his adult children to get out of the water every time he sees a blip of something on the horizon. The chances of being attacked by a shark is probably millions to one. Much more likely Row will die in a bar fight, or Street or Bridge will slip in the shower.

Crazy, the hang-ups eccentric people have.

I face the mirror, smiling at the closet memory. Yeah, it was fun. The only problem is, Street didn't quite finish my back tat as it crawled just over the edge of my shoulder. He was very drunk by then, and he told me didn't want to mess it up, because it would be visible. I told him I would finish it off myself...and he stopped just at the turn of my shoulder. I think I'll finish it to the hollow of my collarbone.

Trace will like that, I think. I smile, playing with my collarbone, remember the day he took champagne body shots from there. As long I live, I will remember the way that felt. It was like...he called to the woman inside me, and she woke for the very first time.

That's really when I knew...I had to have that man. I have never, will never, want anyone more than him.

My lover. My obsession.

My absent torture.

I snap my bracelet again, before I realize what I'm even doing. Fuck it. I snap the bracelet ten times.

I banish you, TG, I say to myself. I can't spend every day of my life longing for you.

I trail over to the henna paints I've mixed for the shoot. Maybe I'll just get started on finishing off my shoulder...

Seb's door opens and Street steps in, his face downcast, troubled. He looks up, and I see it for the first time...the Rock Star face smoothing out his trouble.

Damn. Didn't know he had it, too.

He puts his hands in the pockets of his skinny, ripped jeans. "Hey," he says softly. "I...I came to apologize. The shoot...it's off. Ella changed her mind. I...I fucked it up." He looks out the window to the where Seb sits, but just so he doesn't have to look at me. "Really sorry, Kat."

He's got the Rock Star face, but his voice doesn't harden with nonchalance like Matt and Trace's. He's upset, I can tell.

"What happened?" I ask as Seb snuffs his millionth cigarette and comes inside, his eyebrows raised at Street.

"I...uhhh...we got back together last night, but now...we broke up again."

Seb goes to the fridge, pulls out three Coronas. "What did you you do, dumplin'? Say another girl's name in the throes of make-up sex last night?" he teases Street and I punch him.

"No. Ella posted a picture of us on her Instagram lying in bed this morning. It was cute...just a head shot of us, but I freaked out. Asked her to take it down, and it just sort of...spiraled. She said she couldn't do this—all this constant drama around whether or not we are seen together, having to consider whether to call a publicist if she posts to Instagram or we go out to coffee together. She said she just can't be with a guy that she couldn't have a normal relationship with," Street says bitterly, and opens his throat, gulping down the golden beer, reaching for Seb's and killing it, too.

I'm beginning to understand that Street is not at all like the rest of the del Marco's. Matt, Trace and Row are all adorable egomaniacs. They love the adoration of their music, even if they want to protect their personal lives. Marianne is tough and smart and she's turned being married to one of the world's most famous rock stars into a industry for good. Bridge has a peaceful soul—she simply goes gracefully with the fame flow.

But Street...he hates being famous and unproven.

It's why he has such trouble with relationships...he can never open up and trust a girl is dating him just because she likes him. It's why he didn't pursue music, even though I know he's a good guitarist. It's why he isn't pursuing his art—and he's really good at that, too. He's majoring in environmental science, trying to be just a regular college guy. He hates the idea that his music or his art would get attention just because of his name.

"How would I ever know if I am really good enough?" he murmured, as he explained all this to me while he worked on my back tat yesterday, long after Bridge had passed out.

I grimaced in sympathy, just like I'm doing right now, because I don't know the answer. I'm more like Marianne...this life is all a choice for me. I love Trace enough to jump on the ride and hang on. Street was born into it, and I get that it's different.

I offer Street my bottle of beer, but he's too much of a gentleman to snag my drink from me. He goes to the fridge and curses as he finds it devoid of any more beer.

Seb puts a hand on his hip, tilts his head. "Ooooookaaaaaaay, it's a liquor day, then," he pulls out his phone, and club music erupts from nowhere as he swivels to his bar cart and makes a pitcher of martinis.

I pull my phone and cancel my plans with my friends. We sit on Seb's balcony as Street vents about the struggles of non-welcome fame. I get drunk all over again, but a second day drunk, especially with Seb's mischievous influence...well, I get sloppy.

A couple of hours later, I'm standing on Seb's kitchen counter, dancing to music and scolding Street. I know I'm in full HellKat tirade, but I can't stop myself. I have to be so careful when I'm in public, representing Marianne. Or Trace.

It feels good, to cut loose in a safe place.

"You know what, Street? I'm gonna help you," I say. "I'm gonna say the things that nobody says to you," I squint an eye and point a finger at him. "'Cause I like you," I put a hand over my drunken bikini-topped heart. "But not so much that I can't tell you the truth..."

Seb reaches up and pours me another martini from the glass pitcher. "Tell him, Sister," he encourages, as Street grins up at me and holds out his own martini glass for refill.

"Hit me," Street says, tapping his chest, looking up at me with those amused gray eyes that freak me out because they are just like Trace's.

I purse my lips, "Are you sure? Because Adam doesn't like it all when I tell him the truth. He gets irritated."

Street laughs. "Ahhhhh, so you think I'm like Adam—the nice guy in the family?"

I lift my shoulders to my ears, and tilt my head. "Well, duh." Then I pace atop the counter, pointing my finger and my glass at him, spilling my martini as I go.

"Okay...here goes. You need to get over yourself, Street. You are never not going to be a del Marco. You were born that way."

"Word," Seb says hoisting his glass, clinking it with mine.

I pat Seb's blonde head and he reaches up, hauling me down off the counter. I walk to Street and poke him in the chest, emphasizing each word with a poke in a different spot. "You. Are. So. Fucking. Blessed."

Street grabs my finger to stop me poking at him. He tips his head down to stare into my eyes. "I wish."

There's something too familiar, too intense in his eyes. It makes me...laugh, and I don't know why. I suck down more of my martini. Seb refills it dutifully, and when I look at Street again, the intensity is gone and the amusement is back.

"Fuck," he says mildly. "You were right. You are too honest. Doesn't work for me."

"You should be ashamed for saying that. You are blessed. You get to choose...anything. So embrace all the great shit you've been given and just...do you. Quit worrying about what people think of you, whether you deserve the recognition you get. Choose your joy. And maybe you'll bring some joy and do some good for some other people, too."

"Damn." Seb gives me a high five. "Eighteen. Fucking inspirational. All that," he says, framing me up with his fingers. "I'd take her from your brother, if I liked girls."

I smack my art teacher on the chest. "You'd try. You'd fail."

He laughs, and we both look at Street, blinking at him like owls, waiting for him to respond to my brutal honesty. He gulps down his martini. He grabs mine and finishes it. "You know what?"

"What?" Seb and I say in unison.

Street looks more like Matt than I have ever seen him when a slow, evil grin spreads across his handsome face. "You're right. I choose joy. You know what would make me happy right now?" He leans back slightly, opening his arms in invitation, like I have seen Matt do in Skid Marcs videos. He's two fisted, both martini glasses still in hand.

"What?" we repeat again in unison, and Seb snickers into my shoulder.

Street sets down the two martini glasses, and pulls me forward by the hand, whipping me around, admiring my back. "I want to finish this tat. That was the most fun I've had in ages. Creating that design."

"You sure it wasn't the canvas that you enjoyed?" Seb smirks.

"Shut up, asshole," Street murmurs. "It was the art and the connection."

I whirl around. "It was fun! And it's beautiful work and you should totally finish it. It'll just take, what...half an hour?" I circle my shoulder and collarbone, stumbling a little. Street steadies me.

"Fuck yes!" Seb claps. "I shoot my best work drunk!" He's already mixing another pitcher of martinis.

"Oh!" I say, surprised, looking at the set that Seb carefully constructed. I guess if Street wants to finish the tat, it would be a waste to not make the shoot. But...shit...I have a strong tugging, like I'm a rope being pulled in two different directions. "You think? Uhhhh..."

"I think I spent four hours setting this shoot and fuck yes!" Seb calls over his shoulder, tossing olives into glasses.

Street is raising his eyebrows at me, as he takes my hand and dances me toward the paints. "What do you say, Katheryn? You wanna put your money-maker where your mouth is?" He gestures down my form. "We could still shoot this shit, and give your project the full del Marco series you planned."

Street lets go of my hand, remixing the henna, and I'm reeling from vodka martinis. "Okay, sure," I say. Seb is handing us all more drinks. "But..." I frown, trying to think this through from a the perspective of the Project Coordinator, not the drunk party girl. "Seb, you're gonna crop the shots, right? Keep me an anonymous model, right?"

"Aahhhhh, the sacrifices we artists make," Seb groans, bending backwards, then lunging forward into his martini.

———————————————

I wake the next morning, reclining in Seb's desk chair, turned around in the corner of Seb's loft, behind his dressing screen. My head is pounding, but I don't feel nauseous until I realize I'm topless and I look down my chest to see why.

FUCK! Fuck, fuck, fuck!!!!

I creep from the chair, finding my bathing suit top and t-shirt in Seb's kitchen. Street is passed out on the couch. Seb is lying face down on the floor-bound mattress.

My head is pounding, I think I'm going to puke, but somehow, I manage to silently gather my things and cross the floor to Seb's door. I put my hand on the handle, but then my gaze sweeps the loft one last time, and fall on Seb's desk. His camera is there, cradled in its open travel case.

Silently, praying I don't wake either of them, I ease to the desk, pick up the camera, and review the pictures.

Oh god. It's even worse than my snippets of hazy memory. I'm only in my bikini, miles and miles of my tan, toned flesh on display as Street leans over me, shirtless, his expression fascinated as he applies his paintbrush to my shoulder. And my chest. And my stomach. In some of the pictures, we are talking, laughing, our eyes bright and our faces leaned toward each other.

We look...into each other. Especially the ones where I am staring into his eyes. Trace's eyes.

A short series of Street and I toasting each other with more martinis. Me eating olives and him watching me with an expression I don't care to remember on his face.

The next series of pictures are strange to look at, because I don't remember them at all. Street frowning, looking critically at my body, as I'm obviously talking, or responding to Seb, off camera. Seb was on rapid shoot mode, and it's clear from our expressions, mouth movements, and body language that we are having a three way conversation.

Then there's a break in the action.

Then next shots are of Street and I drinking from the vodka bottle. Christ, it's amazing we are still alive considering how much we must have drunk. Although "alive" is hardly a word to describe how I feel right now. The next pictures are of Street and I shaking hands, like we are making some secret deal.

Another break in the frames. The last two hundred frames are the hardest to look at.

Me, on my knees, my torso nearly completely decorated with artwork, my head to the side, talking to Street who is on his knees behind me, mixing the paint in the bowl as I untie my bikini top. Me, lying back, as Street keeps his eyes on his paints. Me, covering my eyes, like I'm embarrassed, but grinning and still talking to Street as he leans over me, his face expressionless in concentration as he finishes the design, connecting the swath of flowers and vines that cut a diagonal across my shoulder and stomach.

The final of shots of me, looking hazy with drink, staring at myself in nothing but bikini bottoms in Seb's full mirror. The sun breaking from the balcony behind me, and Street's hand trailing the designs on my back, his focus there. It's actually a beautiful shot—probably very complicated considering the fact that Seb had to take into account the lighting flash considerations from the reflection, and I have no idea how Seb managed it, as drunk as we all were.

Without any regret for Seb's lost artistry, I press buttons, navigating the menu on the camera, deleting all the shots. Then I creep out the door, and cry all the way back to WITCH campus in the back of an UBER.

——————————

When I meet Street and Bridge at the airport to board Matt's private jet that will take us East to join Soundcrush on Martha's Vineyard, Street and I don't have much to say.

We've handled it all by text.

We've already both apologized to each other for the stupid, drunken error in judgment. He's already talked our art teacher down, because apparently Seb was extremely irritated with me for deleting his work. We've already agreed that I will be the one to tell Trace what happened, after Soundcrush's festival performance.

It's a quiet flight east. The sounds heard most are the muffled jangles of my beaded bracelet as I snap it over and over. By the time we land in Boston, I am firmly in the moment.

I love Trace so much, and our time is so limited. I will tell him about the horrible, awful, stupid thing I did—later—but I will not ruin his monumental festival performance with my mistake. I've snapped it away. It's time to love my Rock Star like I do. Like he deserves. With my whole heart.

Well, we finally know what happened with Kat's henna tats. How do you think Trace is going to react when the truth comes out? Thoughts?

Please do all the things: comment/vote/list/follow. PS I'm going on vacation next week so updates will suspended. Don't fear...we'll get back to Madam the following week!