FOURTEEN “Feel Like Making Love”
FOURTEEN
“Feel Like Making Love”
Bad Company
Natalie
“O h my Glod, Easthon,” I mumble around a mouthful of succulent white crab, butter dripping down my chin as my eyes roll up in pleasure.
His lips tilt up in amusement. “Yeah? We loving it so much we’re calling out to a higher power?”
“Hell yes, thank you, and you,” I chime happily to our waitress when she delivers another half-pound of snow crab tableside. She and Easton exchange a conspiratorial grin, both entertained by my enthusiasm as I use my butter-coated hands to lift my dark beer, greedily gulping back the cold suds before blotting my face briefly without much care.
Clearly, I’m at the no-fucks-given stage of my almost quarter-life crisis.
But as the beer eases the sting and the crab goes down, I find myself gradually lifting out of my weeklong funk, thankful for the reprieve—even if it turns out to be short-lived.
The mouthwatering company chuckling across from me—delighting in the utter ass I’m making of myself—hasn’t hurt either.
After a long, long drive filled with music, Easton decided to draw an end to my pity party by luring me into conversation. Not long after, he insisted we eat at The Crab Pot, which sits on Miner’s Pier perched on the edge of Puget Sound.
Due to the lunch rush being over, we managed to secure a table on the enclosed porch, spaced away from others with a waterside view. With Easton’s back facing away from prying eyes, he’s hardly recognizable to most.
So far, we’ve managed to escape the paparazzi, but I can’t help feeling that our luck may run out the longer we linger in public. Even though he’s been out of the public eye for some time because of the Sergeants’ gradual withdrawal from the spotlight, he’s still newsworthy—especially if sighted with a female who happens to be stuffing her face with shellfish.
Right now, I can’t bring myself to care as I inhale the bounty before me.
“Do they feed you in Texas?” Easton taunts.
“I feed myself,” I quip back emphatically, using my mallet to smash into a claw.
“But no seafood?”
“Shrimp,” I shrug, “my mom has an aversion to seafood, especially shellfish, so we never really have it, even when we travel. Trust me, if I had eaten this, I’d remember it.”
“Oh, I believe you,” he pokes through another chuckle.
Ignoring him, I pull apart the cracked claw to draw out a chunk of meat before popping it into my mouth.
“Easton,” I whisper breathlessly, grabbing my fork and shoving the outer tong into the softer side of the leg before ripping into it the way he taught me. He leans forward, bracing his forearms on the table as I toss my prized meat into one of four drawn butters. “I’m dead serious when I say this . . . you may have to cut me off.”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to. This is too entertaining. In fact, I can guarantee I’ll be enabling you. Psst,” he whispers, giving me the come-hither finger and drawing me closer to him. Eyes locked, he gives me a sexy flash of teeth as he retrieves a piece of crab from my cheek and discards it amongst the mountain of shells I’ve accumulated.
Temporarily distracted by him, I try unsuccessfully to push out all wayward thoughts—including his full lips—before returning to my mission.
“God, I really needed this.” I lift my beer with the clean sides of my palms and take a sip, nearly dropping the heavy glass mug onto the table. Exhaling happily, I lift my finger when the background music cuts off and the first few notes of a new song chime in.
Ready for the challenge, Easton kicks back, sipping his beer, listening attentively before he confidently speaks up. “‘Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic’ by The Police.”.
Grabbing my phone, I pull down my screen and tap my Shazam app as the title comes up, along with the band name.
“Unreal,” I say. “You haven’t been wrong once today.”
“Maybe, but true connoisseurs know the B-side .”
“B-side?”
“The flip side of the vinyl record, on a forty-five, the B-side is on the opposite side of the hit song, which is typically on A.”
“Oh, so are you a true connoisseur? Do you know the B-side songs too?”
“A lot of them. Some of them I like a lot more than the A-side.”
“How many of the songs on your infinite playlist can you actually play?” When he goes silent, I lift my gaze to where he runs his finger along the rim of his frosted glass.
“Easton?”
“Most of them,” he admits softly.
“Jesus . . . that’s incredible!”
“Maybe it’s remarkable to you, but I’ve been doing it my whole life, so it’s kind of an unconscious thing.”
“It’s a gift,” I say pointedly. “ Own it.”
“Fine,” he negotiates, putting both his forearms on the table, “but I bet you could just as easily name the date on a lot of key headlines.”
“Well, they coincide with US history, which I love, so maybe a few.”
“But you took the time to study it, probably just as avidly as I have music.”
“Okay, let’s put it to the test.” I wiggle butter-covered ‘hit me’ fingers.
He presses in. “Reagan assassination attempt?”
I surprise myself when the answer comes easily. “March 30 nineteen eighty-one.”
“End of the Cold War?”
“Third of December . . .” I squint, “’89.” My smile widens. “Hit me again.”
His half grin briefly dazzles me. “Roosevelt’s death?”
“Twelfth of April, 1945, eighteen days before Hitler, which I hated for Roosevelt, he deserved to know the fate of his nemesis.”
“See,” Easton reclines, seeming satisfied as I blow a wayward lock of curly hair out of my face. Hair Easton set loose a mile marker into our drive before tossing the tie out the window. Sensing my distress to keep from feasting on my hair, he leans in and tucks the cascading lock behind my ear.
Thanking him, I push my plate away and rip open another lemon-scented packet to clean my hands.
“You sure you’re good?” He glances down at my sparsely covered plate, “Or should I order another beer and reload the trough?”
“I can’t fit anything else into this mouth,” I declare in surrender, and when my word choice strikes me I roll my eyes, my couth unreachable. Ripping my bib off, I take a sip of beer.
“Feel Like Makin’ Love,” Easton delivers, and I reject a little of my beer on a cough.
“Pardon?”
“The song,” he muses, not missing a second of my discomfort. “Feel Like Makin’ Love.”
“I walked right into that one, didn’t I? Who’s it by?”
“Bad Company.” He smirks, pun fully intended.
“Another zinger, impressive. You know, as much as you hate media, you’d be an amazing radio host. Your dry sarcasm is undetectable on delivery sometimes, so you could insult half your guests at will.”
“Hard fucking pass,” his features twist in clear disdain and I decide to dig a little further. His musical knowledge was expected, considering his upbringing and the company he’s grown up with, but not at such an astonishing level.
“How far back does your mental library go?”
“Roaring twenties, but mostly thirties and up.”
“Wow,” I say, pulling out my wallet and lifting my card.
“Hell no,” he argues upon the sight of it, and I glance over to see his nostrils flaring in irritation.
“This isn’t a date . . . and anyway, I think I ate the equivalent of someone’s salary in crab,” I declare through a laugh.
“You maxed out your AmEx to be here,” he reminds me.
“Wait . . . I said that out loud?” I ask in horror.
“Yeah, I think you might not be aware of just how much you’ve said out loud.”
“Easton,” I sigh. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
“Fuck if I know,” he fires back, his candor making me laugh. “But I’d pay an annual salary just to witness you do that again,” he gestures toward my destroyed side of the table.
“You know, you’re really a nice guy on the B-side of that mastered A impression of a total asshole.”
“Well, as far as I can tell, you’re still a terrible journalist,” he declares as he places his card on the table, tossing mine back toward me like it’s useless. “You haven’t asked more than a few questions today, most of them trivial.”
He’s calling me out, and I don’t know how much longer my bullshit pretense is going to hold up.
“Oh, they’re coming.” I sass with a bitter edge.
“Uh huh,” his smirk deepens as my eyes narrow, though I’m feeling the opposite effect.
“Laid,” he speaks up, “by James.”
“Now you’re just showing off. You win, Easton.”
“Yeah?” He cocks a sculpted black brow. “What’s my prize?”
“A queasy passenger.” I palm my stomach as it roils. “Look, if we’re going to continue to hang, I probably need a shower and wardrobe change. That bib proved worthless, and to be frank, my breasts are covered in butter.”
He barks out a laugh and I smile back at him while our waitress picks up his card.
“Full, sweetheart?” she asks with a smile, looking between us. She’s a little older, I gauge early-forties, and has kind, warm eyes and a sweet disposition.
“Yes, ma’am, and please know we’re tipping a hundred percent,” I smirk over at Easton, costing him double, “sorry about the mess I made.”
“Oh, honey, don’t worry about it.” Gathered plates in hand, she hesitates briefly. “But if I may say,” she looks between Easton and me. “It’s been my pleasure. My daughter is around your age,” she flicks her gaze at Easton, “and I pray every day she meets a man who can make her smile the way that you are her.”
I speak up at the same time Easton snakes the compliment. “He’s not—”
“Yeah? Thanks. It’s our anniversary.”
And you thought you were a deceitful shit.
“Oh?” She says, her grin broadening. “I can get the chef to whip up something—”
“I’m so stuffed,” I interject, tossing Easton a warning look, “but thank you, that’s not necessary.”
“I’ll be right back,” she says, taking Easton’s card.
“Thanks for lunch, honey,” I spout sarcastically when the waitress glances back, seemingly smitten by the two of us.
In the next instant, Easton’s out of his chair, his fingers curling around my neck as he pulls me in. “My pleasure. Come here, baby.”
“Easton,” I hiss, just before he presses his full lips against mine. He holds the kiss a second longer than hoax-appropriate before gliding his tongue in a smooth sweep along my lower lip. I gasp against his mouth before he abruptly releases me.
“Don’t want to shatter the illusion for her,” he whispers thickly, easing back into his seat as a heavy, potent pulse starts between my thighs.
“You can’t do that,” I scold, rather unconvincingly.
“That’s a word I refuse to acknowledge.”
“ButIhavecrabbutterbeer breath,” I mumble incoherently.
“And a perfect fucking mouth,” he whispers in reply, an admission that comes far too easily as his gaze lingers on said mouth. Retrieving his glass, he casually tosses back the rest of his beer, like he didn’t just assault me.
“Smooth,” he whispers as our waitress nears the table. “Rob Thomas and Santana.”
Easton breaks our stare off and thanks her, his long lashes flitting over his cheeks as he tips her and scribbles his signature. The sight of it has my stomach churning for an entirely different reason.
He kissed me.
He licked me.
I want a repeat, or at the very least, a do-over.
“Ready?” he asks as he stands and tucks his wallet back in his jeans. Feeling seduced for a plethora of rapidly accumulating reasons, I simply nod.
Instead of bringing me back to the hotel to change, Easton and I end up standing outside the entrance of the Museum of Pop Culture. I glance up at the structure of the connecting buildings, which look like nuclear plants smothered in colorful, ghost-edged blankets.
“You’re intent on making me a tourist,” I harrumph.
“Well, technically, you are, and this is an epicenter of a lot that interests you,” he shrugs as he pulls my hand into his warm grip. “Come on.”
Minutes later, we’re walking past a theatre-sized screen with an abstract reel playing as he guides me along highly polished floors. As we bypass a story-tall, inverted tornado sculpture made up of musical instruments, I release his hand and lift my phone to take a snapshot. Easton turns back and catches me, an amused glint in his eyes.
“What?” I shrug, “might as well go all in and finish with a T-shirt from the gift shop.”
Simpering, he jerks his chin in silent command. We soon enter a section of closed-off rooms with glass displays full of worn instruments and other paraphernalia, many solely dedicated to one music artist or band. A few minutes later, the two of us stand side by side, staring at Kurt Cobain’s green sweater.
“April 5, 1994,” I say, “one of the few entertainment headlines I can easily recall because it made national news for weeks.”
“One of the innovators behind what’s known as grunge, a title some bands tossed into that genre resent. Though, it was Mother Love Bone who really kick-started it all. When their lead singer, Andrew Wood, died of an overdose, the remaining members found Eddie Vedder, and Pearl Jam was born. Two months after Pearl Jam released Ten , Nirvana released Nevermind . What seems fated was Andrew’s roommate at the time of his death was Chris Cornell, the lead singer of Soundgarden, his eventual fate the same as Kurt’s,” Easton adds in a subdued tone, studying the Nirvana front man’s sweater. “They’re truly the ones responsible for putting Seattle on the map.” Easton’s eyes glide over the display thoughtfully. “Mick Jagger from The Rolling Stones called Nirvana’s music morose, but ironically, Cobain and the rest of the band were influenced heavily by The Beatles. If you listen to Nevermind , you can easily pick up some of the upbeat, catchy similarities in rhythm relative to The Beatles’ earlier works.”
We collectively gaze at the late singer’s sweater, knowing the tragic end of Kurt’s life was suicide. The circumstances of his death are still speculated by many, even forty-one years later.
Easton speaks up again. “Kurt’s one of many in the infamous 27 Club.”
“27 Club?”
“The age several prominent creatives died, many of them musicians, for some shitty reason or another. A lot of those reasons being drugs.”
“I think I read about it somewhere. Who else is in the club?”
“Shit, too damned many. Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Brian Jones, Amy Winehouse.” He lifts his chin, “Some of them are in a few of the rooms here.”
I harrumph. “For someone so intent on keeping his own details so close to the chest, you sure seem to know a lot of the details of others.”
“I study musical evolutions , mostly by listening to their music . I don’t pay attention to the useless details so many seem to obsess over.”
“Yeah, well, as a human-interest writer,” I look back to the sweater, “I would love to know what was going on in his mind.”
“ Pain ,” he surmises easily. “Kurt and Eddie both notoriously hated fame and media, so if nothing else, we have that in common.” He flashes me a condescending, full-toothed grin, and I lift my free hand giving him the bird. He squeezes my other in jest before leading me to the next room. It’s when we reach the entrance that I see the reason he brought me here.
“This is . . . wow,” I shoot him a grin as we walk into the circular room full of glass cases dedicated solely to the Dead Sergeants.
Slightly starstruck, I turn to Easton. “How does it feel to know your dad aided in keeping Seattle known for the talent it houses?”
“Dad came from your neighborhood. The whole band originated in Austin.”
“True, but they’re synonymous with Seattle now, and you didn’t answer my question.”
“All the things I’m supposed to feel, I guess,” he relays easily. “Mostly proud and . . . inspired.”
I walk to the first prompt, reading about the various memorabilia on display—all donated by the band members. The first section is dedicated to Ben First, the Dead Sergeants’ lead singer. A life-size picture of him on stage in the back of the case. The photo speaks volumes as Ben sings, clearly in his element, hand wrapped around a mic. His wardrobe consisting of nothing but a Home Depot apron, tapered jeans tucked into calf-length black boots, his toned, muscular build alluring. It’s obvious why the photo was chosen because it captures his stage presence perfectly—curly blond hair untamed, eyes beseeching, expression unguarded.
I read the eye-level explanation of the display, which states Ben wore the apron during their first tour as part joke and nod to where he started. I grin. “One day, his most useful tool is a box cutter, the next, it’s a mic, and he’s singing for a crowd of thousands. ”
“Took a whole lot longer than a day,” Easton relays absently, seemingly lost in a memory as I study Ben closely.
I can see the appeal he had then and find myself empathizing with Lexi, his on-again-off-again ex-girlfriend who eventually mothered his only child. In the movie, Ben and Lexi’s relationship was hot, volatile, and ended when Lexi cheated on Ben after the Sergeants were signed. Her insecure actions forced Ben to walk away. From the way she was portrayed—much like Stella—Lexi was a pistol, and it saddens me that even the most confident of women must feel helpless at times, thanks to the constant threat of those who want to take their place.
“I can’t imagine dating a man so sought after, so wanted ,” I find myself saying aloud. “It would drive me insane.”
Easton scoffs. “Ben’s just like you and me , and them ,” he lifts his chin toward a few people wandering into the room opposite ours. “Temptation can be both avoided and ignored. I’ve seen it for myself. Granted, most of the band were settled down by the time I was born. When we toured, no one got backstage. We had security on every floor of every hotel. It was mostly all business until the show.”
“I hear you, but those who can’t put together a group of meaningful words and pair them with an emotion-evoking melody are heavily intrigued by those who can. Not to mention the stage presence. It’s sexy as hell, Easton. I might not be a music fanatic, but even I understand the allure and am not immune to it.” I nudge him, “But for all I know, you sound like a gorilla on the mic, so you’re no threat to me.”
The biggest lie you’ve told thus far, Natalie. Going for the gold, are we?
I drink in his profile outlined in clear view in the reflection of the glass case, wondering if he’s mirroring his own future as he looks into Ben’s past. When he catches my gaze, instead of shying away, I smile, and he returns it, his fingers brushing mine as we walk down to the next display. Just inside is a picture of Rye Wheelan, the Sergeants’ lead guitarist, playing the Fender he donated, which sits propped in a battered case covered in old bumper stickers. I laugh at a few of them.
A step over, homemade T-shirts from Adam Shaw’s raunchy collection are displayed along with a bass in two pieces, only held together by the strings.
“I take it these two are the goofballs?”
“Most definitely,” Easton says with a grin. “I’ve had to parent them on more than one occasion.”
“This is your family ,” I hear the slight awe in my voice, “in a glass case.”
“I have to admit, it’s a little fucking weird.”
“Do you remember a lot about being on the road?”
“Plenty. It took up most of my childhood summers. But only for three or four months out of the year. My parents were determined to give me some semblance of normalcy, so I missed a lot of the European dates. Yet by the time I was old enough to crave it, I was foaming at the mouth along with my dad to hit the road. I loved it,” he admits freely, “I really, really fucking loved it.”
I nudge him. “So, you have that to look forward to.”
He dips his chin noncommittally before sauntering over to the last case. Like Ben’s display, at the back sits a life-size black and white picture of Reid, fingers firmly gripping his sticks, arms raised and poised to rain hell on his drums. Shirt tucked in his back pocket, Reid’s expression is much like Easton’s when he gets lost in the music.
Though I’ve attributed Easton’s skin and hair color to Stella, in this photo Reid and Easton’s likeness is striking.
Inside the case, situated in front of the life-size picture, sits a Drummer’s Workshop kit. A battered set of Reid’s drumsticks—one with the tip broken off—rests against the large, tattered bass drum. Reading the prompt, I recognize I was right in assuming it’s the set of drums Stella won by chance and sent to Reid after they broke up. Her gesture was a plea to encourage him to keep going, even after he broke her heart and left Austin. A slight bitterness seeps into me, but at the same time, I know the gesture was probably what kept him from quitting.
“They saved him,” Easton confirms, staring at the kit. “It cut him deep to donate them, but he didn’t want them rotting away in storage. He figured at least they’ll be preserved here. Mom saw in him what he couldn’t see for himself,” he utters, unmistakable pride in his eyes for what his parents have.
I nod, ashamed my confidence is shaky in the same respect, and I allowed— am allowing it to happen. Easton trails me into a nearby room as I stare blankly at the next display. His warmth surrounds me before he rests his chin on my shoulder, my body reacting in kind as it begins to thrum with awareness.
“I’m right here,” he whispers, the words resonating a second before bringing me to a scene in Drive. Reid typed out those exact words for Stella on her laptop minutes before they collided in their first kiss. Just as I question the implication of Easton’s whispered words, his warmth vanishes and he steps away, his expression imperceptible. He scans the room briefly, seeming to get lost in thought before turning back to me and extending his palm. “Come on, buttery breasts,” one side of his mouth lifts. “I’ll take you back to your hotel.”
I do the only thing that’s felt right since I landed in Seattle and place my hand in his.