EPIC (Book 1 of the Soundcrush series)

Chapter 55: Rock Stars Have Little Sisters. For Real.

Trace

I lean against the door and watch Kat and Row facing off. For once, Kat is not my sole focus.

I can't take my eyes off my sister. It's fucking weird, how much we look alike, because we both look like Matt. I never thought much about having brothers and sisters, and even meeting Street and Bridge I didn't feel much of a connection to them yet, but Row...the way she's so full of herself and pissed off, it's like we are made of the same dark sticky musical mess—only I keep my dark stuffed down inside, and she wears hers plastered all over her face. Right now, she's eyeing Kat from behind about two pounds of mascara and black lipstick. I bet we would look even more alike without all her makeup.

When I have the thought that I would like to see her plain face, I realize with a startle that I kinda like that little bitch. I grin at her.

"What are you lookin' at, Gallant?" she sneers.

"You're such a fucking poser," I tell her. "There's no way you are still as pissed as you sound. That was some good shit you packed."

She blinks. I see her lips twitch, but she sucks her cheeks in slightly to keep from smiling. Yeah, her rock star face isn't as good as mine, but she's getting there. Suddenly I have another thought.

"Your band any good?" I ask.

"Better than Soundcrush," she says, sitting down on the toilet and crossing her legs, scrolling her phone. "That was a mediocre sophomore effort you put out."

Bullshit. Our second album was solid. Mac and I wrote all those songs in Portland and it was filled with all the bullshit I was going through with Ash and Mac was going through after her first break-up with Adam. And if that wasn't enough, my complete homesickness and longing for my KitKat flavored every song. When I was writing that album, it was then I decided, I was waiting one more year—til Kat graduated, and then I was getting shit back on track with her.  Deep was an album people could mourn with or get the fuck up for.

"You mean the album the earned us three Grammy's and four multi-platinum singles?" I ask. "You're right, total shit that one."

Row rolls her kohl-lined eyes. "Am I supposed to be impressed with your three little Grammy's? We use Grammy's for paperweights at our house. We use them to hold down tablecloths on the patio table. They get left outside in the rain. One time our dog buried one."

I highly doubt that shit. I haven't been to Matt's house, but I have seen the trophy hall in industry magazines, like everybody else. I'd lay money down that Marianne has every award behind glass. She's proud of Matt and the longevity of Skid Marc's career.

"I thought we were talking about your band, not the old man's," I sneer. "If you are so good, why aren't you signed?"

"Because my damn dad keeps blocking it." She spits. "He's such an asshole. He says we need more time to develop our sound. We have two dozen originals. Consistent, tight. We have a sound. He just doesn't want me out there."

I shrug. "He does know a thing or two about this industry. Maybe you're just not ready. Or maybe you suck and he just doesn't want to hurt your feelings," I'm just trying to get a rise out of her and turn the conversation. I really don't want Kat telling her our business. We are on a damn rollercoaster right now. I don't think my stomach can take another plummit. 

Kat makes a disgusted sound at the way I'm taunting Row, and my eyes flit to her. She doesn't look as furious as she did earlier, but that's likely from the weed.I'm actually kind of glad she did that; it definitely took things down a notch. 

I didn't want to fight with her about the stupid shit I said on the plane. I just want to take her back to the Palace and order some room service and have one swift sweet fuck while we wait on it, and then maybe one more lazy lay after we eat. Maybe fall asleep inside her as the sun is coming up, catch a couple hours sleep before the press junket. It's been a long night, and that would be so nice.