FIVE “Got You （Where I Want You）”
FIVE
“Got You (Where I Want You)”
The Flys
Natalie
T his is a lost cause. It’s clear I just wasted eleven hundred dollars on a last-minute plane ticket, maxing out my AmEx for unjustifiable reasons. Nothing could have prepared me for the unsurmountable wrath behind his eyes, or Easton Crowne in general. For a millisecond, I thought his persona might’ve been contrived, but he’s clearly disgusted by anything disingenuous. He also seems to have zero patience for anyone not delivering the truth in the raw. Even if I saw the expression he’s given me a thousand times on the web—which, with the amount of research I did, I probably have—nothing could have prepared me for the punch it packs face-to-face. He’s already raging against the world. While I was ready to face some major resistance, I wasn’t at all prepared for his beauty or his raw presence.
After packing at breakneck speed, I only slept a handful of hours since I landed, and everything about Seattle feels foreign to me. Nothing at all like his mother’s experience of being enveloped in warmth. My parents planned expensive trips overseas for our family vacations and did their best to expose me to various cultures and other walks of life. Though we had some stateside adventures, the Pacific Northwest was never included in them. I’m convinced I now know why. To my father, Washington was probably considered Stella and Reid’s designated corner of the universe, the rest of the world their playground. I’m sure Dad—much like the rest of the world—was always aware in which grounds the Crowne family were stomping and made sure to steer us clear. The question is, who was he protecting? Himself, my mother, Stella?
Glaring down at me, Easton takes a large swallow of the beer I bought before tossing ten bucks on the table to ensure I know my place with him. Nowhere.
“I don’t need to be your friend.”
“No danger there. Admit defeat and go home, Natalie. You’re not ready for this.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know you came underprepared, and you’re grasping at straws already.”
“You don’t know shit,” I snap, exasperated.
“Then fire away.”
He doesn’t give me longer than a second to form a response.
“Either come with decent questions or grant me my freedom.”
I sit stunned at his audacity as he looms over me, six feet and inches of venomous contempt.
“That’s what I thought.”
Before I can blink, he’s stalking away. He’s already on the sidewalk when I catch up to him and keep my voice low. “Why are you so against promoting your album or word getting out that your father is helping produce it?”
“Lame start, and we both know why,” he says, clear irritation in his voice as he pulls keys from his pocket, stops at the door of his classic Chevy, and unlocks it. I manage to catch the door before he slams it.
“Look, asshole, I traveled halfway across the country for this interview, and I don’t have enough to print a full page.”
“Not my problem,” he snaps, reaching for the handle to close himself inside the cab just as I wedge myself between his driver’s seat and the door he’s intent on slamming me out with.
“Yeah, well, I’m making it your problem,” I say, gripping the wheel and boxing myself farther in by stepping up into the cab and hovering above him.
He cants his head up at me as my hair is whipped continuously around my face by the freezing wind. Ducking farther into the truck, ass in the air, catcalls sound out around me from the occupied tables outside the bar. Briefly, I swear I see Easton’s lips lift, but it’s gone before I can properly gauge it as my hair repeatedly slaps my face. “Are you hesitant because you don’t want your father’s status in any way adding to your possible success, or is it because you’re afraid your work won’t be viewed as your own?”
“Are you seriously going to try to conduct this interview with your ass hanging out of my truck?”
I inch closer for some reprieve from the wind, hovering above him as he stares up at me, his expression unreadable.
“Yeah, I am. I blame lack of sleep. So, is that it?” He mulls the question over as I study his face. Perfection. His father’s perfect bone structure, his mother’s dark hair and olive skin tone, which is much deeper in person than pictured. “And if so, why allow him to participate at all?”
He harrumphs, his lips lifting slightly at the corners. “For that answer, you’d have to meet Reid fucking Crowne.”
I bite my lip to keep from smiling and fail as the wind whips into the cabin, and I shudder from the chill. I’m rewarded with the sharpening of his hazel return stare, another gift from his father.
Easton Crowne is dangerously attractive, but not in the traditional sense, and appears untouchable. After the reception he gave me, I have zero doubt he views me as some polished princess who exists galaxies out of his realm. I can only imagine the caliber of human beings he’s been surrounded by in his lifetime. I assume many of them established musicians, movie stars, gurus of every sort, you name it. He’s grown up in a kaleidoscope world, and to him, I’m probably just some southern belle as annoying as a gnat landing in his dark beer.
“Jesus, you don’t even consider me worth a minute of your life, do you? You hate the media, but you’ve gathered conclusions about me in a few minutes, making you the worst kind of hypocrite. It’s what I know that’s bothering you.”
We stare off for silent seconds, and I know I still have his attention for that reason alone.
“What I want to know is how you fucking found out,” he bites out bitterly.
“Never reveal a source,” I snap. “That’s Journalism 101.”
Tension rolls off both of us as I stay put, in his space, doing my best to keep what little shred of confidence I have left. He glares at me with a mix of ‘you’re crazy’ while weighing whether or not I’ll carry out my threat.
Exhaling, I step down, still blocking him from shutting the door but giving him space to make his decision.
“Look, my father is my editor, so I get it. It’s not the same, but I do get it.”
The buzz from the hearty sips of beer I took on an empty stomach hits harder as I straighten my posture and come to my senses. It’s as if the entirety of my education went out the window when he threatened to walk. When he sees I have the good sense to be a little embarrassed about it, amusement wins with the slight tilt of his lips. That’s two almost smiles I’ve drawn from him. Maybe there’s a chance to turn this around.
“Freshly graduated?”
“Shut up,” I snap, unable to help my smile. “I’m well aware of my behavior at all times.”
“All I’m saying is that I’ve been singing and playing instruments since I was two. We’re not in the same ballpark.”
“Again, so quick to condemn. My father didn’t read me bedtime stories, Easton. He read me news articles starting with the Roosevelt administration all the way up to Anthrax before I started reading them myself. I wrote my first column when I was seven. It was about my horses. Hi, kettle, nice to meet you. I’m pot.”
As to the question of why I’m here? The truth is I really don’t know . . . I maxed out my AmEx, and on a whim, came here for what? To be ridiculed by a beautiful asshole who seems to be able to see right through my ruse.
“Look, I’ll admit I’m slightly off my game. I’ve barely slept in two days. I’m fucking exhausted and running on fumes and misplaced emotions, and definitely didn’t plan on—”
On what, Natalie? Being attracted to your father’s ex-girlfriend’s son?
Heat coats my neck, and I feel the flush traveling up. I’m thankful for the rapid wind stinging my face to disguise it as more catcalls sound from the tables outside the pub.
A smug smirk graces Easton’s features, and somehow, I know he recognizes everything I’m not saying. Instead of shying away, I switch gears and palm the top of his truck, my dark beer-bred brass balls on full display.
“My legitimacy as a reporter aside, what’s the worst that can happen? Maybe your success can’t touch the Sergeants’ legacy.” Annoyed, I wrestle the hair obstructing my view and secure it inside my fist hoisting it atop my head to see his eyes intent on mine. “But you’re not doing it for that, Easton. You said it yourself. You’re doing it because you have no choice. Maybe that’s why you don’t give a damn about promoting it or trying to sell it because we both know your father—no matter who he is—can’t make you a success. Either way, your reasons are your own. Just let me relay that one truth to them, so you don’t come across as a pretentious douche bag.”
Why are you giving him a pep talk while offering him something you can’t deliver!? You have a paper to earn and inherit. Go home!
An electric current begins to thrum through my veins from the intensity of his gaze. I exhale harshly as he remains mute, and all hopes of salvaging this trip dissipate while I battle to keep the rest of my sanity.
“Obviously, I’m nowhere near the caliber of reporter of my dad or your mother . . . yet . But I’m too fucking intelligent to let inexperience or shaky confidence be the reason I tap out. It will have to be something far more substantial than that to tear me away from my own aspirations, and from what I’ve gathered, I think it’s the same for you. Stick to that, and good luck,” I exhale sincerely. “I wish you well, I really do, and again I’m sorry for the way I approached you. I mean that. I’m not . . . I haven’t been myself lately, and you’re right, it’s not your problem. Take care, Easton.” I step back and palm the door closed for him. He keeps my gaze through the window as he turns the truck over. Defeated but refusing to let him see it, I decide to give him space to make his exit.
His window lowers an inch just as I step back on the curb. “Get in.”
Turning, he slides on the bench seat and pulls up the lock, which sits in the window frame of the ‘80s model truck. As I round the hood, a roar of cheers sounds from the tables. Rolling my eyes, I playfully give them the one-finger salute before sliding onto the bench seat and shutting myself in the truck.
“You have to slam it.”
I do, and before I can get a word in, Easton pulls the gearshift next to the large steering wheel down and gasses us out of the parking lot.