Reverse (Bittersweet Symphony Duet #2)

THIRTY-THREE “Stuck in the Middle with You”

THIRTY-THREE

“Stuck in the Middle with You”

Stealers Wheel

Natalie

“W hat the fuck?!” Easton barks as we fly past another sign on the interstate, and I try to decipher it, equally as confused as I was when we passed the last one. In the next second, Easton taps the brakes hard, lurching me forward before screaming out of his driver-side window. “Fucking idiot!”

Unsurprisingly, it’s the same sentiment he’s spouted toward every driver who’s come before the last. He braves a glance over at me, another car whizzing past us, coming dangerously close before darting into the next lane. “Did you see what the speed limit is?”

I scan the side of the highway for another sign and try to make sense of it. “I think there are four speed limits. It depends on the type of vehicle you’re driving and whether it’s day or night.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

I shrug. “I say go with the flow of traffic?”

Just as I say it, multiple cars blur around us as if we’re in a Formula One race.

“With the flow?!” Easton shrieks, his expression bewildered as I press my lips together to stifle my laughter.

“So, I’m guessing this is the downside of having a driver most of your life?”

“Don’t give me that shit. I’ve driven nearly every fucking highway since we left Washington. This isn’t fucking normal or in any way acceptable!” He declares, his posture ramrod straight. His eyes frantically dart across the six-lane highway as he white-knuckles the wheel before glancing over to see my amusement. “Think this is fucking funny? This isn’t fucking funny!”

“S-s-sorry, I’ve just never seen you so wound up.”

“Is your seatbelt on?!” He doesn’t bother looking this time, his panicked eyes focusing on the road.

“Yes, Easton.”

“Double check! I’m not kidding, Natalie!” He screeches as another car darts in front of us, narrowly missing our front bumper. A long, colorful, and I’m almost certain not entirely English string of curses follows, which has my levee breaking as repressed laughter bursts out of me. After a full thirty seconds, I manage to get it to a rolling cackle.

“Natalie, this isn’t funny,” he whines. “Get us the fuck out of here!”

Pulling up my GPS app, I make a fast decision to lead us out of the city, knowing it doesn’t really get any better.

“Natalie!”

“I’m on it! Pfft, JEZUZ, Crowne. It’s clear we wouldn’t make it back united if we got lost in the Australian Outback if you act like this during times of extreme stress,” I jest. Another bout of laughter flows out of me before his desperate plea cuts through it.

“Please, baby, please ,” he whimpers, “get us the fuck off this highway.”

“I’m on it,” I reply instantly, stunned by his term of endearment as the directions populate. He darts his gaze between the rearview, side view, and the road while my heart rate continues to spike, beat after beat. He’s said it before, when we were intimate, in the moment. I know why this one hit so differently. It’s because of how he said it—so naturally, as if we already exist as an us, as if I already belong to him in the most intimate sense. It’s also because I know I want so much for it to be a possibility, to be the truth. The hope circulating through me brings about the same damning conclusion I’ve been avoiding, curbing, side-stepping, ignoring, and mourning since I left Seattle.

I want to belong to Easton.

I want us to exist.

Again, I want what I can’t have.

After our very short and terrifying ride outside downtown Dallas, we ended up in Fort Worth, ironically landing at a local tourist attraction. This one of my choosing is The Herd, a longhorn cattle drive that takes place twice a day downtown in the Stockyards National Historic District.

After a brief shopping trip—my suggestion for anonymity’s sake—Easton managed to secure us the entirety of a tiny patio of a Mexican restaurant facing the street with just enough greenery to keep us out of view of prying eyes. Nestled away from the public while managing to be a part of it all, we’ve spent the afternoon alternating sipping frosted schooners of light beer and water while stuffing our faces with tortilla chips and salsa.

Even with the crowds gathering on the street for the cattle drive, I feel relatively safe we’ll be undiscovered. No one would ever suspect Easton Crowne to be wearing a ten-gallon cowboy hat with the wide brim pulled down just above his Ray-Bans. Not only that, he covered his T-shirt with a western embroidered shirt and finished his look off with black, metal-tipped cowboy boots.

“Your disguise is ridiculous,” I taunt, sipping from my schooner. Easton gives me a pointed look as the fringe hanging from my Dallas Cowboys cheerleader vest dances across the top of the salsa. The traditional long-sleeved colt blue shirt tied just beneath my breasts bares every inch of my midriff down to my low riding jeans, and I find myself thankful for the thousand Easton-induced crunches that fueled my recent workouts.

Adjusting my solid white Stetson, I stretch out my legs to admire my new boots. Boots that cost a pretty penny and won’t go to waste.

The feeling in the air between Easton and me has been breezy since we managed to make it out of Dallas in one piece. With sound check and set up out of the way, we find ourselves with a day’s worth of hours to just be together without the threat of any other outside worries. It’s here we find our groove, with no pressure to define our relationship. My guard is comfortably lowered, even though every passing minute with Easton continues to threaten said guard’s existence.

“Aren’t you going to tell me I look ridiculous?” I ask, gripping the top of the solid white hat currently covering my frizzy ringlets and dipping the brim toward him in proper cowgirl etiquette.

“No,” his grin disappears into his beer as he sips it.

“Why?”

“Because you don’t.”

“Seriously?” I push back my chair and stand, waving a hand over myself with exaggeration. “There’s being nice, and then there’s charity. I spent a fortune on this shit, and I’ll never wear it again. Well, aside from the boots.”

“I would have paid for them, Natalie.”

“But we settled that argument . . . quick,” I draw imaginary six-shooters from my hips and blow them out, “fast . . .” I flip and holster my fake guns back at my hips, “and in a hurry, didn’t we there, partner?”

His nostrils flare in response, and I’m pretty sure if he lowered his glasses, I would be on the receiving end of a dead hazel stare. I must admit, it’s so fucking sexy to see him riled up, despite his overall look being completely foreign in nature. Unsurprisingly, it works on him. Then again, the man could decide to wear nothing but a banana leaf to hide his junk and would still look mouthwatering.

“Natalie?” Easton prompts.

“Yup?” I check out briefly, the summoned image of naked Easton and his banana leaf disappearing as I focus on him.

“Worth it?” He asks, his tone full of smug assumption. I blame the heat. Heat makes people crazy. Case in point, I’m parading around like an idiot in downtown Fort Worth playing cowgirl, waiting to see a parade of cows.

“Worth it?” Easton repeats.

“I already decided it was.” I take another sip of my beer. “Oh, I know. I could wear this again role-playing with my future husband, who will be a Dallas Cowboys’ fan.”

He chuckles. “Good luck finding one of those.”

“You better have meant a Cowboys’ fan, not a husband, and blasphemy, sir. That’s America’s team you’re talking about.”

“Only claimed by Cowboys’ fans.”

“I’ll bet you they win the Super Bowl this year.”

“I’ll take you up on that bet.”

“So, you do know football?”

“I’ve observed enough to know that most people love or loathe the Cowboys, more the latter.”

“Whatever. Cowboys aside, not being a Longhorns’ fan, that would be the true nonstarter. Wha, wha, whaaaa,” I mock in my best game show buzzer impersonation.

“That’s a real tall order, Butler,” he mutters dryly. “Don’t sell yourself short or anything.”

“Hey, grumpy, take a drink. The heat is making you irritable.”

“Or maybe it’s the annoying-as-hell, buzzing, blue bee that can’t seem to sit still.”

“Fine,” I sigh, “The show’s over, but just know you missed the grand finale,” I tease, reclaiming my seat and discarding my hat. “Today is a good day.” I take another sip of my beer, the light buzz filtering through me as I soak in an authentic Texas experience with my favorite rock star. “Though, I don’t get the appeal of this lifestyle.” I glance through the iron bars, which sit just below lined planters full of thick green ivy, and spot two cowboys mounting thoroughbreds across the street dressed in full riding gear, chaps included.

“Why?” Easton prompts. “Why don’t you get the appeal?”

“For one, it looks . . . uncomfortable. Covered in dirt all the time, working in extreme heat only to stare at cows’ asses. Struggling through half the day to get a whiff of fresh air instead of inhaling the stench of their shit, bleh. No thanks.”

Laughter bursts from Easton as I look over and smile at him sitting next to me, his own boots propped and crossed at the ankles on top of the dark blue and red-tiled table.

“Where’s the reward? Starry nights of solitude playing “Home on the Range,” next to a campfire with a harmonica?” I shrug. “Seems like a lonely life.”

“Only if you base a cowboy’s life on the few Western movies you’ve seen.”

“First of all, if I’ve ever seen a Western, it was completely by accident—I promise you that. And I mean, hey, I know there’s a lot more to it. Just seems like a lot of work for little-to-no payoff. Some of the folklore surrounding it has got to be true, or it wouldn’t be the standard. Bet you’d dig it, ya loner .”

His smile fades when I reach for my schooner, and he grabs it and sets it next to him on the table, just out of reach. “How about you hold off on that for a second.”

“I’ve only had one,” I defend. “You made me drink four waters between that and this one.”

“For good reason. Just for a minute,” he adds. “Okay?”

“Okay.” I bite my lip as he bends and pulls my chair closer to his, the stifling summer air instantly charging as I run my sweaty palms down my jeans, more sweat trickling down the nape of my neck. “Are you about to start a fight?”

“Is the road anything like you thought it would be?” He asks, dodging my question.

“In a way, but I know there’s a lot more to it.” I saw the warning looks he gave to Tack last night when he relayed a few road stories. Honestly, I’m too terrified to know if Easton has his own to tell yet.

“Okay,” he accepts easily, too easily, as I follow the drop of sweat gliding down his Adam’s apple before it disperses over the top of his cross.

“Tell me why you wrote that article.”

The question stuns me as he lifts my chin with gentle fingers, demanding my focus.

“It was just a what-if type of thing. I never expected anyone to see it.”

“But you wanted me to see it.”

“I wanted you to know I understood your stance, and if I had the chance to plead your case for keeping your private life private , that’s how I would have written it.”

“So that’s why?”

I dip my chin. “Yes, of course. I wanted you to know that I understood.” In my periphery, I see the first longhorns gather behind the fence across the street. “Oh, look! It’s happening.”

I jump to my feet, and Easton slowly joins me before we walk over to the iron partition separating us from the rapidly crowding street. Crouching low enough where we won’t be seen, Easton opts to stand just behind me, my shoulder resting against his chest, his scent surrounding me as heat drips down my back. He whisks one away with his thumb at the top of my jeans, and my lips part at the gentleness of his touch. Hyper-focused on what parts of him are touching me, I try to concentrate on the commotion behind the gate as Easton begins the slow sweep of his thumb along my spine.

Thoroughly seduced and his lips just inches away, my pulse quickens as he pulls the damp hair away from my neck and blows. Closing my eyes, I try to inhale some restraint, refusing to look his way.

“It’s starting,” I rasp out, nodding toward the street, Captain Obvious diarrhea spewing freely.

Easton continues to sweep his thumb along my back as the cowboys make a small show of lassoing ropes overhead and begin to usher the massive steers onto the street. The parade lasts only a few minutes, and I frown before turning to Easton to see his face equally drawn up in confusion. A second later, we burst into incredulous laughter.

“That was so fucking anticlimactic!” I huff as we head back to the table. “Glad we didn’t come out of pocket for that.”

Easton shrugs. “I think it was just about the experience of seeing something so Old World in the new one.”

“I get that, but,” I look around and wipe my brow, “maybe not worth sitting in Texas hellfire for two hours to wait for it.” I lift my hair and wave a hand to cool my neck off.

“But you had fun, didn’t you?”

Our eyes meet and hold. “I always have fun with you.”

“Good,” he murmurs before reaching out and scooping me into his lap to straddle him. Shocked by the public display, I quickly glance around and am stopped by his gentle palm when he cups my face. “I can fucking do anything with you as long as you’re looking at me the way you are right now.” His expression arrests me, keeping me immobile as his voice and words reverberate through me.

“Easton,” I manage to breathe out as the world around us inevitably fades away in contrast to him.

“I called you the second time because I remembered how this felt, and I wanted to feel this way again. It’s that simple.”

“It’s so not simple,” I argue breathlessly as I move to get up, and he pins me gently with his palms covering my thighs.

“Then it’s time for a fight,” he declares roughly.

“We don’t have to fight, we agreed—”

“No. You decided. I allowed it because you could have turned me down flat yesterday, but you didn’t. You didn’t turn me down knowing full well that I would want to—and try to—kiss you . . . touch you . . . fuck you.” He grips my chin tightly before lifting it to brush his finger along my neck. “I don’t have the urge to call my friends and share my highs and lows. I don’t miss them with an ache so deeply etched inside that it keeps me awake at night, and I sure as fuck don’t drive for hours in hopes they’ll spend a few days with me. And I definitely don’t jerk off to the image of them coming on my cock. I don’t feel this way for my friends, Natalie—close or otherwise—so I dare you to call me your close friend again,” he warns. “I fucking dare you.”

“It’s all we can be, okay?” I whisper with a clear shake in my voice.

“Well, if friendship is all you’re offering, you’re a shitty friend to start with because those I claim as friends would have at least answered the goddamned phone.”

“I explained this before I left Seattle. You didn’t read the emails—”

“You mean the emails that are nearly three decades old and might not even hold any relevance to any of us here and now?”

I shake my head. “You don’t know what you’re saying. It still haunts me. Every day. Maybe if you read them—”

“It’s history, Natalie.”

“It’s our parents who almost married each other’s history, Easton.” I fire back. “If you would just read them—”

“I look at you, and honestly, I just don’t give a fuck. It physically fucking hurt me when you slammed that door on me.”

“It hurt me, too. But please understand, I still can’t do this with you.”

“You can do this with me, but you won’t . There’s a difference, and I would drop it, but I know how you feel about me. You don’t want this limited to friendship any more than I do.”

“Don’t presume to tell me how I feel,” I snap.

His nostrils flare as he lifts us both, his eyes wreaking havoc even as he gently sets me on my feet. “I don’t have to fucking presume shit. You already told me, and even if you hadn’t, I’d still know.”

“What do you mean?”

He takes a step away before pulling out his wallet and tossing a few bills on the table. Eyes cast down, he lingers where he stands for a long beat, seeming to focus on the pattern of the tiles on the table before he slowly lifts his gaze back to me. It’s strikingly hollow. The distance between now and seconds ago has my stomach dropping. There’s not a trace of warmth to be found. He’s checking out. “Fuck it, let’s go.”

“What do you mean fuck it? Or are you really saying fuck me ?”

He swipes the keys to the SUV from the table and turns abruptly, his biting words stinging repeatedly as I softly call his name. Ignoring me, he rips open the chipped blue fenced door to the patio and stalks through, striding away in the direction we parked the car. Feeling condemned, I follow him to the parking lot, juggling our bags until he relieves me of them before shutting me into the truck.

The ride home is painfully silent, aside from the blaring music. We’re now in this horrible place—at such painful odds, which has me panicking because our time is once again running out. The panic increases with every mile we get closer to reality and my window alone with him is cut short. Because tomorrow, I’ll be stuck in the same place I was two months ago—replaying our time together, obsessing over him, his touch, the way he looks at me, his whispered words, mourning what could have been. A cycle that I can’t bear to think about repeating but can’t do a thing about.

I’m certain I’ve been lying to myself in thinking I was trying to get on with my life after returning from Seattle. While my head tried to convince me that was the truth of it, my heart was still holding out hope for the chance to see him again. He’s here, now, and still within reach. He’s validated every feeling I had about us that I chastised and ridiculed myself for. He’s telling me he missed me. Telling me he wants more, that he wants us to be real, and I’m once again forcing the door closed on us.

Shadows that weren’t present yesterday darken his features as I remember the light in his eyes when he picked me up, the ease in his posture, and the easy smiles he so freely gave.

God, was that just yesterday?

With no traces of that Easton to be seen, I mourn that loss more than anything and turn down the radio. “I’ve spent so much time thinking about you,” I deliver my admission that feels much too late as his face remains like granite, his eyes fixed on the road. “The days I’ve spent with you are some of the most unforgettable days of my life, Easton, but my stance hasn’t changed, and it’s only because I can’t hurt my father this way. I know that’s not a good enough reason for you, and I wish, so much, that I could make you understand.”

He bites his lip, his features tensing as his phone rings and Joel’s name flashes on the screen from where it buzzes in the console. I lift it within reach for Easton to answer, and he takes it from my hands and tosses it on my floorboard. It’s then I know the fight is over for him, and my words are useless. I’ve lost him. Dread settles in my chest as I speak up one last time. “I’ll see myself home after the show.”