Reverse (Bittersweet Symphony Duet #2)

ELEVEN “Cult of Personality”

ELEVEN

“Cult of Personality”

Living Colour

Natalie

O nce the rain stopped, we ate the small haul I bought at the gas station sitting on a weathered and slightly warped wooden picnic bench. We laid off the heavier talk, though with Easton, he refused to make it small. After a few minutes, he steered the questioning to my side of the table. He was probing me for more about myself and seemed to absorb the answers rather than just hear them with the intense look forever in his eyes. When the sun finally made an appearance, we raised our collective faces to it, soaking it in.

As Easton chauffeurs me back to my hotel, we sit in comfortable, amicable silence, wind whipping through the cabin, both occupied by our thoughts. In lieu of me playing DJ, Easton tuned into an oldies station. The music is at his usual level—a few obnoxious decibels over loud. As each mile passes, I find myself staring over at him, processing all he’d divulged today, my empathy for him increasing tenfold.

He’s seemingly in the midst of a crisis of his own—a battle about his future, and his predicament is far more daunting than mine. In order to venture into his career dream, he has to overcome his fear of the spotlight. The fact that he relayed why he hates the medium of the press and that he trusted me with that information says a lot. With every mile we travel, it’s on the tip of my tongue to thank him and ease his worries about what I’ll do with what he revealed. Just as I go to speak, he beats me to it.

“What do you listen to?”

He gestures toward the radio for me to take over.

“Nuh-uh, I’ll only disappoint you.”

“Go on,” he says, a barely-there lift of his lips.

“Okay, but you asked for it.”

I look at the time and calculate the difference at home before switching the dial to AM and Hearst’s national news radio. The puckered look of distaste on Easton’s face has me cackling. He listens for a few minutes and shakes his head.

“Two tornadoes killing sixteen people, left and right fighting, as usual. Tell me how this is uplifting?”

“It’s my life.”

“No, it’s other people’s lives.”

I raise a brow. “Careful, you’re getting offensive.”

“And you’re getting defensive,” he quips back. “Why is that?”

“I’m not a music fanatic.” I shrug. “We just march to the beat of different drums, pun fully intended.”

“No, no, Natalie, no ,” he shakes his head profusely. “Not with music, never with music. It’s where we discover common ground .”

He stares at me for a few long seconds, turns off the news, reconnects to Bluetooth, and flips through the playlist on his cell.

“Eyes on the road, Crowne. I don’t feel like playing airbag roulette today.”

He ignores me and shifts his attention between the road and his phone. “Don’t you jam when you’re out with your girlfriends?”

“ One girlfriend and one boyfriend, they’re my best friends. Damon’s my dad’s best friend, Marcus’s son. We’re like brother and sister.”

Shut the hell up, Natalie!

“And then there’s Holly. She’s the daughter of one of my mother’s closest friends. She’s a year younger than me, but we all grew up together. Anyway, I guess we jam out occasionally, but I never fight for control of the radio.”

“What do you listen to when you work out?”

“News radio mostly . . . stop looking at me like I’m an alien,” I mutter, only to get another slight lift of his lips.

“Got it,” he says confidently, referring to a choice from his playlist. “We’ll start here.”

“What?” I laugh at his animated expression as he cranks the volume up and kicks back in his seat. A second later, what seems like the middle of an old news bulletin sounds through the speakers— ‘and during the few moments that we have left, we want to talk right down to earth in a language that everybody here can easily understand.’

Easton lifts a mocking brow at me, and I roll my eyes in response just before a jarring guitar riff blares through the speakers making me jump.

Easton immediately dips his chin, his head bobbing perfectly to the heavy beat that follows. It’s fucking sexy as hell, so natural. He holds me captive for a few minutes as I listen attentively. When his eyes dart my way, I avert them to the title—“Cult of Personality” by Living Colour. Adding it to the list of songs Easton’s played during our time together, I allow myself to sink into it. In minutes, I’m immersed in the powerful lyrics, the attitude of the song ringing in unison with Easton’s thoughts about the power of media and his personal beliefs.

I glance over to find he’s full-on smirking and know he was waiting for me to grasp the point of it.

Touché, Crowne.

As Easton continues to rock out at an ear-bleeding level, I can’t help but glance around self-consciously as we pull to a busy stoplight. Easton ignores the odd looks coming in our direction from the idling cars beside us and turns it up louder in response, which has me bursting out in nervous laughter. Grinning, I start to mimic his movements, which earns me another half-smile.

It’s when he pulls up through the drive-through of the hotel—the song still blaring out of our open windows—that my face flushes.

“Easton!” I exclaim with wide eyes as the music echoes through the wind tunnel of the entrance and into the hotel lobby. He continues to tap on the steering wheel, his fingers ticking off in perfect time with the drums, no fucks at all to give. Reddening by the second, I glance out the window to see an older couple exiting the hotel. Instantly, I reach for the volume, and Easton bats my hand away. Hand stinging and tempted to flee, I look back to the couple just as the older man animates and starts bobbing his head, giving Easton a thumbs up.

More hysterical laughter bursts out of me as I track the couple in the passenger’s side view mirror as the man continues to jam-walk until they disappear from sight. Shaking my head ironically but still smiling from ear to ear, I turn back to see Easton carefully scanning my profile.

“Well played,” I clap my hands sarcastically as the song comes to an end. “I got your point, but did you have to bang me over the head with it with such a heavy hammer?” I exaggerate my eyeroll upward. “But that’s you . . . isn’t it?”

My smile begins to slip as his gaze burns me from face to boot and back up. Swept up in his sudden intensity, I unbuckle my seatbelt as I try to compose appropriate parting words. He beats me to it with a rough whisper. “You just fucking fell out of the sky, didn’t you?”

The cabin of the SUV clouds with energy as a surreal gravity threatens to draw us closer.

“In a way,” I swallow, “I guess I did.” My mouth dries as he refuses to free me from the power of his perusal. As I opt for honesty, my heart begins to thrum harder with each passing second. “Thank you for giving me a soft place to land, Easton.” Fumbling, I find and tug on the handle of the truck before slamming it closed. Gripping the top of the open window with my fingers—unsure if I’ll see him again—I peer over at him and try to convince myself that if this is the last time, I’ll be fine with it.

“I’ll . . .” a nervous laugh escapes me, “thanks again, and good night.” Turning abruptly, I stalk toward the lobby, my pounding heartbeat and footsteps in sync. I don’t have to look back to know. I can feel his eyes on me.