Reverse (Bittersweet Symphony Duet #2)

NINE “Safety Dance”

NINE

“Safety Dance”

Men Without Hats

Natalie

A nxiety slithers through me as I gape at the track behind Easton, who is currently conversing with Jedidiah, one of the two guys who met us at the SUV. On the floor of the arena, I’ve patiently stood at his side, being completely forgotten for the last ten minutes. Feeling oddly put off by his blatant brush-off, I entertain calling an Uber and giving him the one-finger salute. As I entertain the thought, Easton finally looks over and smirks as if he can sense my aggravation. Just as I narrow my eyes, he reaches back and pulls off his shirt. Olive skin stretches over perfectly muscled pecs, down to a crystal-cut eight pack. His upper body is every bit as impressive as that of a top-tier athlete, and my appreciation for his efforts threatens to escape as I fight to keep my jaw clamped closed. As he busies himself back into the conversation, I drink in his long, muscular torso, my eyes bulging as he starts to unbuckle his belt, the sheer sight of it doing something to my insides. Belt dangling, he pulls another shirt from his duffle as I step back to where Joel stands idly by.

“He’s not actually planning on—” my question is cut short as Easton pushes his jeans off his hips, and I’m struck sideways by the sight of him in nothing but black boxer briefs.

Jesus by the river.

Toned, muscular calves, thick thighs, a prominent LELO-HEX-XL bulge hanging between them. He’s most definitely been graced with the body to match the face. His tinted skin helps to showcase the shadow of the ridiculously deep V-cut that peeks out of his boxers. A dark trail of hair lining what I can see of the top of his navel. His eyes flit to mine briefly, and the faint curve of his lush, red-tinged lips follow before he plucks some pants from his duffle. A deep chuckle sounds from next to me, and I turn to see Joel eyeing my reaction with amusement.

“Is it customary for men to strip—” I’m cut short again as Jedidiah manages to get into his own underwear within a blink. His body is just as insanely toned, muscles rippling with his every movement as he jokes with Easton like they’re old friends—and maybe they are.

Easton again glances over at me as I narrow my eyes.

I’m onto you.

I fight my tongue from escaping my lips as the two of them banter as if standing beachside, golden skin, muscles taut and taunting for everyone without a swinging dick to admire—which makes me a lone party of one . Ripping my eyes away, I shrug.

“Well, big shit, so he’s pretty.” I cross my arms, “They make ’em just as pretty in Texas,” I spout to Joel, which has him belting out another loud laugh. Easton turns at Joel’s outburst, his eyes darting curiously between Joel and me as we share a smile. In the next second, both Easton and Jedidiah are dressed in riding gear.

It’s when I see the bikes being rolled up that the fear kicks in, and I step up to Easton in an attempt to be some sort of voice of reason. He gazes down at me with glittering eyes full of mischief, seemingly ready for my protest. It’s then I notice they’re far greener in color than a mix of both. The light honey-brown color surrounding his pupils threading out like tiny sun rays before disappearing in a sea of emerald green.

Pretty man on motorbike, destination—death. Focus, Natalie!

“Look, I know it’s not my place, and we just met, but are you fucking crazy?!” My voice of reason sounds more like the screech of a grandmother with a fanny pack full of Bactine and Band-Aids. Supplies that won’t help Easton one damn bit if he loses control on the massive track behind him.

“I wouldn’t argue with that assessment,” Easton retorts. “Seems I’m in good company.”

“Har, har,” I whisper-hiss, leaning in, “just so you know, you don’t opt to ride a death trap on Mt. Suicide before you drop your first album and break every bone in your body!” I mentally search the endless articles I read last night about Easton—or any mention of him—and not one of them cited motocross or anything else helpful for that matter. Fear escalating, I eye the monstrous track behind him. Intimidating mounds of dirt are piled high, expertly architected for the Evel Knievel-type motherfuckers surrounding him in encouragement.

“You’ve done this before, right?” I ask, further invading his space. “Right, Easton?” I press when he doesn’t answer, the early morning wind whipping around my face, my wayward curls sticking to my lip gloss.

Wordlessly, Easton slides on his gloves as an amused Jedidiah nudges him before handing him a helmet and goggles. “Little lady is worried about you.”

“I’m not his little lady,” I snap. “I’m just the journalist who will not get her story if her subject ends up in a damned coma!”

“Ah, now don’t go hurting my feelings,” Easton chides, “you’re acting a lot like my little lady . . . and I kind of dig the concern. If you feign indifference now, it will only hurt my confidence.”

“Oh, you’ll survive,” I snark with an eyeroll before I straighten and sober considerably. “You will survive, right?”

Easton weighs my expression before he slides on his helmet. He’s doing this.

“You know if you break your neck, you’ll never know if your album goes platinum! Does your mother know you’re doing this?”

“Why, you going to call her?” I can only see the tips of his smile, but I can tell it’s full by the devilish glint in his eyes. My heart begins to pound erratically inside my chest as I dart my attention between Easton and the track.

I know fuck all about motocross, but I’ve seen it in passing on TV, and from what I can tell, you have to be close to a professional level to take on a track like the one looming behind him.

“Easton,” I plea. “You’ve done this before, right?”

He gestures for me to step back, and I lay my hand on one of his gloved hands where it rests on the handle of the bike and shake my head. It’s then he lifts a gloved hand and takes the hair I’m close to eating away from my lips, the gesture intimate but short-lived. Instead of replying to any one of my protests, he lowers his goggles and kicks the bike to life, forcing me back.

Jedidiah looks back over to me, a smirk firmly in place to match my horror-filled expression. His shout barely registers over the hornet-sounding engine ringing in my ears. “Trust him. He’s got this.”

I nod as Joel grips me by the shoulders and ushers me back toward the stands.

The next few minutes are a battle to keep my coffee down as Easton keeps to one area of the course, opening the bike up, his wheels catching once or twice in a way that has my stomach roiling.

“He’s in the rut,” Joel says.

“I’ll say. Is this some sort of cry for help?”

Joel belts out a hearty laugh. “No, the rut is the most technical part of the track and hard to get through. He’s just warming up.”

“Oh, greeeeaaat,” I reply dryly. “Some bodyguard you are.”

All I get is an answering smile as his eyes trace Easton on the track. There’s definitely a friendship there, a brotherly type of love. It’s easy to see by Joel’s expression. He doesn’t want him hurt, which eases my nerves by a fraction.

“This isn’t his first time,” Joel finally relays, “or second.”

“I’ve gathered that,” I harrumph as Jedidiah fires up his own bike and makes his way toward Easton. Jedidiah’s a little older, and I know just by the look of the way he’s riding that he’s a pro. To his credit, Easton seems to have his own way with the bike, his posture just as natural and impressive. After a few minutes of racing around each other in the rut, they both seem to appear out of thin air at the top of the starting line, wheels edging on a pile of dirt at least a few stories high. Prompted by fear alone, I do the sign of the cross just as Easton’s helmet tips down in my direction. He seems to pause when he sees me praying as if the gesture stunned him.

Anxiety partying in my gut, I twist my hands in my lap and shake my head in denial. Why the hell did he want me here? To witness his senseless end? Does he believe in God? Does he want a funeral? Cremation or burial? Am I responsible for reporting his last words to the world? If so, he should have at least given me something worthwhile. My memory is shit in times of extreme stress, so I doubt I’d do him justice.

Before I can contemplate any more questions, Easton takes off, and Jedidiah remains at the top of the hill. I barely have time to gulp back air before he speeds over a series of short hills, and in the next second, he’s airborne, a thousand feet high—well, maybe not a thousand—but enough to make me scream out in panic as he begins his descent. Covering my eyes with my palms, I space my fingers just enough to witness his demise.

When he manages a smooth landing, I’m only able to relax for a few seconds, and then he’s airborne again, his hangtime surreal, while he manipulates his body and the bike sideways.

“Oh my God!” I exclaim, and this time my body reacts on its own, an encouraging fist-pump winning. Unable to help it, I stand, my arms above my head as I scream my praises, as do the floor of spectators—all of them staff. This time his landing is better than the first, and a strange sense of pride fills me for him. I glance back at Joel to see he’s recording my reaction with his iPhone, and I flip him twin middle fingers, knowing Easton will see this footage at some point. Even so, I keep my grin firmly in place before Joel again trains his camera on Easton, who’s owning the track.

When Jedidiah takes off, I spend the next few minutes in a mixed state of anxiety, awe, and slow budding arousal as I watch the two of them navigate the complex path with expertise. Jedidiah does a lot more tricks, but Easton runs through it just as remarkably—and more importantly—in one piece. By the time Easton makes his way back to where I left him, the waiting staff are cheering as he pulls up and huddle around him while he takes off his helmet. His sweat-matted hair falls in a heap across his forehead, his eyes lit with adrenaline. Jedidiah races up next to him as the small crowd parts, and they fist-bump gloved hands before killing their bikes.

Easton and Jedidiah talk animatedly as I take my time descending the few steps, shaking in relief while invigorated by the rush of just seeing him this way. Easton isn’t an all-around grump, he’s just . . . private, and it seems he saves his smiles for his people.

Just as I think it, his eyes find mine, his lips lift, and he beams at me with the most beautiful of full smiles, and the thunder roaring through my chest increases exponentially. I approach him with a similar grin and ready scold.

“That was reckless, stupid, irresponsible, and fucking amazing,” I say, evident awe in my delivery.

“You’re the only person in my life right now who could appreciate it,” he says with sincerity, pulling off his gloves and again separating some wayward hair from my lips. The gesture seems natural, a little intimate—but not overly—and still, my heart skips briefly as it sputters out rapid beats, and I’m forced to catch myself.

Back, Natalie, back!

Clearing my throat, I will the adrenaline and threatening butterflies to kick rocks. “How long have you been riding?”

“Since I was four. Dad encouraged me, and Mom kicked him in the balls for it, literally . Now when I hit the track, I hide it from her. There’s some ammunition for you.”

“Well, if this singing thing doesn’t work out for you,” I shrug and am rewarded with a half-smile. “So, are you done for the day? Or are we going to base jump off a skyscraper?”

“I’m good for now.” He glances over my shoulder at Joel. “All set?”

Joel nods and hands Easton a fob, which I assume is for the SUV. “Good to go.”

“You’re leaving us?” I ask, frowning.

“Taking a day off,” he answers with a grin. “It was nice meeting you, Natalie.”

“You too, Joel,” I say as he lifts his chin to Jedidiah and disappears into a small tunnel between rows of stadium seats. I turn back to Easton, narrowing my eyes. “So, we aren’t done for the day?”

“File the questions away, would you?” He says, rummaging through his duffle.

“This is me, being me .”

He rolls his gaze up and puckers his lips sourly. “Well, that’s annoying .”

“Kiss my ass,” I sass back. In a sudden move, he stands, grips my shoulders, and tilts my body before his gaze dips.

“What the hell are you doing?” I ask, craning my neck over my shoulder.

He playfully rakes his lower lip, his brows lifting. “Seeing if you have enough ass to kiss.”

“My ass is perfectly up to par, sir,” I fire confidently, shaking my shoulders free of his hold as he lets out a low chuckle. “I ride real horses, not manufactured death traps.” I deadpan, determined not to let his proximity get the best of me as I scan his face, zeroing in on the sweat trickling down his forehead. Sweat that is quickly wiped away by the shirt, which he rips off his body. I turn slightly and avert my eyes. “Okay, well, modesty is definitely not an issue for you,” I let out a nervous laugh.

“Nope,” he replies dryly, all traces of humor gone as I look back at him with furrowed brows. He shrugs. “Why the hell would I care anymore when I’ve been considered public domain for the last twenty-two years?”

“I’m sorry,” I say softly.

“Not your fault,” he says, pulling out his jeans.

“Well, I apologize on behalf of everyone,” I whisper. Kneeling at his bag, head snapping up, hazel eyes bore into mine, searching for the sincerity of my words—which he finds. He slowly stands and wipes his chest dry, and my own eyes dip briefly before he leans in on a whisper. “Want to know a secret?”

“Sure,” I say as he continues to wipe his body before tossing the towel. Without warning, he fingers his pants and shoves them down midthigh. “I’ve raced a few times.”

“Professionally?” I swallow.

He pulls on his jeans as I admire the bulge of his bicep, the clink of his unbuckled belt again doing more unwelcome things to me.

“Yeah,” he confirms, “I did okay.”

“How did they not know?” I ask, my eyes roaming over his rippling torso as he retrieves a can of body spray, steps back, and unloads it like a deodorant, shooting a few squirts over his muscular chest before pulling on a fresh, long sleeve T-shirt. Even while standing in a stadium full of dirt, the exchange feels intimate. It’s as if we are sharing a bathroom, like a couple chattering as he dresses for a workday.

“Covered from head to foot.”

“Huh?” I ask, completely immersed in my wandering thoughts as he zips his bag and hoists it from the ground.

“That’s how I got away with it,” he says, his eyes catching mine, a whisper of a smile on his lips. “Covered from head to foot.”

“Oh. That’s awesome.”

Easton lifts his chin in goodbye to Jedidiah and the rest of the crew, and I follow his lead and wave my farewell before he gently tugs my arm, ushering me out of the stadium.

“Are you going to tell me your alias?”

“No,” he says simply.

“Of course not,” I grumble, working a little harder to match his long strides.

“Well, I figured since you think I’m ungrateful to be born into privilege, I would highlight some of the perks. And there are a lot of them, Natalie,” he says softly. “I don’t hate it all the time.”

“Just when you want to eat a cheeseburger publicly?”

I’m graced with a featherlight smile. “Yeah. I can still get away with that sometimes, for now.”

“But that might change soon.”

Mixed emotions flit across his features as he shrugs because he doesn’t know his fate—neither do I. Either way, media attention is about to shift in his direction again in a highly invasive way, and that’s the tradeoff. It’s clear to me that he considers it the price he’ll have to pay to share his music. As we make our way toward the SUV, I glance over at him.

“I think I’m starting to understand.”

He meets my watchful gaze briefly. “I think I thought you might.”