EPIC (Book 1 of the Soundcrush series)

Chapter 8: Rock Stars Make Deals

Kat

It's surprising and scary how disappointed I feel when I awake and find Trace gone. Then I see his text.

Went to Riley's room for a sec. BRB.

I'm glad...it gives me time to put my top back on, pee, do all that unglamorous stuff that girls who date rock stars probably don't do in front of rock stars.

Wait, is that what I'm doing now? Despite Trace's repeated jokes about our "date", and the phone number stunt, and the intimacy of the way he held me last night, I'm not sure what's happening between us. Then it occurs to me...I don't have to be sure, do I? I'm eighteen years old, and my lifelong crush is pushing up on me—hard, AND he happens to be a famous, hot, fabulous musician. Why do I have to stress it? Why can't I just go with it and have fun?

I know why. Because Trace is forever associated in my brain with what happened to Ashlynn, and what happened to Ashlynn is an eternal reminder of my duty as a daughter. I can't do what Ashlynn did—I can't crush my parents. I have to stick to "my" goals, "my" dreams. I have to make them happy and proud, because I robbed them of Ashlynn. And rock stars don't date serious, nose-to-the-grindstone-girls like me, right?

I look at myself in the mirror. I don't look serious. My nose doesn't look like it belongs on a grindstone. Why can't I just take a day to be the girl I used to be? Hell, I can take ten. My parents aren't back from Europe until the middle of next week. Yeah, I can be...fun and young. I can be wild, if I want. I push my hair up on top of my head and pout at myself.

"Nice. You could be the girl on the hood of the car in the music video. Want me to introduce you to some casting people?" Trace is standing at the bathroom door, sipping a coffee.

"Maybe I was just practicing for you, Rockstar." I wink.

"Ahhh. I give you the simple pleasure of the skin cuddle and I'm upgraded from asshole to rockstar. Who knew you were so easy to please as a girlfriend?" he smiles.

My insides churn at how casually Trace says that, but I try to play it cool, like it's normal to talk about what I like in bed. I smile back and rifle through the detritus on his vanity. I pick up his toothbrush and hold it out. He shrugs and nods. I brush. He watches me like I'm a cup of water and he's a man dying of thirst. I know I'm decent-looking, but nobody has ever looked at me like that. Especially not when I have bed hair and smeared mascara. It's a big turn-on, to be desired. Dammit, how can Trace make me so hot when I'm brushing my teeth?

How can I love this thing we are doing so much? What the hell is wrong with me? Don't I have a boyfriend?

"A skin cuddle? Did you just front my random shirt shedding—for comfort only—like you made a move?" I say as I rinse.

"I did make a move. I saw the opportunity to skin cuddle, I took it. It's maybe a slow move, but it's definitely a move. So far I've kissed your fingers, held your hand, and slept with you skin-to-skin. We're going places, babe. It's is legit thing."

"Well, it's a nice thing," I murmur, trying to brush past him. He reaches out an arm and stops me in the doorway, and then puts his other arm out to entrap me, backing me against the door. I try to keep my gaze on his eyes and not his lips, because I know what happens next when he kisses me. He's already warned me. The next time he kisses me, he's not gonna stop, and I can't take another upend-my-world-and-leave-for-tour-trauma.

"I know lots more nice things."

"Me, too." I assure him.

"Wanna trade? I'll show you another one of my nice things and you show me one of yours?" He's not smiling. He has this intense, focused look on his face. His eyes, usually so light they look grey, are now darker than I've ever seen them. This is what desire looks like on grown-up Trace.