Reverse (Bittersweet Symphony Duet #2)

TWENTY-ONE “Crazy for You”

TWENTY-ONE

“Crazy for You”

Madonna

Natalie

Z ipping my suitcase shut, I roll it to the edge of the bed before stepping out onto the balcony of my hotel, which overlooks the water. The sun hovers brightly above as a cluster of seagulls flock together and swoop in my direction, flying eye level with me a few feet from where I stand.

Nervous laughter escapes at the way they’re stalking me, no doubt trained by previous guests to wait for breakfast leftovers. As I take in the view, I realize Seattle has truly taken a back seat, playing more of a backdrop to Easton during my time here. Only now, as I prepare to leave, do I find myself appreciating the view I’ve had access to the entirety of my trip, yet, I have no regrets about why. I also can’t bring myself to regret coming, but hate the way we parted last night. The second I closed the door to his truck and entered the lobby, I felt the loss of him strike. The idea of missing him is insane, but it still rings just as true now as it did last night. Just as I switch my camera to capture a panoramic view against the invading glare of the sun, a knock sounds on my door. Ears perking up, I step inside, unsure if housekeeping announced themselves.

“I’m still here!” I call out. “I asked for late check-out,” I explain, nearing the door.

“I was hoping you were,” rings out in reply as I open the door to find a grinning Joel on the other side. The instant burn in my chest leaves my hopes of seeing Easton before I left dashed.

I manage to muster a smile. “Hey, you. What brings you here?”

“Thought you might want a lift to the airport.”

“Thank you, but my flight doesn’t leave for another four hours.”

“I’ve got time to kill,” he brushes past me to grab my waiting suitcase. “We’ll take the scenic route.”

“Joel, that’s really not necessary. I don’t want to take up your day.”

“You aren’t. It’s either chill with you or be bored in a parking lot,” he says, glancing around the room.

A dozen questions surface, mainly consisting of which parking lot it would be. If Easton occupies the building he’d been waiting outside of and where it’s located.

“Joel, seriously, thank him for me, but—”

“I’m not taking no for an answer, so give it up. Besides, I can think of a lot worse ways to spend a day.” His warm smile puts me at ease.

“Okay,” I agree.

He looks around again. “Got everything?”

“Let me do one last walk through, and I’ll meet you at the elevator.”

“Sounds good.”

Unable to help myself, I grab the remaining two pieces of toast from my breakfast tray and toss them onto my balcony before quickly sealing my door shut, narrowly avoiding the explosion of fluttering wings that follows.

After checking the drawers and bathrooms, I place a bill on the desk to tip housekeeping and glance around the room, knowing my time is up, but the source of my melancholy rests somewhere outside this hotel room. Even so, I find myself grabbing the forty-dollar teddy bear dressed in a red sweater brandishing the hotel logo before I exit, a souvenir of my time here, of the memories I’ll be hard-pressed to forget anytime soon. Especially the minutes in which Easton sang for me, and for the first time publicly.

Joining Joel, who’s already inside a waiting elevator, he ushers me in, eyeing the bear and flashing me a grin. I lift a shoulder in reply.

Once outside, I follow him to the SUV parked at the pass-through. Taking Easton’s jacket draped on the top of my suitcase, I slide it on, unwilling to part with it just yet. Joel barely conceals his smirk as he opens the back door for me, and I give him a “pshh” before circling him and hopping into the front passenger seat. He chuckles as I close the door, and once in the driver’s seat, he turns to me.

“I know of a place that serves the absolute best seafood in the Pacific Northwest. You up for it?”

“Sounds perfect,” I lie.

“It’s a little bit of a drive.”

“Well, we have time,” I remind him.

“All right then, it’s a plan.”

I use the drive to get acquainted with the person who’s probably closest to the man I haven’t been able to chase from my thoughts since the day we met. Long minutes into our drive, our polite chatter turns more personal in nature. So far, I’ve discovered Joel’s ex-Army and served four years before getting hired as Easton’s private driver and bodyguard.

“No wife or kids?”

“Not by choice. I’m ready for it, but I’m being patient. I haven’t found her yet. It will happen when it happens.”

“Do you think it’s the job?”

“No, I’ve had a few long-term relationships,” he shrugs, “they just didn’t work out. Mostly because the women I’m typically attracted to turn out to be bat shit.”

“Well, that’s dangerous.”

“Yeah, more so than this job.”

I run my fingers along the fabric of Easton’s jacket. “How will you know when you’ve found the right one?”

“When I miss her too much to go from one day to the next without her, only then will I consider putting the job last.”

“Not a bad way to gauge it,” I agree, glancing out the window at the trees blurring past us on either side of the road. Briefly, I wonder how good the fare is for what seems like a drive to nowhere. It’s when Joel begins to slow as we approach a deserted, small, dilapidated-looking, one-story building that I turn to him with drawn brows.

“What’s this?”

“A pit stop.”

Confused, I scan for clues until I catch a glimpse of the tailgate of Easton’s truck parked at the side of the isolated building. My heart leaps into a fast rhythm when Joel parks just in front of the entrance.

“You tricked me,” I scold.

“Yeah, you look really unhappy about it,” he replies with a grin I know mirrors my own. “Go on, I’ll be here waiting for you,” he urges as I look back toward the building when Easton appears at the door, knocking the wind out of me.

His eyes sweep me as I exit the SUV in his jacket and prance toward him with a grin. “Hey,” I say, nearing him.

Easton replies with a soft “Hey,” before shifting his gaze to the SUV and lifting his chin to Joel in thanks. I duck under Easton’s arm as he holds the door open and come to a dead stop.

“Where exactly are we?” I ask as the door slams closed behind us, shrouding us in darkness. The only light comes from a dimly lit hallway several feet in front of us. Eyes adjusting to the lack of light, I make out a seating area full of worn leather couches on our left and a small kitchenette to the right.

Easton stands just behind me, his chest brushing my back. I sense some slight tension rolling through him as he speaks. “I wanted to show you something before you go.”

“Okay,” I acquiesce as he takes my hand, a balm to last night’s rushed goodbye.

Even though I know he withdrew for both our sakes, I can’t deny it was painful in a way I wasn’t prepared for. Butterflies swarm me as he gently nudges me forward to give him space before he takes the lead, guiding me down a short hallway. A single door is closed to our left before he stops at another closed door on the right. Opening it, he ushers me in, and I glance around.

“Oh,” I say, taking in our surroundings. Straight ahead is a large soundboard with two comfortable-looking chairs edging it.

A long, newer-looking leather couch takes up a good amount of the wall immediately to my right. Next to it is a glass door leading into a sound booth which sits opposite the board. The booth is so small, it’s got barely enough space to fit the instruments it currently houses. Though it seems equipped, it’s severely outdated. Even with all the necessities, the room looks to be something straight out of the ’70s era, the surrounding walls made up of paneled wood. I turn to Easton, confused.

“ This is your studio?”

He chuckles at my obvious surprise. “Not impressed?”

“It looks like a ’70s porno set and smells like mothballs. Seriously, Easton, why here ?”

“I’m here mostly because of this soundboard, and I told you, I earned every single dime to record myself. This is the only place I could afford.”

“Don’t get me wrong, it’s um, nice enough—”

“Liar,” he grins and scolds simultaneously. “It’s a total shithole. But it’s been my home on and off for years. I’ve slept on that couch more than I have in my own bed.”

“Did you sanitize it first?” I jab.

“I bought it new, asshole,” he growls, nudging my shoulder.

“So, do you own this palace?”

He shakes his head. “I fucking should with as much time as I’ve spent here, but no. I lease it long term because no one else wants it.”

I open my mouth to talk, and he covers it with his palm, his eyes lit with humor.

I peel his hand away. “I was only going to say a coat of paint, or . . . a wrecking ball, and this place could really be . . . something.”

Wrinkling his nose, he pinches my sides, and I jump as our smiles collide. My heart flutters in my chest as we get caught up in the other for a few seconds while his palms rest on either side of my waist. Sucking in my lip as my body begins to thrum, I glance around and try to imagine him holed up in this relic he labels his studio. “And you’re by yourself when you’re here?”

“Most of the time. You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Don’t you get lonely?”

“Not with all the music in my head,” he says, tapping his temple.

“You’re beautiful . . .” His eyes snap to mine. “. . . and I feel sorry for you.”

I’m graced with a full grin before he leads me deeper into the room.

“Come on, it won’t bite, and I got rid of the rats years ago.”

“That’s reassuring.”

He smirks as I take one of two seats behind the soundboard. Putting on my most serious expression, I straighten my shoulders. “So, you going to teach me how to drive this spaceship or what?”

“Only if it lands us in an alternate universe,” he rasps out, taking the seat next to me. His eyes bore into mine, the sentiment hitting hard.

“Then what are you waiting for? Let’s go.”

“I’ll do you one better.”

I feign busy, pushing up a lever I know he can easily adjust back. “I don’t quite see how that’s possible, Mr. Crowne.”

He ducks under the board and retrieves a set of headphones, and I gape at him. “You’re going to let me hear it?”

“How are you going to write your article without hearing it?”

“We both know I’m—”

The ‘play along with me’ look in his eyes cuts me off.

“Exactly,” I snark, tossing my shoulders back and exaggeratedly clearing my throat. “I can’t perform miracles. I don’t know how you expect me to sway people otherwise.”

“Let’s remedy that,” he says, a nervous underlay in his tone.

“How many people have heard it?”

“My dad—so that makes you—number two.”

An audible gasp leaves me. “Easton.”

“Yeah, not even my mother,” he says softly. “I didn’t want her feeling pressured.”

I gape at him. “You trust me this much?”

“Guess so.”

The urge to launch myself at him intensifies and I do my best to sidebar the plethora of emotions threatening. “Sure hope it doesn’t suck, or this could backfire badly.”

“Clock’s ticking, Butler, and you have a plane to catch and seventy-seven minutes of music to listen to.”

“Seventy-seven minutes. Is there a significance to that?”

“You tell me.” He gently pulls the tie securing the pile of curls on top of my head, teasingly ruffling them loose before placing the headphones on my ears.

“Why the headphones?”

“Because I’ve heard it far too many times, and I don’t want to concentrate on the music.”

“Perfectionist?” I ask.

“You have no idea,” he says, his expression tightening.

“I have some idea.”

“You going to shut up anytime soon?”

“Sorry, I’m excited,” I clap giddily. “You don’t really intend on watching me, do you?”

“Since I’ve been waiting seven long years, yeah, I absolutely fucking do.”

“Geesh, no pressure,” I spout nervously. “If I’m this nervous, I can’t imagine what you’re feeling.”

“Comfortable?” He asks, dodging my question.

“Yeah,” I say, bobbing my head with emphasis.

“Close your eyes,” he whispers. Immediately, I flutter them closed, thankful for the reprieve of being so close to him and unable to touch. It’s a special kind of hell.

All words fall away as the intro—an atmospheric sort of melody—surrounds me before notes begin pouring through the headphones.

I can feel Easton’s gaze as he keeps the seat opposite me, our knees touching, his earthy scent surrounding me as his velvet voice sounds with the first lyrics. In seconds, I’m transported from the dimly lit room we’re sitting in into his universe. Heavy drums kick as he sings between searing guitar riffs, my lips parting at the heaviness of the song’s message.

The introduction song comes to a close, the last of the lyrics lingering as I melt further into the chair, mind blown, keeping my eyes closed. When the next song begins to play, my eyes bulge open in response, and I see Easton’s expectant smile in place due to the drastic difference in sound from the first song to the second. Both are different in feel, yet just as phenomenal.

My eyes flutter closed as he sings of mistrust. When it ends, I open my eyes briefly, and his lips part as he conveys something unintelligible, but I purposefully refuse to lift my headphones in fear of missing a single note. By the third song, I’m completely in orbit, unable to give him a second of my attention as I’m swept further and further into the journey he’s so effortlessly taking me on. There’s a theme mixed in the brilliance, but even as I try to mentally take notes, I’m unable to formulate a single coherent thought.

I feel it all, goosebumps erupting over my skin over and over as I’m continually seduced, brought up to immeasurable highs only to be swept into sorrow. I lose time, fully absorbed, emotions warring as the music continues to play with only a few short seconds of reprieve between songs—which isn’t nearly enough time to recover.

The journalist inside desperately wants her poker face back, but even as I try, I fail to formulate a single cohesive sentence for what I’m experiencing. Ultimately, I bat her away because the journalist that resides inside me is not who he’s playing his music for.

So, I sit, failing to hide the totality of the feelings he’s evoking as my throat constricts and his voice pulls at the last of my restraint, my eyes burning with tears as they escape and trickle down my cheeks. I don’t stop them, nor do I wipe them away. He deserves every one of them.

Easton Crowne makes beautiful music, his sound unlike any I’ve ever heard. Faint echoes of musicians—past and present—thread through his soul-searing lyrics and complicated melodies, but in a distinctive way I know will be trademarked as his own.

The truth becomes evident as I continue to listen and realize he’s probably not at all ashamed his father helped him produce it. He’s proud of it. I conclude he doesn’t want it publicly known he got the help because the sound he created is uniquely his own.

I know if I open my eyes, it may well ruin me, so I rest my head back against the leather seat—my senses heightened exponentially as he continues to wage war on my every emotion. His brilliant, beautiful lyrics and carefully laid out melodies drown me for endless minutes as I’m swarmed in the sensation of his mindboggling creation. I embrace every second of the feeling.

Just as I reach immeasurable heights by the beauty of new lyrics, Easton removes the headphones and unplugs them, the gorgeous ballad surrounding us both as I open my eyes. The ready praises on my tongue are silenced when Easton’s lips capture mine.