Reverse (Bittersweet Symphony Duet #2)

TWELVE “White Noise”

TWELVE

“White Noise”

Exitmusic

Easton

A dding more weight to my press bar, I glance down as my phone lights up with an incoming text.

Natalie: I just want you to know that you don’t have to regret or worry about what you confided in me today.

Downing my water, I take the bench seat and text back.

Still not claiming to be villain or vulture?

Natalie: Exactly.

So, if my secrets are safe with you, what will you write?

Natalie: Let me worry about that.

The bubbles start and stop for almost a full minute before stopping altogether.

“East!” Mom calls from atop the stairs of our basement, which Dad converted into a state-of-the-art home gym and theatre years ago. “I left a plate of dinner on the counter if you’re hungry!”

“Okay, thanks,” I call up to her, distracted by the image of Natalie’s panic-stricken face when Mom called earlier today. It was obvious by her reaction that the answer to some of her mystery lies there, but I surprised myself by letting her off the hook without explanation.

What are you so afraid to tell me?

The bubbles start and stop again for over a minute, and I can’t help my grin. I’ve got her cornered, and she’s flailing.

Are you really that afraid of me?

Her answer is immediate and defiant, just like her.

Natalie: No.

It’s clear she’s got a surface confidence, some of it ingrained, a lot of it natural. I have no doubt what she told me today is true, that her life is structured, and she probably prefers it that way. But I’ve been loving every second of watching her guard slip willingly and unwillingly in the short time I’ve known her. The more we spend time together, the more I find myself increasingly captivated by her own disbelief during those times, as if she’s surprised herself. If she only knew how fucking beautiful she is when she allows herself to unravel naturally. My fingers dart over the screen in easy invitation.

Want to get lost again tomorrow?

Natalie: Don’t feel obligated.

I don’t.

I bark out a laugh at the hangtime of more bubbles without reply.

This woman.

Natalie: Okay.

I’ll text you.

Natalie: Night.

My fingers linger over the screen as renewed energy courses through me. I can’t pinpoint what possessed me to reveal so much to her without ample reason to, especially when it’s obvious she’s still hiding a lot from me. My own confessions poured from me as if I’ve been saving them specifically for her. For some reason, I want her to understand my logic, me . Oddly, I didn’t battle with myself over it after I dropped her off and am more unsettled by how I felt when she walked into her hotel, away from me.

The adrenaline I feel now lingers, thanks to the odd connection I feel to her. The attraction is heavy and growing stronger, but more so by her mystery and what she wants from me. I saw her hesitate—more than once—as she looked over at me on the drive back. I have little doubt she wants to confess whatever is weighing on her, but I’m not about to demand it because odds are, I won’t get it all.

Laying back, I resume my reps as I replay the day, the light in her eyes as she looked at me with the same curiosity, like maybe she’s searching for similar answers from me.

She’s shying away from our attraction, and I’m not the man to press it, but today I fucking wanted to. She’s become one hell of a distraction from the unease I’ve been feeling for weeks about releasing.

Maybe that’s why I’m becoming so attuned to her, because if I’ve been in need of anything lately, it’s a diversion.

“Are you going to come up sometime tonight?” Dad’s voice sounds from the bottom of the stairs as he lowers the volume on “White Noise” by Exitmusic, a song I find fitting for my career predicament.

I push up on the bar and lower it on the rack.

“What the hell are you doing pressing without a spot?” He says as I sit and wipe my face with a towel.

“You’re turning into a soft old lady,” I jab.

“It’s fucking dangerous,” he grumbles, and I lift both brows in response.

His eyes flare in the realization that he’s being a helicopter parent, and he flashes me a sheepish grin. “I blame your overprotective mother,” he sighs and cups the back of his neck. “Shit, I really am that dad, aren’t I?”

Dad didn’t have ideal parents. Both were drunks and died within a four-year period after I was born. According to Mom, Dad had to support them when he didn’t have two dimes to rub together, and sadly, it almost kept him from realizing his career dreams. I don’t have a single memory of them. However, I’m well aware that though they weren’t deserving, Dad took care of them financially up until they died. Knowing that, I don’t give him too much shit about being overprotective of me. But together, they have a tendency to be a bit much. Neither of them can go long without checking on me. I sometimes wish I had a sibling to take some of the pressure off.

“It’s fine. I’ll make you spot me next time. You can scrutinize your cuticles while that gut of yours keeps expanding.”

He gives me his signature glare as I chuckle. In truth, Dad is still in pretty good shape and often hits the gym, though not nearly as hard as he used to.

“It’s one of the perks of retiring,” he defends.

I can’t find any good in that statement and say as much. “Are you really done for good?”

He shrugs as if he’s unsure, but more and more, Dad and the rest of the band are turning down gigs, even if they’re just isolated events.

He gives me a pointed look, and I tense, knowing what’s coming. “I’m more interested in what’s about to happen for you.”

I sigh, and he reads the ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ in my expression but doesn’t ease off the gas.

“Just tell me where you’re at.”

Dad is the only one who’s heard my music. Mom has heard me sing and play plenty of times, but hasn’t been made privy to a single song I’ve recorded.

“You’re biased,” I say.

“You know how gifted you are. And it’s not just talent, Easton. It’s an astounding talent. And I think you know that too.” He shakes his head in irritation. “Do you think for one fucking second, I would encourage you in any way if I thought your music didn’t deserve an audience? What you’ve done is mind-blowing, and I’m proud.”

He stuns me with the easy admission, though I’ve seen the way he looks at me after I let him hear a new track. I’ve only allowed him to help me sharpen the sound. So in truth, he has helped produce to a small extent, but most of my work is untouched by anyone. He’s got a lot to do with strengthening my backbone and sharpening my skills as a musician and lyricist, but he’s given me, and continues to give me ample creative space when it comes to my music, knowing I want to do this all on my own.

“It’s all I can do daily to keep from telling your mother we’re finally going to have to share our son— indefinitely .”

He draws the conclusions for my hesitance easily because he’s been absorbed in the meaning behind my lyrics time and again.

“You’re in control of this, son. You made it that way, and I wish to fucking God we’d had it that way when we started out.”

I nod, knowing it’s the truth. Though the Dead Sergeants got signed with one of the biggest labels in music, they were pressured to carry out the will of the label and the other powers that be for years before they were able to negotiate themselves into calling their own shots. I have no intention of following suit in that respect at all.

“It’s just . . . You’ve worked so fucking hard for this. Now that you’re seriously thinking about doing it, it’s literally all I can do to keep from tearing into you to go for it because you know goddamn well the minute you do . . .”

He reads my aggravation and lets out a heavy sigh.

“All right, I’ll drop it for now. But if you don’t come upstairs, you know she’s going to—”

“To what?” Mom snaps halfway down the stairs. Dad visibly flinches, a slight fear in his eyes when she reaches the landing, crossing her arms. “What’s she going to do?”

“Jesus, Grenade,” he turns to her, a sparkle in his eye as he pats himself down. I bite my lip to hide my smile because I know what’s coming.

“What are you looking for?” Mom asks, frowning.

“Your muzzle,” Dad deadpans, and I can’t help my chuckle.

“I think I saw it next to my How to Surgically Remove Your Husband’s Testicles While He Sleeps for Dummies handbook.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Have I told you lately what a pain in the ass you are?”

“Daily,” she lifts a brow, letting Dad know she’s not changing anytime soon—or ever . Their tit-for-tat has me thinking again about the blue-eyed beauty I dropped off only hours ago. We’ve been going back and forth similarly the last two days, and I can’t help the widening of my grin because of it.

“What’s that?” Mom asks.

I frown. “What’s what ?”

She gives me a keen stare. “You haven’t smiled like that since you got a digital valentine from Aurora Long in the fourth grade.”

“That’s bullshit, and how would you know?”

“I know things . . . and I know that smile.”

“Stella,” Dad sighs. “Lay off. He’s finally sleeping at home again.”

“Seriously, Mom,” I chime in, taking Dad’s out. “I’m going to go grab that plate.”

“Evading,” she pipes, turning to tail me as I take the stairs two at a time.

“I’m moving out,” I threaten again, knowing it’s low but will be enough to throw her off my scent for now. Truth is, I’m not sure what’s happening with the woman who’s invading my life—and now my head.

I hear Mom’s yelp from the foot of the stairs as Dad hollers from below, mirth in his voice. “Run for your life, son! I’ll take this one for the team.”

“You jackass—” Mom’s protest is cut short, and I don’t have to look back to know Dad is shutting her up in a way I don’t want to witness. Grinning, I click off the light at the top of the stairs and hear their collective protests muddled as I shut them in. Swiping my dinner off the counter, I jog up the stairs to my bedroom for some privacy. I’ve rarely slept at home in the last few years, my obsession taking precedence and consuming me to the point I almost lost sight of any sort of outside life.

Standing under the steaming shower spray a short time later, I catch myself immersed in thoughts of deep blue eyes, glossy lips, and strawberry-kissed curly hair. Thick suds gathered in my idle hands, my body reacts to the images stirring me up, and I go with it, releasing some of the tension before I towel off and toss on some sweats.

It’s when I hit the sheets that I find myself becoming more thankful for the invasion and more determined to seek solace in her for the time we have left.

I might only have a few days remaining to find some reprieve in the distraction who crash-landed on my doorstep, but it’s enough for now.

I wake hours later in the exact position I fell asleep in, having slept better than I have in weeks.