Chapter 34: Rock Stars Go All Out On Date Night

Kat

My dark angel is still torturing my lips and refusing my hips when the car comes to a stop and stays that way. We don't stop kissing. Trace has his arms wrapped beneath me, cradling me with restrained ferocity, but he's moving his mouth with mine so tenderly, so sweetly, it's like he's showing me everything he's feeling—love, fear, longing, pain, hope. A lot of love in the way his mouth meets mine. A lot of fear in the way he holds me. I feel my heart breaking for him—with him--and I don't exactly know why.

I think it must be what he said to Colin. He thinks he's full of aggression, like his father. I think he's afraid of his lifestyle, afraid that he might have a drinking problem, afraid of becoming his father, afraid of hurting me.

I'm not afraid of Trace.

I let him break my heart over and over with his ever sweetening, ever deepening kiss. Every part of me yields to him, synced to him, my hands tracing through his hair, down his shoulders and arms, up his chest. I think I'm successful in soothing him as he gently pulls me to a sitting position and places his forehead against mine.

"Kat—" he begins, his voice hoarse with emotion.

"I love you," I say simply. "I just want you to know. Whatever it is, making you so...careful with me—it's okay. I love you, and I trust you, and we'll be okay."

His entire expression goes soft in amazement. He looks so beautiful, but he doesn't say a word. I don't think he can. He's that overcome. He just folds my hand over his cheek and kisses my wrist tenderly. He stays that way, leaning back against the seat with my wrist pressed to his lips, while I use my other hand to softly stroke his hair. Finally, Trace shakes his head, and presses the button to talk to the driver. Trace tells him to drive around a few minutes. From the look of Trace's crotch he needs more than a few minutes. I feel like he's torturing himself, poor guy, but now's not the time for a crude joke. The charge between us is too intense right now. If we are ever planning to get out of this car, we need mundane distraction.

I repair my lipstick as Trace sips a red bull, and plays a game on his phone. I realize I haven't checked my phone in hours. I have several texts. Laurel saying that reporters came around to her house but she didn't tell them anything. Maddie says the same thing, and tells me AGAIN that she's not mad at me for breaking up with Colin, but that's she's worried about him because he's drinking a lot more than normal and acting like a jerk all the time. She asks me to please at least return his texts.

I text them both back, thanking them for not talking to the reporters, and telling Maddie that I'm not sure texting Colin will make things better, but I will try. I snap them a quick pic of me and Trace. I think they are both good enough friends not to screen shot it, and they don't.

I check my email. Nothing from my parents yet. I'm surprised, but with the time difference, I don't even bother trying to keep up with their itinerary. Maybe they haven't been in port yet.

Another text pops up from Colin. He's sent one every day since I broke up with him, and they get progressively more pleading:

Maddie told me you left town with Trace. That's crazy. I hate not knowing where you are, if you are ok. Kat, please just hit me back.

I sigh, just as Trace glances over.

"Should I be worried about Dickwad?" Trace asks mildly.

"Are you kidding?" I say in the same mild tone as I shoot Colin back a quick:

I'm in New Orleans. I'm ok. Just a little vacation. Be home in a couple of weeks.

His response is immediate:

I miss you, Kat. Can you honestly say you don't miss me at all?

Actually, I have hardly thought of Colin at all in the worldwind that is being what Leeds calls SCIC--Soundcrush Inner Circle--but now that I'm texting him, I do...feel something. I'm not missing him exactly, but I feel for him. I don't like being the cause of him hurting. I think of what I can possibly say that's both diplomatic and helpful to Colin.

I'm sure when things normalize for me, I will miss our friendship. I'm sorry I hurt you. Maddie says you are not in good place. Please take care of yourself.

He hits me right back again:

I'm ok. Went on a bender. I'm good now. Your text sounds like...a forever goodbye. We've been best friends for two years, Kat. Don't walk away from that.

Trace raises his eyebrows but doesn't say a word as I consider my response. He watches me compose my text.

Maybe we can still hang sometime. With Maddie and Laurel. Right now I need some space. I promise to text you when I get back to town. We can all get together then, ok?

He texts back:

OK. Be safe.

I curse, because I know I have hurt him again. Trace sighs. Suddenly I realize what an idiot I am, texting my ex while on my very first date with Trace.

I put my phone away. "God, I'm sorry. That was very inconsiderate of me. I shouldn't have texted with him right now."

He smiles. "I get that you still care about him. Not even a week ago, he was your boyfriend. And I trust you to manage a friendship with him. But I do think he may have a hard time letting go. When you go home—that's when its going to get real for you, dealing with him. And other shit. Maybe we should start looking for a guy for you."

A guy for me? "What?"

"A guy. A security guy. Actually, I probably couldn't get a real professional to move to BF-North Carolina when you go to Duke, so you would need a security detail....probably three guys...they would trade off duty weeks. One week on, two weeks off. But it would be worth it, I think...between the paps and your stalker ex."

I laugh at him. "You are not hiring security guys to follow me around. That's crazy."

"Believe me, I'm not thrilled about the idea, either. Do you know how many female celebrities end up falling for their security guys? That Bodyguard shit ain't just a Hollywood movie." He winks, and cuts off my reply by signaling to the driver we are ready to get out. To my surprise, Trace introduces me to the guy that opens the door. I didn't even realize there was a second person up front.

"Kat, this is Ben Sullivan—part of our security team. He's joining us tonight."

Ben looks to be ex-military. Close cropped sandy hair, as tall as Trace with about fifty more pounds of muscle, probably early thirties. I would expect a security guy to be in a suit, like secret service, but he's dressed in cargo shorts and a polo. I recognize him from Leed's hotel room last night and from backstage at the Fox. I thought he was a roadie. He shakes my hand.

"Nice to meet you, Ms. Ballard." He turns away and puts his sunglasses on, effectively ending the conversation. Trace takes my hand and pulls me along. We are in a public touristy area. I can see shops, attractions and in the distance, what I assume is the Mississippi River.

I turn around, expecting to see Ben right behind us, but to my surprise there are only tourists. Trace laughs at me, and points Ben out, strolling along over to my left, in the crowd. "Ben's cool. He knows how to give me space, but if I need him, I just give him a nod and he's on the job. We can get you a guy like that. Maybe even a little younger. Somebody that could blend in on campus. Nobody would even know what he was, unless you needed him."

"I don't know, Trace. It seems unnecessary. And expensive."

"The expense is not even a consideration. Nothing is more important to me than your safety and peace of mind." He shrugs. "But unnecessary? Maybe. We'll see. It's hard even for me to know how things are going to be for you, going forward. Just know it's on the table, if your privacy becomes an issue."

I nod. I don't want to talk about security, and privacy issues, and campus, because I don't want to talk about going home. I wrap both my hands tightly around Trace's arm. "Okay, it's date time. Where are we going? To the Aquarium?" I've been to New Orleans before, a couple of times, and I know there's a really nice Aquarium a couple of blocks away.

He smiles. "Good guess, but no. Too public. It's our first date. I want you all to myself."

We are coming up on Spanish Plaza. There's an impressive fountain, happily...founting, as tourists mill around. We stop to admire it. Trace fishes his pocket and hands me some coins. "Make a wish?"

I wish the fairy tale could be real. I wish I could stay with you and not worry about college, about making something out of myself, carving my own identity. I hope to god you understand, when the time comes for me to go. I hope we can work it out somehow. I hope you'll still love me when I'm a college student and you are rock star.

He takes a video of me wishing, kissing the coin, and tossing it into the fountain. "Fuck, I wish I could post that, so the whole world could see how proud I am to be with you."

I offer him a coin. "Toss it in. Maybe your wish will come true one day."

Always the coolest cat around, Trace skips the quarter across the surface of the pool, five-no six-times before it sinks.

"Show off."

He takes my hand. "It won't last forever—the media shitstorm. We'll keep our heads down and in six months our story will be old news. People will forget there was a question about your age. They'll just get used to seeing us together, and eventually we can go legit public. If you become a normal part of my life, we'll be boring as hell. As long as you don't leave me for another celebrity," he jokes.

"I do have my eye on Leed," I observe and he squeezes my hand.

"Well, if Soundcrush starts to falter, I'll be sure to keep that in mind. A love triangle in the band could easily catapult a new album promotion."

"Are you saying you'd actually share me?" I feign indignation.

"Fuck no. But I might be down with you leading him on a little, just to watch him crash and burn," Trace retorts smoothly.

"You're bad, TG."

"You're worse, HellKat."

We've caught some attention with our fountain antics. A couple of girls my age approach, giving Trace wide-eyed smiles. They obviously know who he is, but I'm surprised when they shyly greet me by name, too. He interacts with them easily and poses for pictures, but makes sure to turn so his fading bruises aren't evident. He's very graceful about keeping me out of the pictures, telling the girls I didn't sign up for the public life, and he appreciates people respecting my privacy.

"Is the song really about you?" One of the girls asks me. I shoot Trace a glance, not sure what to say.

"In the big picture, every love song I write is about her. She's my muse," he tells the girl as he puts an arm around me. "The songs are all fantasy and symbolism, though, so you get to interpret them for yourselves. I will tell you some real gossip about us, though," he leans conspiratorially toward them. "I've been crazy about my girl since I was ten years old. I think it was because she shared the last chocolate ice cream cup at her birthday party with me." They laugh and coo over him. A few more people start to drift over, drawn by the girls' fawning and all the picture taking. Trace shakes his head slightly at Ben to keep him at bay, and gently excuses us, taking a couple of quick pics with the newcomers but spending less time. We skirt the fountain.

"You're so good at being a gracious celebrity," I tell him, and he looks pleased with my compliment.

We walk in comfortable silence to the end of Canal Street Pier. When he stops and gestures to the large Steamboat in front of us, I grin like a lunatic. "No way. A riverboat cruise? The kind where they narrate and stuff?" I squeal.

"Yep. I figured since you've turned into such a bookish nerd you would like this," he winks.

I slap him on the chest and haul him up the gang plank. When several crew members dip their heads slightly and smile at us, and I look around and realize that there are no other passengers, that's when the flock of seagulls in my stomach that only my rockstar can disturb take flight.

"Trace, no." I whisper.

"Yep," he rocks on toes, popping the p. "I bought out the boat."

The Captain greets us and gives a tour. I'm delighted with the history of the boat and the tour of the engine room. The captain leaves us on the top deck, where a bar and an attendant are conveniently located while we enjoy the sunset. Honestly I'm starting to get a little sick of champagne, so I ask for a cranberry juice with a splash of La Croix. Trace looks over the selection on display and goes with an energy drink.

I lay a hand on his shoulder. "You sure? I mean...just because I'm not drinking..."

He cracks the can. "Last night was a desperate buddy thing. No way do I want to go hard another night. Especially a night I get to spend with you."

As we stand against the rail, enjoying the view of the Mississippi and the skyline of New Orleans as we chug up the river, Trace tells me there's a tour guide that will narrate the river sights if we want. Of course I want. I love history and stories and experiences. Trace gives a nod to the bartender, and like magic, the guide appears. She spends a half hour telling us about the history of New Orleans as a colonial port all the way through Hurricane Katrina and beyond.

Trace switches between asking questions about the levee construction and where to find the best local jazz, which I guess pretty much describes the interests of a smart guy who was an once an engineering student before he became a rock star. The way he asks questions about things reminds me a little of Ashlynn.

I wonder how much she rubbed off on him in the time they have spent together in the last couple of years. But then I push the thoughts away. Trace is here with me, and I am with him, and I tell myself for the hundredth time in the last twenty hours not to be jealous of the time he spent with Ashlynn. Trace doesn't seem to be jealous of Colin, and Colin was my actual boyfriend. Ashlynn was more like Trace's...ward, or something.

From one of the decks below, a jazz band starts to play. That seems to be a cue for the tour guide to wrap up. Trace smiles and slips her a generous tip and she leads us downstairs to a dining area. On a fully booked cruise, it probably seats a hundred people or more, but tonight only one table is meticulously set near the bow to provide us with a panoramic view. There's a cook station near the table, and two men in white chef's jackets. The jazz band plays softly at the back of the deck, just for us.

Trace leads me over to cook station. A gray-headed Cajun introduces himself as Chef Marcel and his sous-chef as Antoine.

"I owe you some jambalaya," Trace tell me with a grin. "I've been told Chef Marcel makes some of the best in New Orleans."

"THE best," Antoine corrects with a grin.

"Sit, sit," Chef Marcel tell us. "I'm not just here to cook, I'm here to teach y'all, right?" He looks at Trace. "I can't give away all my secrets, but I'll teach you to make nearly the best jambalaya in New Orleans." We spend the next forty five minutes laughing at Chef Marcel's jokes and learning his recipe. Antoine plates our food and pours some white wine, and they leave us to enjoy our meal.

The first few bites are too good to be interrupted by conversation.

"Oh my god, Antoine was right," I finally moan. "I hope you were paying attention, because I definitely want to eat this all the time."

Trace swallow his bite and finishes off his energy drink. "I was paying attention. Plus Antoine is supposed to email me the basic recipe. I promise to make it for you, at my place," Trace says mildly.

You mean in the house you shared with my sister?

The thought robs me of the pleasure of the next bite. I take a long swallow of the wine.

"Maybe you should send me the recipe," I say quietly. "Who knows when an LA visit might be, right?"

He nods in agreement. "It might be awhile before it's a good time for you to come out to LA," he says lightly. "But I was thinking more of cooking at the new place." He's watching me carefully.

I'm surprised. "New place?"

He takes another bite and makes a satisfied grunt. "Damn this is good."

I wait for him to return to our conversation, but he just takes another bite. His eyes glitter at me while he chews. Finally, after making me wait an eternity, he swallows and hands me his phone. There's a picture of a six story modern building, mostly glass. Looks like eight glass fronted apartments on each floor—easy to see the warm woods and Edison light bulbs and rustic industrial appointments on the inside. They are brand new, beautiful, and very expensive apartments. But somehow, they don't have a Hollywood feel.

I make a couple of quick taps, to restore the website where he pulled the picture. "Luxury condo units in Durham, NC? What is this?" But I already know. Durham, NC is where my school is going to be.

"I did a little real estate business today, while you were at the spa. It's in escrow," he says quickly. "I can walk it back, if you don't like it, or if you want to go a different direction than Durham."

My heart is pounding. "Trace, you need to use more words. Not LA words. Real, explanatory words."

"If you're keeping your college plans for the fall, we're gonna need a place," he says lightly. "To hang on the down low, when I come to visit. Or," he adds very carefully, "if you're gonna be nice to me, and not make me sweat your privacy and security all the time, you can live there full time." He taps the picture of the phone, revealing a shot of the modern, open interior of the condo. "Pretty sick digs for a college freshman."

I put his phone down on the table. "Kat, you're looking at my phone like it's a deadly viper," Trace sighs.

I don't know what to say. There are the things I know I should say. That Trace is moving too fast. That his impulsive real estate purchase is inappropriate considering that we've been officially dating all of three days. That there's no way I can move into his condo—and not just because my parents will flip out, but also because I'm not sure I'm comfortable with it yet. Going to college is about learning to stand on your own. I'm not sure I'm ready to be defined as a girl who gets taken care of by her rock star boyfriend.

But then I look at Trace's face, and I see the apprehension there, and I don't want to hurt him. And there's also a small, maybe immature part of me that likes that he's done this. The same part that is jealous that he let Ashlynn move into his LA house with him. In some weird way, this grand gesture Trace is making helps me accept that. He's the kind of guy that goes to extremes—whether it's to help Ashlynn with her problems, or whether it's to overcome obstacles a long distance relationship with me.

Isn't this exactly what I wished for at the fountain—someway to work things out when I go to college and he's still a rockstar? I look at the picture of the condo—it looks like a really nice place for Trace and I to work things out.

So I don't shoot his condo down. I say, "It's a beautiful place."

He reaches for my hand. " Your face is glass, Katheryn. I could see all the worries flashing in your brain. Just tell me what you are really thinking."

"That it's a little too much, too soon," I say softly, wrapping my fingers tightly in his. "But that I love you for this."

That's twice now in the space of an hour, that I've said it. He doesn't say it back, but he doesn't have to. His actions are pretty much showing it. I mean, either he's in love with me, or he's insane. I think about Mac, adamantly insisting that Adam is insane for the condom-fail-proposal, and Tamara saying that love and insanity are the same thing.

"You love me, and you're smiling, but you're turning down the condo?" Trace looks unhappy.

"I'm not turning it down. It's just crazy, Trace. But I guess...it's...okay-crazy."

My fallen angel lights up. "So you'll move in?"

"No. At least not freshman year," I tell him. "But I'll happily stay there with you, when you come to visit. If things are going good, we'll see." Hadn't I already given this speech to Colin at least five times?

"Hmmm. I'd rather you move in before classes start. But I can live with that, for now."

"Wow, I'm surprised you gave up that easy," I counter.

"Oh, but I know things you don't," he smirks.

"Like what?"

"Like how sick you'll be of your roommate after a couple of months. When you see having your own space in a luxury condo is so much nicer than sharing a cramped, stinky room with somebody who eats all the pizza that you had delivered in advance of your arrival and who also has an annoying habit of attempted-quiet-but-actually-quite-obvious-under-the-covers-sex with their bed buddy while you are in the room, you'll change your mind."

I laugh. "Those are very specific examples of a bad roommate," I say suspiciously.

He chews on a massive bite of rice and sausage, and finally says. "Yeah, Adam was the roommate from hell. If we hadn't hadn't discovered right away we had music in common we wouldn't have lasted the first month. Then sometime in November, Leed and Bodie magically appeared and the band kept me from poisioning him with my soda that he kept constantly stealing."

"That really doesn't seem like Adam. He's so...decent, now."

"Oh, he is now. Best dude I know. But his personality change didn't happen until a few months into freshman year."

"What happened ?"

"Leed started bring Mac around to play keys. Crazy how when Mac showed up in our lives, Adam magically grew up overnight."

"Well, I hope I'm luckier than you were."

He leans across the table and feeds me a bite of shrimp. "I don't. I hope you are shackled with a she-devil that has you asking for a key to the condo by October. But if you want to do a year in the dorms, I can bide my time til sophomore year. Wait—why are you frowning again, KitKat?"

"I'm just thinking of how I could even begin to explain me moving in with you to my parents, as a sophomore in college."

His face looks a little blank. "Moving in together? Well it's not like we would have to present it like that to your parents. You could just say...I was subletting the place to you. It's not like I would be living there full time. It would be more like...your place, with me visiting." He's choosing his words slowly, like my perspective is eggshells.

I blush furiously. Oh, god. He wasn't thinking of it as a moving in. He was thinking of it as buying me a condo. Is that better or worse? "Right, of course. I know your life is in LA. That was stupid of me, to think of it like moving in together..."

He takes my hand again. "No, not stupid," he says hurriedly. "Maybe I'm not explaining it right," he mutters. "You said too fast, so I'm trying to move carefully...what are you saying...you maybe want me to move to Durham with you after freshman year?" He blows a breath and stares out into the moonlit water, like he's trying to work it out in his head. "My band, my label, and most of my...responsibilities are in LA. But my life is...flexible, Kat. We could probably make that happen in a year or so...I have some big stuff I have to work out first...I couldn't be there all the time, but I could make it my home base, it could work..." He looks at me with wide, almost overwhelmed eyes.

Suddenly, his overwhelm is contagious.

"Trace, forget what I said." I drop my fork down with a clatter and grip the edge of the table. "God,I don't know what I'm saying. I don't even know if I want to stay at Duke past freshman year. I don't know what I want to major in, I don't know what I want to do with my life. It's all too much. I definitely should be more worried about that stuff than living arrangements with my boyfriend." I feel tears coming, and I feel even more stupid, and I'm trying to blink them back before Trace sees.

"Hey...hey..." he stands up and pulls me up from the table, putting his hands on my face, staring down at me from beneath his dark, arching brows. "Hey. it's okay. You don't have to know all the answers right now. Not about your major, not about us. You have options, you have choices, but you have all the time in the world to make them, okay?"

I nod and lean against Trace's chest. He smells so good—like oak and leather and some mild spice. I breathe him in. We stand there, swaying slightly, until I have almost convinced myself what he says is true.

"Thank you, Trace."

"For what?" he murmurs into the top of my head.

"For talking me down. For liking me. For believing in me."

"Always, KitKat. I will always do all those things." He turns my head up to his and kisses my nose. "Let's dance, huh? And then I have one more surprise."

He leads me to the back of the boat, where he acknowledges the bass player, who appears to be the leader of the jazz ensemble, with that cool guy homie handshake thing. After a few murmured exchanges that I can't make out over the music, the band switches to a slowed-down, jazzy version of "Brown-Eyed Girl."

"Sorry," he grins, "they don't know any Soundcrush songs. This will have to be your song tonight." He puts an arm around me pulls me tight, as he serenades me softly, occasionally breaking off to kiss my neck, then lazily returning to the chorus. I harmonize with him on the sha-la-la's and he laughs in approval. "You can come on board as Soundcrush's new backup singer. Career problem solved," he jokes.

Later, after several slow songs where we alternate kissing and enjoying the river view, Trace shakes hands with the band, giving them a huge tip and telling them to take a smoke, which is his cool rock star way of telling them they can knock off for the night. He leads me down to the lowest level of the boat, which is essentially enclosed.

"Really?" I smirk, surveying the last surprise of our date. "You really want to end our date in your utter defeat?"

There is a ping-pong table arranged ceremoniously in the center of the room.

"Are you gonna cry when I destroy you, little girl?" he winks.

"Do you always revert to your twelve year old self on dates? That might explain why all your dates are one night stands," I observe as I bend over to untie my espadrilles. They are far too tall and narrow and I am far too serious about delivering Trace's beat-down to let my shoes get in the way.

Behind me, Trace whistles, "Christ, KittyKat, if you're going to bend over like that for you ass-whooping, at least let me get the ping pong paddle first." He swats me lightly on the butt.

I jump and nearly fall over my shoes. "Oh it's on, now." I race around to the other end of the table and snatch the other paddle.

I win the first game fair and square. Trace wins the second because he cheats. We don't finish the third because we start making out on the table and it collapses.

"I am God of Pong!" Trace declares as he tries to tie me up in the net amidst the demolished table and I shut him up by stuffing ping pong balls into his mouth.

So did Trace do good with a romantic date night? Do you wish a rock star would take you on a private moonlit cruise, complete with a private chef and a personal serenade? AND BUY YOU A LUXURY CONDO? Actually, the night has just begun...Kat isn't ready to pack it in! Stay tuned...the next chapter is entitled "Rock Stars Party Like Rock Stars"