Reverse (Bittersweet Symphony Duet #2)

TWENTY-NINE “Worldstop”

TWENTY-NINE

“Worldstop”

Roy English

Natalie

B lindsided.

That’s how I felt during the first half-hour of the show. The online experience of watching Easton perform doesn’t do him or the band nearly enough justice. Just a few minutes in, I decided it would have been a tragedy if I missed this opportunity. Though Easton said they were jelling well as a band and making good progress in tightening their sound, I can’t imagine them sounding better. Easton’s stage presence is an experience within itself. Combined with his astounding vocal range and his music, it’s utterly mesmerizing.

He came out guns blazing, the most natural showman alive, and I was instantly hot for him. Though dressed the same as when he collected me, the look somehow turned more rock and roll as he performed, his hat backward, the visible tips of his hair dripping sweat within the first few songs, his T-shirt plastered to his muscular chest.

Hidden between the first and second curtain, side stage, I really do have the best seat in the house, away from the audience’s view. From my vantage point, I witnessed every damned facial expression and close of his eyes. I felt every change in pitch, every emotion he’s feeling, relaying and evoking as he plays and sings seamlessly, like a veteran—God help me. Now well into the set, it’s astounding they all have the same energy as when they started playing, as if they’re just warming up.

Drinking in the scene before me, I briefly shift my focus to the rest of the band. Tack remains a powerhouse on the drums as LL edges the stage on lead, his retro and badly faded Hawaiian shirt hanging open as he draws out every note with perfect clarity. Syd remains on the other side of the stage, far less animated, his bass lines steady yet expertly provoking.

But it’s the man center stage that is wrecking us all past repairable. He’s spent most of this song, “Tumble Dry,” cupping the mic—his current weapon of mass destruction—with both hands, sweeping us away with the haunting melody and cut-throat lyrics.

I sway where I stand, maybe ten feet away, singing along, giving the starstruck fangirl dwelling inside me her fair share of indulgence.

They’ve surpassed my expectations. I’m already dreading when the second show ends, but still thankful I’ll be gifted one more.

One more will be enough, Natalie.

Chucking the heels I put on before the show, I lift my arms in praise above my head as sweat trickles down my back, and I allow myself to get swept away.

Easton’s voice flows like lava throughout the small auditorium of six thousand, the place packed to capacity. Peeking out through the curtain at the beginning of the show, I saw that many of the fans taking up the first row are women, their expressions nothing short of worship, as if they reach out to him, he’ll cure them all. For them, in these few minutes, he’s worthy of those starved and reverent looks. He would also be the cure for me if I acknowledged the continually growing ache and pounced on the opportunity to temporarily pacify it with him.

But I’m no idiot.

I’ve had a long drink, and I know of the addictive thirst that’s sure to follow. Easton now belongs to the world—and for him, for me—I have to live in this moment because I know it’s fleeting. He’s space-bound, and my roots are firmly planted. Refusing to let my mood be altered by those thoughts, I cheer along with the crowd and take endless minutes of footage before putting my phone away. The last few songs of the show I decide will be for memory alone.

As a journalist, it’s sometimes hard for me to distinguish which moments to live in and which to capture with total mental clarity for my own creative outlet down the line. But this moment is definitively mine, and he wanted me here. Natalie Butler , not Natalie Hearst. Even if we are one and the same.

Closing my eyes, I get lost in the lyrics, mouthing them in tandem. It’s when I open them and see Easton angled toward me, watching me intently from where he sings, that all the breath whooshes out of me.

Bastard.

I’m so close to the fire now. I know exactly what parts would remain intact if I so much as take a single step toward what I’m feeling, the truth of it continuously plaguing me.

A tale as old as time as far as human nature is concerned.

I want what I can’t have.

Even as I think it, his quiet electricity runs rampant throughout my body, engulfing me as the hairs on my arms and neck stand on end. I inhale the charged air between us as memory floods in, of the desire in his eyes, of how we bared ourselves, pulled each other apart, and examined our pieces before fusing ourselves back together so effortlessly. I feel those seconds with every fiber of my being as he engages me fully, his guitar strapped on his back, guttural lyrics of longing pouring from his lips. The tidal wave of his gaze ebbs away, slowly receding as they drift closed, unmistakable ache in his voice just as he sings the last line before the stage goes dark.

When the lights come back up, I’m utterly seduced, drenched in him from feet away, my desire for him at an immeasurable high. Forcing my selfish needs down, I smile and extend my hands in a clap as the crowd roars to a deafening level. Even without seeing them, I can physically feel the bond between Easton and his audience, of the love he spoke so fondly of. Not only that, as Easton scans the throng of fans, taking it all in, I can see the elation on his features as he engages them. “Thanks so much for coming out, Oklahoma City,” he places a hand on his chest before his eyes flick to mine. “I’m so glad you came.”

“Me too,” I mouth, still cradled inside the curtains asking myself the question again.

How the fuck am I supposed to resist this man?

How could anyone resist this man?

It’s then I decide the pain will be worth it. Just to know him, to witness him start his life path, his career path, because of who he is. Briefly, I entertain the idea we could have some sort of friendship eventually, but that notion is shot to hell the second the image of him hovering above me at the studio shutters in. His hand gripping the end of the couch, the other cradling my jaw, his beautiful features twisted in pleasure when he pulsed inside me.

Here and now, Nat. Here and now.

These precious moments with him, witnessing the start of his journey, will be my consolation when I’m forced to tear myself away from him a second time.

This, right here, is the sweet spot, somewhere between easily recognizable and the full blow stardom sure to come. It’s taken only months to build an audience this size, and he’s already sold a stadium out for the end of his first van tour. A year from now, I won’t be able to get near him so easily or possibly at all. This knowledge instills some fear for him. Because by the time he’s done touring, he’ll probably be swept into a level of fame he doesn’t want. Ironically, on stage now, he seems completely at ease. I know he’s at peace because, despite the fears he confided in me, his connection with them is his consolation.

“Give it up for REVERB! Baseline by Syd Patel, ripping on lead LL Garrison, and on drums Tack fucking Garrett!” Easton shouts, nodding toward the band before addressing them. “How about one more?” he asks, bouncing his gaze between LL, Tack, and Syd, who ready themselves in agreement, their faces lit due to recognition from the crowd. I love the fact that he spared the audience the ego-driven walk off stage and silent demand they cheer for an encore because that’s not who he is.

A devilish grin lifts his lush lips, and I get buzzed by the sight of it as he easily shifts his shiny black guitar in front of him, making the transition look effortless.

I hold my breath—along with the rest of the audience—in anticipation of what cover they’ll play. So far, he’s covered several eras and genres and made more headlines due to one of his latest encores in which he nailed a rap song to the point it seemed like he’s been rapping his whole life. I must have replayed that footage a hundred times and felt the same pride for him every time. It seems no matter what he tackles, he nails it.

Easton leans into the mic as they continue to cheer for him, his answering smile amping them up before they finally quiet down as he readies his guitar pick.

The lights go out a second time as Easton’s drawl echoes.

“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.”

“Oh my God!” I spring like a Jack in the Box as the lights come up and Easton rips through the first chords of “Cult of Personality” with expertise. Eyes fixed on him, I geek out, bobbing my head and rocking on my heels, hair flying around my face wildly as the stadium explodes in chaos.

Easton rips on his guitar like it’s an extension of him through the solo, running his head back and forth as he plucks the strings, expertly pulling it off alongside LL while I lose all sense of self. The band doesn’t miss a single layer of the song as the four of them blow the roof off the fucking place.

Like me, I suspect most of the post-millennium-born audience has never heard the song. Then again, some of them probably have because if Easton’s taught me anything in our time together, it’s that though music is dated with a time stamp and divided by genre, it’s timeless.

I understand that now more than ever because Easton has proved it so and made certain music eternal for me, this song included.

This revelation isn’t news because not only is Easton outselling every mainstream artist out there, but he’s also breaking demographic barriers, selling to multiple generations, a feat very few artists have managed to do. As he explained to me in the truck that day, he’s creating common ground between us all. Knowing him—and his aversion to media—I’m not even sure he’s aware of it.

Before I can take a full breath, the song is over, and the auditorium is roaring and organically begging for an encore Easton doesn’t grant as the curtains close. The go-to-hell lights come up as I bounce on the balls of my feet, filled to the brim with adrenaline. Feeling euphoric, a sheen of sweat glistening on my skin, I laugh hysterically when I realize I’m becoming trapped between the first and second curtain as they close.

“Oh, bollocks!” I exclaim in mock Brit. “I would applaud you gents, but I can’t seem to find me way out of these!” A whiff of Easton’s scent hits me along with the smooth rumble of his chuckle just before I’m swallowed by the sight of him, the curtains billowing around him as he stalks toward me. In the next second, he’s plastered to me. Our chests collide before he grips the back of my neck and crushes my mouth with his.

His eager kiss elicits a moan from somewhere deep within, representing two excruciating months of longing. Easton uses it, pressing his tongue past my lips before invading me. I’m climbing him in seconds as he molds us together while playing me effortlessly. Ripping at his hair, I feel the vibration on his tongue and suck it feverishly as his hat thuds somewhere below us. Wet and aching, I moan into his mouth as he continues to draw me deeper into the kiss, utterly destroying my every defense until I’m clinging to him, unable to support my own weight. Our tongues furiously duel until he eventually pulls away, staring down at me intently before letting out a low, “Fuck, Beauty.”

Panting, I gape at him, my clit demanding attention between my legs. “Damnit to hell, Crowne,” I mutter in an attempt to catch myself, “you’re already playing dirty. ”

“No,” he licks along my lower lip and pulls it briefly between his teeth. “Not yet.” His nose brushes mine, “Not even close, but don’t put it past me.”

“This isn’t a game,” I whisper hoarsely.

He sobers, pulling back slightly so I can clearly see the look in his eyes. “No, it’s not. You punched a hole in my goddamned chest in Seattle, only to leave me in the dark to try and figure out how to fill it.”

His admission has me gravitating toward him just as he releases me and retrieves his hat.

“You keep interrupting my praises,” I tell him in an attempt to sidestep the paralyzing effect of his words. His grin doesn’t reach his eyes as he opts to place his retrieved hat on my head, pulling it down over my hot mess of curls. “It’s like you don’t even care about my opinion.”

Something sparks in his eye as he dips in a whisper. “That’s the thing, Beauty. With me, you rarely have to say a word.”

“You keep calling me that.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a large part of the reason I drove to Austin to collect the girl I met. Because that’s all I see when she reveals herself to me.” He runs a gentle thumb across my lower lip. “Raw. Fucking. Beauty.”

“Ohhhh,” I draw out in my best Texas twang and another useless attempt at self-preservation, “you’re really good at that. You should be a songwriter or somethin’. Women will fawn all over you for pretty words like those—”

“—while other parts of her remain purposely oblivious,” he retorts dryly, rolling his eyes before knocking the brim of his hat down, temporarily blinding me. Gripping my hand, he starts to navigate us from within the confines of the curtains. Once we’re free, I notice that LL and Syd are closing their cases, and Tack’s made good progress dismantling his drum kit. The noise from the audience on the other side of the curtains is now noticeably absent.

How long were we kissing?

“That was amazing!” I belt out in an attempt to draw their attention, extending my clapping hands toward them. “Bet you fellas good money you make all the OK headlines tomorrow.” Syd and LL flash me grins. LL’s cerulean gaze flicks between Easton and me, letting me know he’s onto us. Dodging his prodding assessment, I turn to Easton, his expression drawn up in amusement. Gripping his arm, I lift on my toes, commanding his attention and pulling him closer for his ear. He snakes his arm around me, his warm skin sending a shiver up my spine. “What I was going to say before you interrupted me with your tongue is that performance was every imaginable adjective for incredible, Easton. Thank you for sharing this with me,” I pull back as he wets his lips and shakes his head.

“What?” I draw out, frowning. “Not enough praise for your highness? Still think I’m a shitty writer?”

“You really have no idea, do you?” He asks as I look helplessly over to Joel, standing guard just a few feet away.

“What am I missing?”

“The whole point,” Easton taunts, running his knuckles down my cheek.

“Enlighten me, then,” I say in a stupor, as all nearby hands-on-deck blur while I get distracted by the intimacy still bouncing between us.

Easton’s chest pumps with his silent chuckle.

“Well?” I prompt.

“I’m working on it,” he murmurs as a stagehand approaches with a water bottle. Easton takes it and thanks him before downing the whole thing in a few swallows. “I need to help break down and load up,” he relays apologetically through a hasty inhale.

“How can I help?”

“You can’t. Joel is going to get you checked into the hotel. Are you tired?”

“Hell no. I could run a marathon.” I turn his hat backward and pretend to push up my sleeves as his easy grin returns.

“Let’s have a late dinner with the guys at the hotel. Two hours?”

I curl my lip, renewed energy coursing through me. “Sure I can’t help?” I point to myself. “I’ve got all this pent up . . .”

Easton lifts a brow as Tack speaks up from behind him. “Do you know how to break down a drum kit?”

“I’m a quick study!” I shout, sidestepping Easton and heading in Tack’s direction just as Easton grips my arm.

“Deal with your own kit, asshole,” Easton snaps as Tack gives him the bird without glancing up.

It’s then, over Easton’s shoulder, that I spot a handful of women waiting side stage, not a single swinging dick to be seen. Their view of us is obstructed by Joel as he moves toward them, arms outstretched before he ushers them further back. Easton leans in, forcing my eyes back to his. “I’m not trying to get rid of you, Natalie.”

I muster a shrug as if I haven’t a care in the world. “It’s not my business.”

His nostrils flare in clear irritation, and he gives me a dead stare.

“I’m golden, and it’s not my place, so let’s drop it.” Turning, I start a search for my heels just inside the curtain and fish them out one by one. Without prompt, Easton grips my hip for support as I push into them, his fingers brushing my skin when he releases me. Swallowing, I brave a look up at him to see the same intensity I’ve seen several times before.

He leans down, so we’re eye level. “Your lips are swollen from my kiss, and I’m willing to bet good money that your panties are fucking useless. Should we find a place backstage where I can make my point clearer?”

“You don’t have to . . . say things like that.” I feel my neck reddening as he presses in.

“I don’t say anything I don’t want to, and you fucking know that. See you in two hours.” He leaves me then, panties drenched, head in a fog, body screaming, demanding satisfaction, my heart an inch from orbit.

“Ready, sweetheart?” Joel asks, suddenly standing next to me, jarring me out of my stupor. Narrowing my eyes, I look over at him as he presses his lips together in an attempt to hide his smile.

“You really didn’t tell him?”

“I really didn’t have to ,” he replies without further explanation before ushering me toward the exit. Glancing back, my gaze finds its way to Easton as he secures his guitar in his case before flicking to the eager group of women standing in wait. Easton’s assurances whisper through my mind as I run my fingers over my tingling lips.

I am so fucked.

“Hey, Daddy,” I say, tossing my overpacked suitcase on the hotel’s king bed. He starts in immediately.

“What’s with the vague text and skipping out on us?”

“I got caught up with a story. You know how it is.”

“I do, but your mom’s pissed. She cooked.”

“Apologize for me.”

“You’re on speaker, brat,” Mom chimes in as I unzip and begin to load the dresser.

“Sorry, sorry,” I plea as the guilt sets in that I’m again lying to them both, and with far too much ease.

“Raincheck,” Dad chimes in. “How about Sunday dinner?”

“No can do. You two will have to entertain yourselves this weekend. I’ve got plans.”

“With whom?” Mom asks unabashedly.

“Addie,” Dad scolds. “It’s her weekend and her business. If she wants us to know, she’ll tell us.”

“Fine,” Mom concedes easily. “I’ll push dinner to Monday.”

“I’ll be there. I love you both . . . so much.”

“Love you too,” they say in unison.

“Oh, Daddy, if you want to look over the specs for this week’s edition, I uploaded the layout before I left the office. I don’t know if it’s exactly what you want, but it’s there.”

“I trust you,” he murmurs with pride as my heart drops. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

“Okay, well . . . Night.”

They both echo goodnights as I end the call and fling myself across the bed, feeling like an altogether shitty human. I know I have their complete trust, but with the acts I’ve committed, I no longer feel worthy of it. With Easton’s kiss still fresh on my lying lips, I tell myself for the umpteenth time that this weekend is all I can give him because my entire future resides on this secret being precisely that, a secret.

Even though remaining close-knit with my family is sewn into my future, I try to remind myself that I’m also very much a grown woman. A grown woman who shouldn’t have to answer to her parents for every move she makes, especially when it comes to her personal life.

Guilt refusing to dissipate, I take a quick shower in an attempt to wash off the shame as I try to figure out how I’m going to hide for the next few days.

With the paparazzi earning high dollars for personal shots of Easton, the stakes are much higher now than in Seattle. The chances of us getting caught on the other side of the lens are far greater, so I can’t be seen with him—in any capacity—in public. Standing side stage tonight—even between the curtains—was reckless and dangerous. Not only that, but Easton’s eyes also strayed in my direction enough that anyone watching closely, especially with a keen, trained eye to pay attention to those particulars, could catch on.

Did they? Surely no one was able to get a good shot. I was too far back, practically buried between those curtains. Yet, anxiety begins to run through me as I shoot off a quick text.

I don’t know if dinner is a good idea.

EC: It’s taken care of.

What do you mean? I haven’t told you why.

EC: You don’t have to. I’ve got it handled. Trust me and get down here.

So demanding.

The bubbles start and stop before a text comes through.

EC: I miss you. That’s what I called to say the first time.

Heart pounding erratically, I manage to type a reply.

And the second time?

EC: Maybe I’ll tell you when you get to the table.