Chapter 56: Rock Stars Go Big For Vacay

About Three Months Later, Boston

Kat

I feel a little disappointed, as Street, Bridge and I wade out the doors of Logan Airport into the early morning. There are no familiar faces standing before the long line of hired cars. We are in our best incognito and pulling our portmans. Ben is searching for a placard with his name on it, as Ballard or del Marco would tend to attract too much attention these days.

The disappointment I'm feeling is knowing that Riley won't be holding that sign.

Every time I've met Trace this summer, it was Riley's face that greeted me at the airport. But Riley isn't Trace's PA anymore. Trace doesn't really need a personal, traveling PA, without Ash to keep tabs on. Right now, the band has a new assistant that Riley hired to take care of them all-a task Riley apparently did effortlessly without any of the rest of the band realizing it— but now the new girl is officially "shared."

That sounds bad, but you know what I mean.

I hardly know the girl. Penelope's only been around a couple of weeks, and I've only had a few brief text exchanges with her about my travel arrangements. Apparently, meeting me at the airport with my Starbucks order in hand was not part of her official job description.

That's cool. I miss Riley's smirk and accent, not the coffee.

Anyway, I'm keeping it real in LA. I get my own coffee, even though I'm reluctantly Instafamous. I only post with other WITCHES, and Trace and I still aren't commenting on our relationship, but apparently 25 million people are waiting for the day I put a picture of me and Trace on my Instagram.

It's not really me that's famous. Trace is a damn near religious icon now. Matt went a little overboard. That morning in Vegas he was punch-drunk and way over the top with espresso. He told a Rolling Stone reporter, "Trace has made me believe in fate. Finding my eldest son was a miracle somewhere between serendipity and an act of god. It makes me question everything, and that's a fine fucking day when you get to question everything with a guy like this to bounce shit off of." He collared Trace around the neck, and Trace looked sideways at Matt, and the photographer got THE SHOT OF THE YEAR, as Matt said, "He's nothing short of the best I ever hoped I could be."

Trace catapulted from legit guitarist to sexy Jesus in that penthouse in Vegas.

He's got more Instagram followers than Leed now. Hell, Riley told me a month ago he was in the top fifty of most followed accounts. The brands that were so skittish three months ago are tripping over themselves to pay him half a million dollars for a single shot wearing or using their shit. Paparazzi swarming around him constantly. And he's more DL than ever, because he hasn't changed at all. Completely unphased, still all about the music. Posting cryptic, poetic tweets and untagged shots on Instagram that make people go crazy, wondering where he is and what he's really thinking about.

He's completely indifferent in his fame strategy. He takes endorsements for reasons that have nothing to do with the endorsements, but when he has a need for expendable income--like to donate to one of Marianne's charities that I'm hostessing, or to fund this Labor Day blowout. He's driving Leed crazy, with his seemingly random choices. Leed is a predator...and he thinks Trace should be strategic, diplomatic. He should wait and watch and nurture all potential Soundcrush opportunities, and pounce on the ones that smell the best.

Trace laughs at Leed and tells him in twenty years, no one will remember what the hell Soundcrush endorsed, they will only remember the music that moved them.

I think Trace actually likes fucking with people, using his super-fame.

He's bad. He's my Rock Star. And I love him.

One not surprising side-effect of Trace's steroidal fame: his catty approach to his uber-celebrity status makes me an object of interest...and envy. Even though we are not publicly commenting on our relationship, everybody knows I'm his unofficial girlfriend.But I wouldn't have it any other way. I'm so proud of how well he's handling himself. It's not easy, having your whole identity re-arranged. He's just the same—funny, snarky, sexy, a little bit arrogant, but kind and playful. It's just that fifty million followers see that now, instead of the four or five he had before.

But nobody knows him like I do. Inside and out.

Marianne and her publicist love what Trace's fame does for me. In essence that makes me THE It-Witch. When it's reported that I'm hostessing at one of Marianne's events with my fellow witches, Marianne brings in a bigger crowd, and more donations. Honestly, it sounds sketch when I say it like that, but I'm so happy to be interning for Marianne—her philanthropies do good works. Speaking of work, it really is work—to be a WITCH. I'm learning how to coordinate caterers and book entertainers and venues. I'm learning about budgets and projections and impact. I'm learning how to work with her business people, the directors of her several charities, even the therapists and social workers that coordinate with her. I interact with the people that are helped by her foundation, and I'm learning so much about social problems and solutions.

And yes, I'm learning to rub elbows with the rich, famous, influential people. But I'm learning to handle my own with them—to help Marianne present the needs of communities all over the country. I'm learning how to touch their hearts and minds and get them to help people that really need help.

Marianne is serious about teaching me the ins and outs of philanthropy, and I like that—that she takes me seriously. I know I have more access to her than her average WITCH, because I'm Trace's girlfriend, but I couldn't ask for a better mentor. I like to think she's mentoring me not just because of Trace, but because I'm good at this kind of work.

Every time I go to an event, there's this flash of empathy I feel. It burns. It magnifies; it spreads through Marianne's organization.

That flash of empathy—it starts with Ashlynn, but I'm not ready to embrace her the way I can embrace strangers.

Anyway, Marianne is super. She's great at the work life balance thing, too. She encourages all the WITCHes to work hard and play hard. I have great new friends among the Witches—especially Callie, Marissa and Stella. Friends like I haven't had since I switched schools and lost my connections with Addie Rose and Lila. I'm having a great time on and off WitchCampus. I'm going out to art classes and work-outs, museums and concerts, and having the time of my life. Most importantly, I'm painting nearly everyday—just for myself, but it feels great to have a little studio space again, and a little creative space in my head.

The only down-side: I'm doing all this mostly without my Rock Star.

Don't get me wrong, Trace and I are solid. We talk every day, we text constantly, we even do little social media easter egg things to let each other know we are thinking of each other. He keeps posting pictures of himself climbing trees. I post pictures playing ping pong with WITChes. Every time I'm seen on Instagram with a glass of champagne, I comment that I would rather serve it than drink it. Most people think it relates to be a hostess at Marianne's events, but Trace caught my meaning immediately. Whenever I do that, he always posts a cryptic Tweet—a random factoid about body shots. Nobody has connected our pattern across the two platforms, but it's our private joke.

Being champagne-slurped by Trace is something I think about in my lonely WITCH bungalow, after the dinners, after the clubs, when most of my fellow WITCHes are still having fun. Now that I'm properly introduced to sex with my rock star, I am so miserably horny without him that I have to stay busy constantly to avoid the longing for him. Late at night, there's nothing but longing, my champagne memories, and my two fingers.

Okay, and the present Trace sent me in an unmarked package. Alright, alright, sometimes there's sexting, too. I'm learning that sex toys and snaps are vital parts of a long distance relationship.

I've seen Trace four times since Vegas. A long fourth of July weekend, and two overnighters. The last time I saw him was three weeks ago—we had two very hot and sweaty hours together in a New York City Hotel, before he had to catch a flight and I had to shower and sit for the stylist for a high profile event with Marianne. Just thinking about it now as I follow Ben down the long line of cars, I start to feel the familiar ache and the slowing in my brain—the longing for his touch. I glance behind me at Street and Bridge. They smile brightly, excited for our big party weekend.

Yeah, we are excited for totally different reasons.

Christ, how long until I get Trace alone? It'll be a short ride to the helipad, and then we are taking the helicopter to Martha's Vineyard, where Soundcrush has rented a huge mansion for a partial Labor Day Week.

Would it be rude if I dragged Trace by the cock into a bedroom the minute we land? Hmmmm...probably I should let him have a beer with his siblings first. It might be polite for me to say hello to the Strut girls. And Mac and the guys of course. Especially Leed—he's so damn sensitive when I don't fawn over him, and I don't want him pouting all weekend.

Okay, surely I can get Trace alone sometimes this afternoon. It's a working weekend—Soundcrush and Strut have a festival to play in Boston tomorrow, but then it's three full days of revels, before we all pack it in get back on our jobs. I'm hoping Trace and I spend most of it in bed, but I know that's a pipe dream. You'd think Soundcrush would be sick of each other after three full months of touring, but no, they party like rock stars together every chance they get. Especially this weekend, when you throw Strut and Trace's other siblings in the mix. I'm sure Leed and Bodie will round up some other partiers—those two guys have friends in every city, it seems. So it's likely to be a house party every night. Trace and I will be lucky to find a closet, much less a private room.

"Here we are," Ben says, reaching to take my bag off my shoulder. I smile thanks as he opens the door. We've sort of made a peace, me and Ben. He was right—I appreciate him so much now. I got swamped on Rodeo Drive one day by some really aggressive semi-pro papparazzi. If it hadn't been for Ben, they would have "accidentally" knocked me to the ground just to get a picture of me falling. Ben kept me on my feet and fended off six assholes yelling at me to show more skin. He "accidentally" broke the cameras of the two photographers that grabbed at me. Ever since that day, I don't mind hearing him talk about the "pretty packages." Not that I'm a pretty package anymore—I'm his principle, not a rock star's date.

As I yield my bag to Ben, and turn to let Bridge get in first, I hear, "Hey Gorgeous," from the darkened interior of the car. I twirl, all thoughts of letting Bridge get in first gone. I dive into the seat, straddling Trace and ripping off my sunglasses to get a good look at him.

Every perfect part of my man here, now, mine to touch. I skim over him in giddy disbelief, like a kid on Christmas that got everything on their list. Perfectly mussed hair, check. Lucifer eyebrows, check. Icy, amused baby-grays, check. Sexy square jaw, check. Rock hard torso curving languidly against the seat beneath me—triple check. Arrogant smirk—oh shit the smirk on those lips...

I'm all up on those lips as his hands slide around my hips to my ass, and he invades my mouth with his tongue at the same moment. He tastes so good. Sweet and smoky and the tiniest bit herbal, like always. I run my fingers through his hair and we drink each other, nips and sucks and sliding tongues. We don't even stop when the car starts to move. Finally, the sound of a beer can cracking behind me recalls me to my senses.

"Ooops, I forgot we weren't alone," I giggle against Trace's mouth and he chuckles and gives me two more swift pecks. "What are you doing here, anyway? You didn't have to come off the island just to meet us at the airport."

"Yeah, I did, it got me an extra hour with you. You have to stay in my lap," he whispers in my ear, "because now I have a massive hard-on." I swallow my giggles, and I twist around slowly, sitting in front of him on the edge of the seat as his arms go around me and he leans his chin on my shoulder.

"Hey guys," he says a little sheepishly to his siblings. "Sorry."

Street just shakes his head and grins, as he chugs the beer. "No worries. You miss your girl. Who wouldn't?" Street gives me a bleak smile. I shake my head at him, ever so slightly, and he looks out the window.

I relax into Trace's embrace. His chest to my back. Not quite skin cuddles, but close enough for the moment. There is an awkward pause.

"Good flight?" Trace asks. "Pretty sweet that Matt, I mean, your...I mean, our...fuck..." he grumbles and takes a fortifying breath, restoring his swagger. "Nice of the old man to let you use the jet," he grins.

"Yeah, the old man won't like you calling him that," Street chuckles. "Makes me think we should all take it up."

"Row calls him worse," Trace reminds them. "The Dick-tator, Dad-ass, the Fuckternal Unit..."

"Yeah, she calls you The Bastard Brother, behind your back, you know," Street says looking out the window.

Trace grins, not all bothered. "Technically, I was born in wedlock, even though my dad of record wasn't my actual father. Still I'm pretty sure than means I'm not a bastard. But I have no problem acting a bastard to Row, when a bastard is required to shut her down. She almost got arrested for assault last week in Providence."

"She got in another cat-fight?" Bridge groans.

"No, it was a dude. She cracked him over the head with a beer bottle for grabbing her ass. Deserved, but she didn't have to follow it up with trying to carve "I have a small dick" into his arm with the bottle neck."

Street snickers. "Well she's true to form. Better you than me, brother. I feel like I'm on vacation, since Strut came on tour."

Trace laughs, but I'm curious.

"Wait, did she actually cut the guy?" I ask.

"Hell no. I went all Adam on her. Dragged her out of there." Trace shrugged. "Little bitch bit me," he sticks his forearm in front of my face and I see her teeth marks.

"Awww, baby." I kiss it tenderly, then lick it, then suck it...

He pulls away, and growls in my ear. "Christ...my boner was just starting to go down..."

I giggle and wiggle back against him.

Bridge smiles at us. "So New Sib, when do I get my own personal rock star? Have you put one on reserve for me this weekend? I like the blonde one."

Trace laughs. "Aww, Bridge you need to cut Adam some slack this weekend. He's...in a bad way," Trace says it lightly but I hear the sadness in his voice. I turn my head to the side to see his expression. No joy, he's wearing the Rock Star face. He kisses my temple, "It's not good, tell you later," he murmurs, where the others can't hear.

"Fine, how about the others?" Bridge teases. "Equally scrumptious, that one you call the lion, and yummy drummer boy." I shake my head...she's so weird, the way she frames her speech, but in three months, I've come to love her. She fills the void, ya know? I still don't talk to Ashlynn.

Trace frowns. "I can't tell if you are serious or joking, Sweets." I smile. I love how Trace is already bonding with Bridge. I know they've been texting back and forth some. And of course he and Row are already throwing down on a daily basis like they grew up together. If only he could bridge the awkward gap with Street...

"Joking," she assures him, her large dark eyes round with sincerity. "I don't date musicians. I like the smart ones."

"They can be both," I smile at her and reach up to rub Trace's jaw. Mmmm...he hasn't shaved today. That's going to feel so good on my skin in about forty minutes...

"Not in my experience," she grins. "Anyway, according to Row, Trace laid down the No-Frat law between his band fam and his new fam."

"I just think it's best...when it comes to family. Shit can get complicated quick, you know?" Trace says a little defensively.

"That's an understatement," Street says quietly into his beer, giving me a lingering look.

I sigh. Trace makes the tiniest noise in his throat at Street-so low I'm sure Street doesn't hear, but I do.

It wasn't particularly friendly.

I scrape my nails along Trace's strong arm—the one tucked beneath my breasts, snuggling me so securely right where I want to be—up next to him. At the feel of my nails scoring his skin, his sound of discontent disappears. I hear his breath catch slightly. Oh, I'm really hoping he wants what I want—the quickest possible route to him inside me.

The helicopter is scenic and exciting and loud. This is my third helicopter trip. Once with my family on a vacation, and last month with Marianne at a disaster relief site. Trace keeps his fingers laced in mine, and points both of our hands toward the house he's rented for the next few days. He told me he rented this one and another down the block for the crew with a single new endorsement, but it doesn't surprise me that renting this place cost six figures for the week. It's about five times the size of Trace's house. The wings have wings. Oceanfront, pool, multiple jacuzzi's on private terraces—it's like a resort unto itself. I bet it comes with staff.

"Good living—being a del Marco," I say into the headset, and I hear Trace and Street's matching laughs.

Five minutes later, the four of us are hustling into this New England Mansion. Ben's bringing the bags over with a car on the ferry. Trace lets his siblings go ahead, and he grabs my wrist gently as we cross the threshold, stroking the tender spot to the inside. I scrape the inside of his hand harshly-- digging deep. Giving him permission to respond in kind. He jerks me roughly around, by the wrist.

My heart pounds. It's a narrow tightrope we are learning to walk, between his natural aggression—which I love—and his fear of hurting me—which is his fear alone.

He puts his other hand gently on the back of my head as he leans toward my ear. "I need you, Kitty. You have five minutes to bullshit our friends. If your sweet feet aren't climbing the stairs to our room by then, I'm letting my Neanderthal throw you over my shoulder."

My Inner Fangirl is already on her knees. She would let her Rock Star tie her up and do anything he wanted to her. But self-respecting Kat likes to keep Trace...respecting her. I lean against his forehead. "I'm taking ten, but you can start your timer."

Trace's hot breath blasts against my forehead as he plants his kiss there. "Fuck," he swears vehemently, but then adds..."Deal."

Oh, you guys know what's coming next, right? An explicit album cut...requiring a radio edit. It's gonna take me a couple days...to work on that...stay tuned...

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