Chapter 41: (Some) Rock Stars Become Royalty

Trace

Seven mornings have dawned since that night I left New Orleans, and it's like I'm living a completely different life. I have spent my days mostly roaming between this rural Tennessee hospital and the Starbucks down the street. They won't let me hang out in Ashlynn's room all day, because she's not a regular patient. They have a strict visiting schedule for detoxing patients, as her parents and I learned the first day.

Thankfully Ashlynn's injuries—a concussion, a sprained wrist, internal bruising—were mostly from her air bag deploying when she rammed into a tree on a rural state road. Cops said it was hard to say how fast she had been going; there were no skid marks. She didn't lose control, or try to stop. She was high, and probably blacked out or just lost focus of the fact that she was driving.

She could have killed herself. When I got to the hospital, one look in her eyes told me she knew it. And for the first time since I married her, I saw something else in her eyes—determination. I'm almost grateful for this car accident. Maybe the desire not to die will do something for Ash I haven't been able to—give her the motivation to live clean.

Maybe Leed was right—she has to be her own hero.

She's been a real trooper about the detox—hasn't cried or complained much at all through the vomiting, shakes, and misery. I'm proud of her. Michael and Ellen are freaking out about her detox condition, but I've tried to explain that she's handling it so much better than I've ever seen her cope with it before. This is fifth time I've been through this with her.

Her parents and I could rotate visiting her, and not even see each other, but that's not how we have decided to roll. Bizarre but true: in the last week I've developed a cordial relationship with them. A near miracle considering they used to think I was a devil sent to plague their older daughter and corrupt their younger daughter into sin. But I wasn't the only sinner in this current situation, was I? I know now, they were aware Ash and I were married, and they were avoiding the situation, and keeping it from Kat, just like Ash and I were avoiding them.

It's funny how sometimes two wrongs make a right, because now, we're all working together. They are being concerned parents, but they are yielding to my "position" as Ashlynn's husband and the person who gets to help her make decisions. They haven't said a word about her coming home with them, and they aren't trying to control what comes next, after her detox.

Mostly we are focused on Ash getting through each day, but I decided to go fully transparent with them, the first night we were all together, back at the hotel. I knocked on their door, sat down in their room, and I told them everything I'd been through with Ashlynn since she'd left home. I also told them I was in love with Kat—that I've always loved her. I told them I told them everything that happened that New Year's night, because before now I had only told them lies. I told them how I kissed Kat, how I stopped things from going any farther, how she got drunk and later, how I stopped Chaz. I told them about my dad, and his drinking, and his tendency to violent outbursts. I told them how my dad and I fought that night because Kat was passed out in my bed. I told them how Ash got in between us and got hurt. The only thing I didn't tell them was about my dad wanting to take her home before we called 911. I just couldn't say that out loud; it was too shameful. But I told them I knew I was responsible for Ashlynn's accident.

"I started the fight with my dad that night," I confessed. "He said something that made me angry—something rude about Kat—and I shoved him against the wall. That's how it started. If I hadn't gotten physical with him that night, Ashlynn would have never have gotten hurt. She'd never be where she is now."

Michael and Ellen exchanged a long look, and that's when I knew—they weren't surprised to hear about the violence between me and my dad. Ellen cried and hugged me. Michael looked angry, but then he said. "I saw how Ross changed over the years. We played golf together. I knew he drank too much. I never asked him once, if he needed help." He gripped my shoulder hard and looked me in the eye, maybe for the first time ever in my whole life. "I never asked you, if you needed help. I'm sorry, Trace. What happened to Ashlynn was not your fault. I'm not even sure it was Ross's fault. It sounds like he's a very broken man."

"He's a drunk that hurts people," I retort. "Don't feel sorry for that asshole."

After that, everything changed between me and the Ballards. They are embracing me like a son-in-law, but they don't quite know how to feel about my unusual love triangle with their daughters. Michael, using his best CEO persona, suggested we put a pin in my feelings for Kat and focus on Ash's recovery and protecting Kat from the media shitstorm that is raging around her.

Because apparently, now Kat is almost as famous than I am, and she's got her own headlines. "Little Sister Grows Up and Plays With the Big Boys" and "Soundcrush Siren" Pictures of her dancing with me AND Leed and at the club went viral. In every shot, Kat looks like a movie star.

Marcy's fielding calls by the hour from other publicists trying to get Kat's number, wanting to discuss representation, wanting to manage her social media and shopping her offers from trendy clubs nationwide. Yes, clubs really do pay celebrities to come party—some offering Kat tens of thousands of dollars just to show up for a couple of hours. Brands are already interested in offering her free swag to wear.

Marcy is all for marketing Kat. She thinks its great way to swing the media dynamic from my questionable relationship with her to Kat as an empowered, independent celebrity in her own right.

Which is bullshit, because if Kat goes down that road, she won't be independent—she'll be in a prison of fabricated celebrity status at the whimsy of public opinion. Kat's struggling enough with her identity, she does not need fake fame to fuck with her head even more. Famous-for-being-famous types fall into two categories: complete narcissists who love their status or people like Molly Banks who feel fraudulent and insecure about their celebrity status and act out in weird ways. Kat's no narcissist, and I won't let her get taken advantage of by the fame industry. I told Marcy bluntly I'd fire her if she promoted Kat, or brokered other representation for her.

I really need to talk to Kat about all this, and explain things to her. But she won't take my calls. She won't take her parents' calls either. She's home at her parent's house in Atlanta. Maddie and Laurel are staying with her—I know that because she will speak to Riley and Ben. Riley says she's uber pissed and hurt, and doesn't want a damn thing to do with me or her parents right now.

Riley also told me about Colin showing up with her parents. I'm not at all surprised by that. I know he's hanging around with her right now. It makes me grind my teeth to think that Kat might be so hurt that she might turn to him for comfort, but if that's what she needs right now, she can have him. Even if she fucks him, I won't make a big deal. I love her and I know she loves me. She's told me and I've felt it. I hope she doesn't do something that she'll regret, but I've made some huge fucking mistakes, and I'm desperately hoping she can forgive them, so even if she needs to get with Colin, to remind herself what love is and what love isn't, we'll work it out.

We have to. Kat and I are meant to be. Maybe I sound like some kind of obsessed fanboy—and maybe I am when it comes to her—but it doesn't change the fact. We are meant to be. She can ignore my texts and calls all she wants, until she's ready to talk. I'm not going anywhere.

I really do need to talk to her, though. Not about us, but about her newfound fame. Eventually, the promoters are going to contact her directly, and she needs to be prepared for that. She needs to be very selective about becoming a public figure, if she doesn't want to be a Molly Banks. When I told Michael Ballard about the offers and my take on the situation, and asked him to let me send Riley to his house to counsel her and a security guard to protect her, he slapped me on the back and said, "You've got a good head on your shoulders to be a celebrity, Trace." And then, as if I weren't just talking about protecting Kat, Ellen said, "Ashlynn is so lucky to have you."

Yeah, I think they are actually hoping that somehow this all stays tidy, that Ash and I just stay married and that Kat goes off to school and forgets about her crazy weekend with me.

As much as I feel like Ash is my family now, the idea that we will stay married is beyond fucking ridiculous. No one person has ever felt as real and valuable and close as Kat. Even if she will never have me back, I will never entertain the idea of staying married to Ashlynn.

It would be the ultimate disrespect to the woman I love.

I'll never let Kat think the love I tried to show her those three days she was with me wasn't real. I'll do whatever it takes to win her back. I figure I've already waited her whole life for her to grow up. If it takes a while to earn her forgiveness...well I'm down to wait for it.

Except this time, I won't be fucking every fangirl in sight. This time, I'll wait for Kat, like she waited for me.

And while I'm getting myself right for a future with Kat, there's one more thing I have to get straight. Which is why, after my morning visit with Ashlynn, I'm now driving to Nashville to take a meeting.

I find the hotel easily, drop the rented car with the valet, and three minutes later I'm knocking on the door of a penthouse suite. Matt del Marco opens the door, and even though he traded his blown-out perm for close cropped hair long time ago, I always have a flash of the way he used to look on those Skid Marcs videos of old—skinny, bare chested and tattooed, big-haired, wailing on a guitar, stomping around with a microphone.

Real rock stars never die, they just get better with age. He's wearing a fine cotton shirt so thin and tight I can see all his tats. All his old random tattoos are reworked into a tribal pattern now, and he updated his physique, too. Shit, he looks more fit than I do. He's looking me up and down and thinking the same damn thing. A grimace lines his ever youthful, angular face, but his icy gray eyes give nothing away.

"You look like shit, man," he says as he steps aside to let me in. The room is bustling with a number of people.

"Rough week," I say.

He gives the chin-nod—damn, the same nod I give—to someone I assume is his PA, and within minutes we have coffees and a clear room.

"Hey, I appreciate you making time," I say.

He shrugs and sips, "For you—always, kid. Fortuitous, that I just happened to be here in Tennessee, when you called."

Fortuitous. I grin at his four-syllable word. Shit, it's almost creepy how much we are alike.

"Yeah, very...fortuitous," I agree.

"That's bullshit," a throaty female voice calls from the bedroom. "Marcy called him." Not surprising. We share the same publicist. "He paced around the house for days, wondering what to do. I told him, 'Let's just get on a fucking plane.' It's what he would do for any of his other kids."

I choke on my coffee.

Matt winces. "Sorry, man. I know you like to keep it...professional."

I laugh and run a hand over my chin, so like his. "Don't take it the wrong way. I just don't want people thinking I didn't earn my way in the business."

Marianne saunters from the bedroom in skin tight jeans and six inch heels, perfectly styled dark hair and red lipstick. She drapes herself on the arm of my chair, and pats my back. "You earned every bit of your success, doll. But you can't help it if rock-star is in your genes." She winks at her husband. "You get it from your old man."

"Annie, Jesus, will you cut the kid a break? You know how fucking weird all this paternity shit is for him." There's no heat in the way he speaks to her. More like exasperated adoration, as he smiles at her.

It's nice to see how much he loves Marianne, but it's also a little sad for me, to think he and my mom were nothing more than a wild crazy weekend in his hotel suite twenty five years ago, and that she never even told him she was pregnant. She also never told me that the father I grew up with wasn't my father. Ross Gallant married his college sometimes-girlfriend, thinking there was a chance that I was his kid. But I wasn't. My blood type when I was born ruled him out, and he knew it. And he could never come to terms with it. Apparently he started drinking shortly after I was born, and never really stopped.

I pat Marianne on the hand. "S'okay. I think I'm finally getting used to the idea that my old man is Matt del Marco."

Really, I'm not sure I'll ever be used to it. The whole things is surreal. But it has been from the moment I met him and we just...clicked. We just kept meeting at industry events and for whatever reason, always found ourselves bullshitting over random stuff, and enjoying it. I couldn't really explain why I liked the dude so much, or why he liked me.

Then about six months ago, I took my mom to one of Marianne's charity events with me. When she and Matt came face to face, there was a flash of...weirdness, recognition, and awkwardness when he introduced his wife. Later that night, he called me over after I had had quite a few drinks. It was pretty weird, because even though I was drunk and he was sober, he was the freaked out one. He started stuttering over a bunch of random questions—like how old I was, where I was from, where my mother went to college. When he asked me if my mother had a large splattery birthmark across her shoulders, I freaked the fuck out and asked him how he knew that.

He admitted to me he thought he'd spent a really amazing weekend with her back in the nineties, one of the few fangirls that had left a lasting impression. We both turned to my mother, and the expression on her face, seeing us standing together was enough to make Matt walk right up to my mother and ask her bluntly if they had slept together back in spring of '95, after a show in Fort Lauderdale.

She nodded. Then he turned to me and asked me when my birthday was. December, 28th, 1995. "Your eyes," he muttered, "there the same weird color as mine. Do you know that?"

"I don't know fuck about fuck, man," I turned to my mother. "Mom?"

Things got a little crazy after that. One tearful explanation, several tense meetings between Matt's people and my people and two DNA samples later, I had a new daddy, an iron-clad NDA that bound both of us not to reveal it. Matt didn't even tell his kids, but he had some explaining to do to his wife. But it was all good between them. He and Marianne weren't married, or even together back then. Marianne was his childhood sweetheart, but they didn't get exclusive until Matt was nearly thirty and ready to settle down.

It's kind of funny that out of all us, Marianne is the most comfortable with the situation. She told me once she always figured he had a kid or two out there somewhere, she was just glad to know that I turned out okay. Okay is a relative term. I haven't yet told them much about Ross Gallant, the man that raised me.

Matt taps out an irritated rhythm on the chair with his fingers, recalling me to our conversation. He's still watching me, with a grim look. "So, Marcy says a celebrity gossip blogger has your marriage certificate, and it's just a matter of time, before the story breaks. How come you never told me you were married? And is it true? Are you screwin' around on your wife with her little sister?"

Ah, now I understand the disapproving fatherly look. I lean forward, hands on knees. "Actually, Matt, the truth is the just the opposite. I've sort of...betrayed the girl I've been in love with my whole life by perpetrating a marriage scam with her big sister, to keep the big sister from being committed by their parents while I tried to help her kick her habit."

Matt and Marianne both blink, and then Marianne slaps me on the back and slides down on the couch beside me. "You fucking rock stars and your crazy-ass drama. Alright, you better explain."

I tell the story. I'm getting a good at it, considering I just told it to the Ballards a few days ago. Matt's jaw tenses in anger as I gloss over Ross Gallant's history of drunk violence. I would have skipped that part, except that in order to explain why I married Ashlynn, I have to explain her brain injury.

When I finish, Matt rubs his fingers across his lips. "What a clusterfuck, man. There's like, a whole album's worth."

I laugh—for the first time in days. "Yeah. Actually, I've been songwriting a little this week."

"Wanna go lay some of it down?" he grins. "Great studios here in Nashville. I could get take a little time."

"Shit, ask me again after the news that I'm married breaks," I say earnestly. "My rep's not gonna survive this. The world already thinks I creeped on a fifteen year old. How's it gonna play when it comes out I married her sister? And with the pictures of me dancing with Kat at the club while my wife was bleeding in a car crash? They'll paint me like a goddamn sociopath. I'm already on the outs with the label and the brands, and the promoters. I've been missing my mark in the band, too, over this. I'm thinking...Soundcrush and I might have to part ways."

"Is that what you want? Lay low for awhile? Re-style and stage a solo comeback in a couple of years?" he asks thoughtfully.

"Fuck no. I love everything about Soundcrush. I love those guys. I love our sound. I thought we would go the distance...like Skid Marcs."

Matt rubs the back of his neck and leans forward, hands on his knees, just like me. "All right then. So we kill the story about Ashlynn."

I laugh bitterly. "How? Marcy says that guy won't back down. He's looking to be the next Perez Hilton and it's the celebrity story of the year."

Matt looks at me like I'm dumb. "So we kill the story of the year by giving him the story of a lifetime."

I stare at him blankly.

He grins, arching his fingers in the air between us like a headline. "Trace Gallant, love child of Matt del Marco? Father and Son Rock Stars Fated To Find Each Other? No one will give a shit about some teen sex or a secret wife, with that kind of story to hype. It's fucking mythological. They can't exactly slaughter you and make you a god at the same time, can they?"

I find myself speechless. I thought Matt wanted to keep our relationship completely private."Are you serious?"

He shrugs. "Isn't that why you came? To ask me to come out as your father?"

I feel the color drain from face, and the muscles in my back seize a little with shock. "That's not why I came. I thought we agreed it was best to keep it dialed back. Honestly, Matt, I'm no good at the father-son shit."

Matt and Marianne exchange one of those looks married people give each other. She pats me on the shoulder again, and rises, sauntering away into the bedroom to give us privacy.

Matt sits his coffee down carefully and laces his hands between his knees. We're both leaning forward, our heads are close together. His eyes stay on the floor and his voice is low.

"Your dad—I mean the one that raised you—that New Year's—it probably wasn't the first time he got drunk and hurt somebody, was it?"

I didn't have words. I felt like an eight-year old kid again, hiding in shame. I just hung my head.

"Just say it," Matt prods gently. "How bad was it?"

"My mom took most of it. It wasn't every day—just random, when he got really, really drunk. Mostly verbal abuse. Sometimes he would shove her, grab her. A few times he slapped her. I got the same kind of treatment, until I was about fourteen. Then it got worse, before it got better. We had a few fistfights. First, I learned to take a punch. Later, I learned to hit hard and fast, to stop a fight before it really got started. By the time I was sixteen, he couldn't really hurt me anymore, but I couldn't always be there, between him and my mom."

Matt nodded. "I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry, Trace."

I shrug. "It's over. I just don't want to relive that, you know?"

Matt grunts in agreement. After a long moment, he says, "Trace, you're my son. My blood. Hearing that you and your mom had a rough home life, it's hard for me to take. I get all the reasons why your mom didn't let me know about you, but I wish things had been different. I wish you and your mom hadn't lived in a broken situation. I wish I could have been there to stop the man that laid his hands on you, the man that wasn't man enough to love you like his own. I couldn't help you then, but I can help you now. I can make it so that people in this industry know that if they rough you up for their personal gain, they are fucking with me. And nobody in this industry fucks with me. That's why, I think you should let me claim you."

He raises his eyes to meet mine, and puts a hand on my shoulder. "Let me make you fucking untouchable, Son."

Again, I have no words. I just slowly nod. "Uhhh," I finally manage to stutter. "Okay, then. That sounds...good."

He grins. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He laughs and shakes me roughly, pulling me to my feet in a man hug and back thumping. "Marianne," he yells. "Call the kids. Tell Street to get his ass home for a family meeting...your brother Street, he's a freshman at Berkley, you know," he says casually, then he raises his eyebrows at me. "Oh, sorry, I'm used to being the rock star that runs shit in his inner circle. Can you fly back with us? We need to tell your brothers and sisters about you pronto. Marcy can only string that fucking blogger along for so long before she has to feed him something."

"Uhhh, I'd love that, but it might be tough," I'm blown away that I'm being included in a del Marco family dinner with my brothers and sisters. "Ash is being released in the morning, and we're still negotiating where she's willing to go to rehab. And I have to see Kat, before anything else, and I've got to get back to the tour, before the weekend show. I could get a flight out to from Atlanta to LA, in a couple days, if dinner will keep. But it will have to be a one night turn-around, and if we have to meet this blogger face-to-face, it will have to be then..."

"Fine, family dinner day after tomorrow. Marianne's got a charity thing in Atlanta tomorrow anyway." He raises his eyebrows. "Just text me, we'll hang around and you fly back with us on my jet."

"That'll work. Thanks, man. I didn't know you had a jet," I say, laughing a little. Fucking old school rock stars and their excesses.

"Soundcrush should think about getting one. It's damn convenient."

I roll my eyes. "I don't see the point, when the label leases one for us, probably more up-to-date than yours, and we don't have to hassle with maintenance."

Marianne saunters back out of the bedroom already on her phone. "Are you two really gonna play whose got a better flying metal dick?"

"He's not just my son, he's my musical usurper," Matt winks at me. "I have to keep him in his place."

"Jack!" he shouts to his PA in the bedroom. The PA pops his head out. "Were you listening to all that?"

The guy grins. "Of course. I'm already on hold with Marcy."

Matt gives him a fist pump in the air and then he slings his arm around me. "All right. It'll take Marcy a couple days to settle the details and the NDA with fucking blogger, anyway. You know we'll have to do a series of interviews with the legit media after the blogger breaks the news. I know you've got a tour going on, and I'm semi-retired, so I'm down to come to you. Speaking of tours, I'm thinking it would be fun to do a limited run again with Skids Marcs maybe next year. We could totally rock this father-son thing, I'm thinking twelve shows, with Soundcrush opening."

"Fuck that," I grin. "You can open for us. We just played to forty thousand at the Benz. What's your crowd draw these days?"

He rubbed his lip and looked smug. "Eighty thousand at Wembley last year."

"You win," I concede, "But ask me again after we play Wembley in the spring."

"Deal," he slaps me on my back, and then as if he remembered. "Wait, if you didn't come for this...what did you want to see me about?" He gestures for me to sit again.

Oh that. Shit. I want to tell him, I need to talk to somebody that's been through it, but it's really fucking hard to do.

"Well, there's something else. I...I need some advice. It's kind of...serious."

He groans a little. "Fuck, you came about the girl, huh?"

"Kat, yeah," I confirm. "I love her. Like I can't even explain."

Matt rubs his chin and gives me a wry smile. "Try."

I wrap my hands around the back of my neck and focus on a blank spot on the wall. "I've always loved her. She feels like...part of me. I've been with...shit, I've been with more than a hundred girls in the last few years..." Yeah, I might have rounded down a little on my body count to Kat, but honestly I stopped counting a while ago. "I felt nothing for those girls, beyond the dick. I feel a thousand times more from just being in the same room with Kat as I ever felt with any other girl. I love her and I want to fucking claim her, you know? Make her happy, make her mine, keep her safe, show the world how much I love her, all that shit."

Matt smiles. He's looking beyond me, to Marianne. "I do know what that's like, yes."

"But I have no idea why I fucked it up like I did. I've asked myself a million times—why did I marry Ashlynn? Why did I fucking do that? And on the surface I know why—because I wanted to help her make sure her parents couldn't sent her to mental facility against her will. But then—why did I lead Kat on, and not tell her the whole truth? That was most fucking douche-bag thing anybody could ever do. What the fuck made me do that?"

He looks at me curiously, he unnervingly familiar gray eyes piercing me. "Really? You don't know why? It looks pretty simple from where I sit."

I lean forward. "It does?"

"Yeah," he shrugs. "You sabotaged that shit with Kat." He makes a whistling noise like a bomb dropping and then an explosion sound, complete with a flaring fist.

"No, I really didn't—"

"Fuck yeah, you did. There's a part of you that doesn't think you deserve her, and another part that needs to know she loves you enough to forgive the biggest fuck-up you could make." He glances at Marianne, roaming around the suite on the phone. "I've been there, man. I had a rough home life as a kid, too. Never felt like anyone ever gave a shit, you know? I put Marianne through hell for fifteen years, trying to push her away, show her she deserved better than me. Naw, you married the sister because that kind of vibe was the ultimate dysfunction, and that's what you know. What you grew up with. Deep down, what you think you deserve."

I open my mouth to tell my legendary bio-dad that he is full of great steaming piles of pop-psychology horseshit, but then I shut it. The chills running up and down my spine are hard to ignore. Quite possibly, they mean he is close to being...exactly right.

"Huh," is what I say, instead of the pile of horseshit thing.

"Yeah." He's smug, his arms folded. "I've had a shit ton of rehab, therapy, guided reflection. If somebody can charge you four hundred bucks an hour for it, I've done it. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about. The real question is not why. The real question is: are you ready to be the man you think she deserves? Cause if you love her that much...the shady guy with the secrets and the swagger—that ain't it, Chief."

"I know," I tell Matt. I do know. But I also know Kat. Not the hollow girl, but the HellKat she truly is—the one that's going to show me all her rightfully deserved anger. Matt's right. I have to be man enough to absorb all her anger and somehow make her see that the anger and hurt can't dissolve the love we share.

Otherwise Kat goes back to living in the blue.

I won't let that happen.