EPIC (Book 1 of the Soundcrush series)

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.