Reverse (Bittersweet Symphony Duet #2)

TEN “Lovesong”

TEN

“Lovesong”

The Cure

Natalie

E aston adjusts himself in the driver’s side, fixing the rearview before turning to me.

“What?” I ask as he starts the SUV and raises an expectant brow.

“Seriously, I’ve got a high IQ, but I’m no mind reader—”

I’m cut off by the sheer force of restraint when I come face-to-face with Easton Crowne as he covers my body with his in an effort to buckle me in. Despite being slightly sweaty, his raven hair smells incredible—as does the rest of him—as I’m struck senseless by just how accessible he is at the moment. I drink in what I can—the ridiculous length of his lashes, the dark freckle imprinted near the corner of his jaw, and the texture of his lips, which are at the moment dangerously close to mine.

Don’t inhale. Don’t inhale. Don’t inhale.

In the next second, he’s gone, and I’m left in near heart attack status as he resumes his position behind the wheel as if he didn’t just assault me.

“You could have just told me,” I chide lightly as he puts the SUV into gear, amusement twisting his lips. In less than twenty-four hours, I’ve become dangerously attracted to this man. It wasn’t instant, but it’s now evident, and it’s a no-fly zone. I decide to nip it in the bud by putting him on the offense.

“We’re on record now,” I declare, setting the boundaries.

“Don’t want to ease into this at all, huh?” He shakes his head, reaching behind my seat into his duffle—again invading my space—his eyes rolling down my profile before he produces his cellphone. Unlocking it, he taps it a few times and hands it to me. I grab it to see he’s opened his music app, and not only that, a compiled list of songs. Curious, I scroll through to see it’s never-ending. There are hundreds, if not thousands, on the playlist.

“Are you trying to distract me by letting me play DJ, Crowne?”

He remains silent as he pulls out of the parking lot.

“That’s a lot of pressure considering . . .”

“You can’t choose wrong,” he assures, pulling to a stop at the main road and looking in each direction in indecision.

“Don’t know where you’re going?”

“Nope.”

I close out of his playlist and pull up a GPS app.

“Do you have the address?”

“Yeah.”

“O kay ?” I drawl out.

“Lost.”

“We’re going to get lost?”

“Why not?” He says, taking a right turn. “You said yourself you don’t want to do the tourist thing.”

“How can you get lost when you’ve lived here all your life?”

“I spent a good amount of my childhood touring with my parents and the band. Trust me, I can get lost anywhere .”

“Okay. But you will answer some questions,” I state with emphasis.

“The ones I want to.”

“That’s not really fair.”

His expression hardens. “Pretty sure we should keep fair and ethical out of our conversations due to hypocrisy .”

“Touché, and I already apologized for that.”

“Hurry up and choose,” he nods toward the phone in my hand.

“Not a fan of silence?”

“Not when I have an alternative,” he quips.

“Should I be insulted, considering you’re in my company?”

“It’s me being me ,” he muses.

“Fair enough.”

Tapping back into his music app and list, I scroll through and press a random song. Unfamiliar music fills the cabin of the SUV as I note the title, “Lovesong” by The Cure. Easton immediately starts tapping his fingers on the wheel and turns it up. Reaching for the volume on the console, I turn it down, giving him a pointed look.

“Just relax,” he sighs, “we’ll get to it.”

He drives a few miles when his phone rings, and we both zero in on the ID on the dash.

Mom.

Our stares linger on the screen as he turns into a nearby gas station. When he answers the call my eyes bulge.

“Mom, hold up a second, okay?”

Stella’s easy reply comes over the line. “Okay.”

The need to flee engulfs me and must be evident on my face as Easton disconnects the Bluetooth and leans over. “Want to grab us something?”

I nod as he goes to pull out his wallet.

“I’ve got it,” I whisper, “what do you want?”

“Coffee, sugar and cream. And water.”

I nod, exiting the SUV like my ass is on fire, bypassing an elderly man sitting on the side of the gas station next to the door. Deep creases mar his face, and he looks badly battered in his current state, a cup gripped in his hand like a lifeline. He glances up at me as I open the door, muttering something I’m unable to decipher.

Going along the aisles, unsure if Easton’s eaten, I decide to grab an armful of snacks for our road trip to nowhere. I can’t help but be thankful he invited me out today. If not, I have zero doubts I’d be wandering around Seattle aimlessly. At least my fake motive for being here gives me a distraction. Nerves fraying in the wake of Stella’s call, I try to focus on the man just outside the door and opt to pay with what little cash I have.

This is already too close for comfort, Natalie.

Rattling with tension, I exit the store and bend down, putting the entirety of my change—including a few bills—into the man’s cup.

“What the hell, lady?! That was my coffee!” The man screeches, standing abruptly and taking a threatening step forward.

“Oh, I’m s-s-sorry, I thought, I apologize,” I manage weakly, taken aback by his aggression while walking backward with my bag of snacks, Easton’s piping hot coffee, and my purse clutched to me. Eyes fixed on the man cursing me while fishing the sopping bills out of his cup, I open the passenger door of the SUV and jump into the seat, seeking refuge as the outraged loiterer’s eyes pin me with a withering glare. It’s the clearing of a throat that brings me to the realization I’m in unfamiliar surroundings. A whole new wave of terror runs through me as I turn to see a stranger in the driver’s seat. A stranger who’s gawking back at me in confusion.

“Uh, can I help you with something?”

Horrified, I study the older man whose passenger seat I just highjacked when Easton’s face appears through the glass an SUV over , a ‘what the fuck’ reading clear on his lips. Shifting my gaze, I glance back at the man sitting on the driver’s side as he stares on at me expectantly.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I— sorry! ” Exiting the wrong SUV, I round the rear and race back to Easton’s passenger door before opening it and diving in, securing his coffee in his cupholder while giving orders. “Go, go, go! Drive!” I demand, embarrassment racing through me as I bury my face in my hands.

“Seatbelt,” he orders evenly, not budging an inch.

“You can’t be serious, Easton, go!” I say frantically, reaching blindly for my seatbelt.

“Afraid so. It’s apparent if anyone needs a safety net right now, it’s you.” I turn to glare at him as laughter bursts out of him, and I manage to click myself in.

“Please just go.” My neck heats as he puts the SUV in gear and pulls away while I fumble through an explanation.

“The m-man outside, I put money in his cup, I thought he w-was, you know, in n-need of help, and he started screaming that it was his coffee,” I stutter out as Easton’s laughter amplifies.

“This is a black SUV. It’s a common car !” I defend. His laughter only increases as I shrink in my seat, and for the next mile, short bursts of laughter sound from him. Unable to help myself, I glance over at him with a sheepish smile on my face as he turns, his eyes flickering over me with head-shaking amusement.

“Whatever, asshole , it was an honest mistake. It could have happened to anyone,” I spout weakly, only mildly annoyed.

“I’m not entirely sure that’s accurate.”

Exhaling harshly, I train my smile out of the window until his chuckle finally slows.

“All right, Crowne, I’ve given you eight songs to start speaking,” I summon, turning the music down and staring over at him.

He sighs heavily and nods in resignation but speaks up. “What you want to know is trivial and doesn’t matter.”

“Says you.”

“If it’s about me, personally , then it has nothing to do with the bigger picture. You haven’t even heard my music, so there’s nothing to discuss.”

“And what’s the big picture?”

“The body of work I’ve created. For the most part, I have it all mapped out.”

“How mapped out?”

“Sixty-three songs,” he says simply as my jaw drops.

“There are sixty-three songs on one album?”

“No, I’ve recorded sixty-three so far.”

“You’re fucking joking, right? That’s like the equivalent of what . . . five albums?”

“Yeah,” he says, glancing over at me for a few lingering seconds.

“How long have you been recording music?”

“Since I was fifteen.”

“So, your band—”

“I don’t have a band,” he mumbles as if he’s embarrassed by it.

“Wait . . . you play all the instruments yourself?”

He drops his eyes, his voice low. “I grew up playing with professional musicians, so it’s not that big of a deal.”

I give him a hard stare. “Oh, bullshit. Don’t try to humble your way out of this, Easton. You lied to me when you said you weren’t a prodigy.”

“You haven’t even heard it,” he defends.

“I’m suspecting you know exactly how good it is. You do realize that amount of music is considered a lifetime’s worth of work for some musicians, right? ”

He scoffs. “Because, if this does well, I can kick back and take it easy, right ?” Anxious energy rolls off him as his posture tightens.

“So, when you say you have no choice—”

“I mean it,” he says, glancing over at me. “I can’t sit still for long without playing, listening, writing, being a part of it. I’d be empty without it. I’ve felt that since I was very young. But instead of expecting open doors, I worked my ass off, doing everything I could to pave my own way.”

“How so?”

He remains silent for a stretch before finally speaking.

“When I was nine, we were on vacation in Lake Tahoe at one of my parents’ very wealthy, very affluent friends, and Dad found me washing one of said friend’s boats for cash.”

“Why?”

“Mom had just taken me on a trip to Mexico to visit family, and it was there I recognized the different types of social barriers between people and the mindset it must take to get from one place to the next. It wasn’t the first time I was exposed to the way other people live, but it was there it resonated with me most. That’s when I realized the bars behind the gated community I grew up in were exactly that, bars , no matter how shiny they were. That’s also when I started to resent the separation from the rest of the world. Even feeling that, I also recognized how hard my parents broke their backs to get us behind them, to keep all they had worked for and built together, safe .”

With one hand hung on the wheel, he runs the other down his jeans. “Dad got it. He’s all about work ethic and allowed me to earn cash when I found the opportunity. Sometimes I carried lighter equipment for the crew or cleaned toilets at the studios. I did everything I could to save money for my own studio time. When I was fifteen, he put me on the payroll, making the same wages as everyone else because I was determined to earn my way, like he did.”

“And you don’t think this would endear you to your future fans?”

“Sadly, it would probably be thought of as a ploy, so I don’t ever want them to know.”

Expelling a breath, I shake my head as he glances over at me long and hard.

“I once saw a documentary where John Lennon was speaking to a fan outside his house. It was clear the guy had mental health issues to the point a simple conversation wasn’t going to convince him that John wasn’t his answer. He invited that guy into his home, fed him, and had the best conversation he could while trying to relay that he wasn’t the solution. That’s a scary scenario for people in the limelight. Like how the fuck do you handle that responsibly?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t want to be responsible for the way people behave, think, or live, or the decisions they make. If anything, the message in my work begs them to think for themselves.” He gives me a sideways glance. “I don’t think you can live a genuine life being inspired by others—everyday lives anyway—but you can be inspired by their creations . There’s a big fucking difference. If some guy wants to propose because of a love song I wrote, great, that’s where it should end. I’m not saying famous people don’t have a responsibility, or if they’re reckless with it and do horrible things, they shouldn’t be called out. They should. But for those who just want to quietly contribute at this point, it’s next to impossible to keep their private lives out of it. Not only that . . .”

“Don’t you dare stop now,” I warn.

“Seeing my father in a state of utter disarray for months regarding one of his fans changed my perception completely about what I want out of this.”

“Are you referring to Adrian Town’s suicide?” Adrian was a Sergeants’ fan who committed suicide at one of their last concerts. It was in the headlines for weeks. Easton’s expression darkens.

“I don’t think a lot of people realize they live around echoes of defining moments in their lives.”

“He was mentally ill. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

“Tell that to my dad. He was a fucking wreck for almost a year. We still feel the echoes of that night to this day. But everyone seems to take great pleasure in pointing fingers in claiming crazy on those they don’t understand.” He rakes his lower lip, and his chest bounces as irony covers his expression. “Everyone loves The Starry Night by Vincent van Gogh, but I wonder how many know . . .”

“Know what?”

“That’s the point. I don’t want to spoil it for anyone or change their perception of an artist or take away any merit of his art for any reason.”

“How so?”

“You really want to know?”

“I have to now.”

“All right. He painted The Starry Night because that’s what he saw during one of his most manic states while staring out of his asylum window.”

He glances over at me to weigh my reaction as I picture the painting. “You’re right. I didn’t know that.”

He nods. “Most people don’t unless they look into the artist or listen attentively to the Don McLean song. While some people will appreciate the art, those curious will want to know more about where it stemmed from. When they dig, they’ll get the dirt under their fingernails and hate how it feels.”

“It’s a natural curiosity.”

“I get that, really, but from what I’ve seen and learned, expressing yourself creatively and becoming successful at it always comes at a cost.”

His voice is solemn as he exits the highway and glances over at me as he parks in a recreational area, a picnic bench and charcoal grill a few feet away. Light droplets of rain coat the windshield as we remain idle.

“The truth is, ordinary humans are capable of doing extraordinary things every single day without living extraordinary, extra lives. It’s the art, the creativity that sets them apart, not what they fucking eat for breakfast or who they’re fucking. Let them have their eggs in peace.” His jade eyes find mine, and I briefly get lost in them as the intimacy in the air becomes tangible. “But then I look at you and see you have a natural inclination to seek out what makes humans tick. Of how they came to be who they are, and I can’t fault you for that, no more than you can fault me for not wanting to be under your microscope. I don’t hate the press. I just hate the microscope and what it’s done to the people I love.”

Soaking all his admissions in, it dawns on me. “This is why you haven’t set a release date. You’re not sure you’re going to release at all.”

He turns to stare out of the window, his jaw tensing. “I’ve thought about doing it anonymously, but fuck that , if I go in, I’m going all the way in. I’m not missing the experience of performing, or else what’s the point. It’s a bonding experience I’ve seen and felt—so much love. It’s surreal, and that’s when I’ll be with them. That’s when they’ll have all of me.” He turns to me. “I’m not missing that for any reason.”

“Easton, you can’t let—”

“Can’t I?” He interjects, dread in his tone. “I’ve waded through the scary parts with my parents, watched people I love implode under pressure, buried family friends too soon, and observed people close to me tear their personal relationships apart year after year due to insecurity.”

I try to place who he’s talking about as he turns back to me, his expression full of anxiety.

“Fame is my biggest fear, Natalie.”

Unable to help myself, I reach over and grip his hand as he shifts his focus back out of the windshield. After a few minutes of silence, he turns to me.

“I want you to remember this moment. Right here, right now, just you and me in a fucking SUV, taking a drive to nowhere.” He looks at me pointedly. “Promise me you’ll remember this.”

It’s kind of hard to forget, but I voice his request anyway. “I promise.”

He turns my hand over and slides his finger along my palm as my spine prickles with awareness.

“Now I wonder how you’ll view The Starry Night when you see it again.” He pins me with his inquisitive gaze. “Will you see the masterpiece or the mental illness?”

“I honestly don’t know, probably both.”

He closes my hand and releases it. “Sometimes I feel so fucking simple. It’s painful.”

“You’re not simple,” I counter without pause. “I’ve known you for less than a day, and you’re anything but simple.”

“And you’re exhausting . We done?”

“No, how do you like your eggs?” I jab in an attempt to lighten the mood.

He’s silent for a long moment, so long I’m unsure if he heard me or is even listening.

“Sorry, that was in poor taste. Forgive me,” I say as he speaks up.

“Joel’s been with me since he was twenty-two,” he mutters absently, speaking his thoughts aloud. “My whole life.”

“It’s apparent you two are close.”

“Thank fuck for that,” he says. “I love him.” His admission comes so easily that my heart warms, and inwardly, I sigh.

He senses my cogs turning. “What?”

I shake my head as he prods. “Tell me.”

“You’re a lot freer than you think, Easton.”

“How so?”

“Because you seem to live and speak with intent .”

“What’s living according to Natalie Butler?”

I nod toward our surroundings. “I guess, right now, what we’re doing today is my current definition. Coasting along to see where a day leads.” I smooth down my frizzy hair. “You know, in real life, I’m not really the mess you’ve been subjected to.”

“That’s a fucking shame,” he says, his eyes trailing down my profile.

“Sorry to disappoint, but my life is . . . highly structured, and while I wouldn’t change a lot about it most days, something happened recently that made my clear path . . . fuzzy.” I glance around. “Where are we anyway?”

His lips lift in a triumphant smile. “Lost.”

I return his grin. “I can’t say I hate it.”

He traces the steering wheel with his fingers. “I have this theory that if you don’t have enough days like this, then you’re pretty much living out someone else’s expectations, which is my definition of prison.”

I pause. “I know exactly what you mean by that.”

He nods, gripping the wheel. “I thought you might.”