Reverse (Bittersweet Symphony Duet #2)

THIRTY-TWO “I Want You”

THIRTY-TWO

“I Want You”

Concrete Blonde

Natalie

A knock on my hotel door jars me awake, and I snap to on the mattress. Wiping the drool from my face, I look down to see I’m in a cami, my panties discarded nearby on the floor, yet I somehow manage to have kept one pant leg clinging to my ankle.

Dafuq ?

How is that even possible?

“Uh, just a second.”

After pulling my jeans on and straightening my cami, I search and fail to find a mirror as the knocking resumes. Wincing at the thrum starting in my head, I embrace defeat and open the door.

Easton stands on the other side looking mouthwatering, hair darker probably due to a recent shower, two coffees in hand. His lips stretch into a smile as he extends one toward me in offering.

“Thanks, and don’t bother saying it. I’m sure I look like a freshly drowned rat.”

“Actually, I was wondering if you plan on sitting on your tuffet today, Miss Muffet.”

“Huh?” I wince, his words not registering as he scans my room, his eyes landing on my discarded panties before pinning me.

“While eating your curds and whey.” He lifts his chin, and it’s then I realize I may have mismanaged undressing, but I did manage to put my silk bonnet on.

Oh, fuck you, Grey Goose.

“Har, har,” I say before darting into the bathroom and seeing I also managed to take exactly half my makeup off with a remover wipe. Desperately trying to pull myself together, I scrub my teeth and start to clear the debris off the other half of my face while briefly going over the events of last night, heavily regretting the excessive vodka intake.

“Sorry I got a little buzzed last night,” I call out through the cracked door. “I haven’t let loose in a while.”

“You were a real animal. In bed by one fifteen,” he says, his tone indecipherable.

I eye the time on my cell phone where it sits on the counter. “Is everyone waiting on me?”

“No. We pull out in thirty. I was sure you would oversleep.”

My alarm goes off at that exact moment, and I hold it out of the bathroom for his view along with a middle finger and hear his chuckle in response.

“So, what’s with the action cap?” He asks from behind the door.

“If you must know—”

“I must.”

“It’s to keep my curls in decent shape.”

“Thought you hated them,” he jabs.

“I’ve recently reembraced them.”

Fresh-faced and feeling slightly better about my appearance, I open the door to find him sitting on the edge of my slightly rumpled bed. A smart quip dies on my tongue as I fully take him in. A black titanium cross dangles from his neck and peeks above the collar of his dark blue T-shirt which clings to his build in all the right places. Light denim jeans accentuate his muscular thighs tapering down to well-worn, dark leather boots. As if that wasn’t enough, inch-thick leather cuffs are secured by large silver snaps around his wrists, along with the titanium thumb ring and tiger’s eye pinkie ring he wore the day we met, making him look every bit the rock star he is. I feel his perusal as I pluck my tablet from the bed and begin to scroll.

“Well, do you want the good news or the bad news?”

“No news,” he clips, sipping his coffee.

“Tough shit, and it looks like all good news anyway.” I clear my throat. “And I quote, ‘REVERB blew fans away last night at the Civic Center during an eighty-three-minute set, cementing themselves as the act to see this summer and securing their place amongst this year’s top performers. I’m here to tell you to believe the hype because Crowne’s stage presence and delivery alone is worth the price of admission.’ I agree,” I declare, continuing my search and peeking over my tablet to see he’s completely unaffected.

“Ah, here’s another. ‘REVERB, specifically Easton Crowne are single-handedly giving mouth-to-mouth to a genre that seems to have been long forgotten, reviving Rock ‘n’ Roll one show at a time.’”

“Please stop,” he says before I again lower my tablet.

“Why?”

“Because in about an hour, my mother will call and attempt to read me the same reviews.”

“Really?” I grin. “Stella does that? I love it!”

“Yeah, and I hate it when she does it too, so don’t take it personally.”

I take a sip of my coffee and gag, and he chuckles at my reaction to it.

“What the hell is in this, nitro ?”

“Drink it and say thank you.”

“Geesh, thank you.” I take a seat next to him on the edge of the bed and nudge him. “Why are you so grumpy this morning? I’m the one with cymbal crashes going on between my ears.”

“Oh, yeah,” he stands, and I take immediate advantage of the view, my eyes focusing on the natural bulge at his crotch and drifting up to the dark hair partially covering his face as he dips into his pocket before producing a pack of Advil. “Got these for you downstairs, too.”

“Oh, you rock, literally,” I can’t help my laugh at the roll of his eyes as he starts to fight the package. “You truly don’t care about the reviews?”

“It’s not that.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s just . . . personal to me.”

“Okay, I get that.” I shake my head. “Maybe I don’t. You do realize this is praise .”

“It only truly matters when it comes from the people that matter most to me,” his eyes sweep me, and a shiver runs up my spine, “and from those I respect.”

“It’s just the things they’re saying,” I read his unwavering expression and toss the tablet on the bed. “Fine. You’re no fun.”

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” I grin as he opens the package and hands me the pills.

“Thank you,” I say, tossing the pills back and sipping my coffee. “For last night, for putting me up. For all of it. I honestly can’t wait for the show tonight.”

“I read your article,” he completely throws me off guard, “about that couple from Houston who got lost on vacation in Australia.”

I gape at him as he leans against the dresser opposite the bed.

“You read my article?”

He nods. “Yeah, and honestly, I’m relieved. You write so much fucking better than you speak.”

I glower at him. “Many writers do, jerk, and I don’t know whether to slap you or . . .”

He lifts a brow at option two, which I decide not to verbalize.

“I could feel their desperation,” he adds thoughtfully, “because of how you wrote it. It’s pretty miraculous how after two days of panicking and arguing, they said ‘fuck it’ and adapted to their surroundings to survive until they were rescued.”

“And they were on the verge of divorce,” I grin. “It’s crazy how it didn’t push them over but brought them back together.”

“That’s my favorite part,” Easton relays softly.

“Maybe there’s a song in there?”

He nods.

“Well, I’m flattered, Mr. Rock Star.”

“Stop with that shit. I’ll let you shower.” He walks over to the door, and I call out.

“Hey, you’re kind of hard to gauge this morning. Are we okay?”

“Sure,” he opens the door.

“Easton,” I draw out his name. “Are you angry with me? You seem . . . frustrated.”

He glances at me, a small smile on his lips. “It seems to be a constant state with you.”

“I said or did . . . something, didn’t I? What was it?”

Closing the door, he steps toward me and hovers, his gaze gliding over my bared skin as my treacherous nipples draw tight in my cami. Ignoring the ever-present pull, I bat it away briefly and press in. “What? What are you thinking?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing. What do you say when we get to Dallas, we get lost for a while? Just the two of us?”

“I say that sounds perfect.” I inwardly sigh, fighting the urge to get closer. He smells so fucking good, a mix of bergamot . . . and smoky wood.

“Good,” he leans in and stops suddenly, pulling back, a secretive smirk playing on his lips.

“Okay, that’s it. Subtlety is not even remotely your thing. What the hell is going on up here?” I tap his temple, and he gently grips my fingers, lowering them before releasing them.

“Nothing you want to hear.” His smirk spreads to a full-on grin.

“You’re so sure.”

He chuckles as he opens the door. “Positive.”

Without another word, he slips out. Irritated, I swipe my tablet from the bed and open the door calling out to his retreating back.

“‘A legend in the making’—That’s a direct quote from the Oklahoman . You’re a star, Mr. Crowne, own—” the words die on my tongue as he reaches his hotel door, the door to the room adjacent to mine. His grin turns into a megawatt smile as he sees me mentally start to question my life choices last night before slipping inside.

Twenty minutes later, I exit the hotel to find the guys lingering in and around the two vans. The first van is filled skillfully to the brim with equipment, and Joel is already behind the wheel, waiting to rollout. Grinning, I wave to him and get one in reply as Syd spots me just outside the open door to the second van and lifts his chin in greeting, a plume of vape smoke pouring from his lips. Easton spots me next, his eyes doing a shameless sweep as he opens the passenger door for me in greeting.

“Thank you, kind sir,” I say as he lingers at my side between my passenger seat and the van door. “Nothing happened last night. I wasn’t that drunk,” I utter confidently, “so, the jig’s up.”

“Good to know.” A smirk.

“What, Easton , what ? I remember our conversation, too.”

He gives me a dead stare before I finally catch on.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” I say, yanking my seatbelt and buckling in. “I’m a grown woman, you know.”

He shuts the door on me as I roll my eyes and spot LL already sitting in the second row, focus fixed out of the window. Though seemingly unapproachable, I greet him anyway.

“Morning, LL.”

“Morning,” LL replies absently. I look to Easton with pinched brows as he takes the driver’s side before glancing quizzically in the rearview and shrugging.

Tack ends a call at the back of the van before stepping in and giving me a warm grin. “Morning, beautiful. How you feeling?”

“Not bad, considering I drank my weight in potatoes.”

“You had four shots, lightweight.”

“And two beers,” I remind him.

“Right,” he winks.

“Did you read the reviews?”

His smile widens. “A few.”

Tack and I engage in easy conversation as Easton pulls out, following Joel’s lead. Our conversation fizzes out the first hour of the short drive to Dallas as we wait for our caffeine buzzes to kick in. Most of the guys screw around on their cellphones as LL continues to stare out his window.

I lean over in a whisper to Easton. “Is everything okay with LL?”

“Have no idea,” he replies. “He’s not really an open book.”

I chew on my lip and avert my gaze just as Easton’s eyes drift over to me. Last night, he seemed in fantastic spirits and talkative. Today, he seems more the thoughtful introvert I met.

Before my obsessive thoughts can take over as to why he’s acting so out of sorts, Stella’s promised call comes through.

Anxiety already spiking as Easton answers, Tack demands Easton put the phone on speaker. My fears put to rest slightly as she spends the first five minutes of the call spouting off reviews for Easton and the band. Her personality on full display, I find myself stifling my laughs a few times, especially due to her and Easton’s easy banter, which reminds me a lot of my father and me.

As she shamelessly reads his praises, I carefully watch his expression for any sign of satisfaction but only find it when the feedback comes directly from her. This only confirms he was being one hundred with me when he said the only opinions that matter to him are those of the people closest to him. Something more to admire about him, as if I didn’t have enough already.

Tack joins in on the conversation talking to Stella like they are the best of friends, clearly already well acquainted. Even Syd speaks up with a greeting and makes a little conversation while LL remains mute, his gaze trained on the rapidly passing surroundings.

I focus on LL and his concave posture as Tack’s words register.

“. . . picked up our friend in Austin last night before the show.”

Easton rips the phone from Tack’s hands and takes him off speaker as I shake my head wildly at Tack, pressing a finger to my lips. Mortified, I glance over at Easton as he skillfully clears the speedbump with Stella before ending the call and turning to me, his expression apologetic. Not a second later, Tack’s inevitable question comes.

“What’s up with that, Nat? You don’t want Stella to know you’re with us?”

“Well, I guess you could say it’s out of respect for our mutual profession. We’re both journalists, and since we haven’t met, I don’t want her to think I’m trying to exploit my friendship with Easton for a story, you know? That’s what I would think.”

Lies, and I’m getting too good at telling them. Easton spares me further by speaking up. “Or how about this? My mother doesn’t need to know who the fuck climbs in and out of this van or my hotel room or anything else of a private fucking nature regarding me, period,” Easton bites out in nasty warning.

“Shit, I get that,” Tack cups his neck. “Sorry, man. Guess it’s already a bit of a family affair with Dad, right?”

Easton dips his chin in confirmation as the hotel room part of his blanket statement gnaws at me.

Not yours. He’s not yours.

“So, when’s Reid coming back, anyway?” Tack asks in a quick change of subject.

“Not until next week,” Easton clips out, ending the conversation.

For the rest of the short drive, I feel a low-lying tension brewing between Easton and me and know that—true to Easton’s nature—it’s only a matter of time before he confronts it, us, all of it.

Despite his confrontational nature, he’s been oddly evasive this morning, which has me pondering why. At first, I thought he was doing it just to rile me up. But after replaying his stunted actions this morning, I decide he’s definitely holding onto something. Knowing he’ll inevitably come clean when he’s ready, I make the most of the rest of my time with the band and use it to dig into their individual histories.

I discovered Syd’s father was a musician—as is most of his family—and Syd started to play at the very early age of five, tackling piano before finding his love of the baseline. He played in his last band for five years before two of his bandmates became romantically involved and, in his words, “fucked it all to shite.”

Tack was a member of a high school garage band for years and reported they came close to getting signed before they broke up. He then jumped to another band that broke up when the lead singer quit by not showing up for a stage call and took a full-time job at the urging of his wife. Tack packed his sticks away and went to work full time for UPS eighteen months before he got Easton and Reid’s call, further driving home Easton’s point that no success happens overnight.

Due to LL’s blatant tune-out, I don’t press him for his own details, but it seems they’ve all traveled very different roads to get to this point. Between Tack’s recollection and Syd’s contributions to the conversation, it seems their goal is the same—to play music for a living. The underlying desperation is indicative that they feel this may be their last chance to do it. I find myself hopeful for them all as I listen attentively.

The minute we pull up to the auditorium, the band immediately disperses. Upon exiting, I find myself stopping LL before he can reach the back of the second van where Easton converses with Joel as they open the back doors.

“Leif?” I call softly to his back.

He turns to face me, his expression indiscernible.

“I-I know it’s not my place, but I just wanted to ask you if you’re okay?”

Hovering a foot above me, his pale blue eyes lower before focusing on me. It’s then I notice the thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, his skin practically translucent in the early morning light. He remains mute as I stand in front of him, feeling like an idiot. “Sorry, it’s not my business.” I move to step around him, and he stops me with a gentle grasp on my arm.

“Sorry, love, you took me by surprise. Truth is . . . it’s been a very long time since anyone asked me that.”

“I hate hearing that, I really do. So . . . are you feeling well?”

“To be honest, I’m a bit knackered this morning, but I’ll be fine.”

“Well, if there’s anything you need, don’t be afraid to ask, okay?”

He tilts his head at me curiously, and my chest tightens with ache. Does the man really have no one looking out for him? Feeling that may be the truth of it, I muster a smile. “I hope you have a great show tonight.”

“Thank you.” His lips lift in an appreciative smile before he turns to grab his equipment from the van. I catch Easton’s gaze—which lingers on me briefly—before he turns back to help unload the wall of instruments. The second I step up to offer a helping hand, he speaks up. “Joel’s going to get you checked into the hotel. I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

“Sure you don’t want me to help?”

“We’re good,” he quickly replies before turning and striding toward the building, guitar case in hand. Turning back to Joel, he gives me an easy smile. “Want to catch up over breakfast?”

“I would love that,” I say, glancing back in the direction Easton left. Within minutes, Joel secured both Easton’s and my luggage in his hands and is rolling it toward a waiting SUV in the parking lot with me in tow.

“I see we’re traveling in style today.”

“Thank fuck for that,” Joel says.

“Do you get lonely driving the second van?”

“Hell no. I prefer it.”

“Are you having a good time at least?”

“For the most part, yeah.” He nods as he starts the SUV, a fond sparkle in his eyes. “I’m so fucking proud of him, Natalie. I didn’t think he was going to do it.” He turns to me.

“Nuh-uh, oh no, don’t credit me for that. He did it all on his own.”

Joel puts the truck into gear and shakes his head. “You know as well as I do, that’s bullshit.”

“Ha! And you know all too well that man doesn’t do a damn thing he doesn’t want to.”

“Well, some thing or some one shined a light in the right direction,” he adds as I shake off his compliment, ignoring the bat shit flutter threatening in my chest.