Reverse (Bittersweet Symphony Duet #2)

FORTY-SIX “Hypnotised”

FORTY-SIX

“Hypnotised”

Coldplay

Natalie

T he minute we touch down in Salt Lake, I am thankful for the slight champagne buzz as Joel’s mission to get me to the concert becomes an instant flurry of activity. As it turns out, Joel has a driver waiting on both of us. The second my luggage is transferred into the blacked-out SUV, we are speeding toward the venue. I spend most of our drive primping as Joel begins a series of phone calls, barking orders to security to ensure our passage to the stage with strict instructions to keep us under the radar. Easton wasn’t at all exaggerating when he said we’d need Joel. He’s been a white knight for us the last two months, being our lone driver, getting us to and from our hideaways safely and undetected.

Joel champions himself now as he synchronizes our arrival and immediate escort to the stage. I spend what minutes I have left touching up my half-assed makeup job, having spent three of the ten minutes I had to pack in the shower. Thankful my curls are in decent shape, I spruce them up with a bit of dry shampoo, and they bounce back due to the lifesaving miracle in a bottle.

Stilettos nervously tapping the floor of the SUV, I finish myself off with a spritz of perfume while glancing over at Joel, who grins as he composes a text. “Don’t be nervous. You look beautiful.”

“I don’t know why I am. He’s seen me at my absolute worst.”

“As you have him,” he adds, “don’t forget that.”

Nodding, I grip his hand and squeeze as he glances over at me. “Thanks, Joel, seriously, for everything. I don’t know what we would do without you. I hope Easton makes you feel appreciated because I know I do.”

“He does, and so do you, and you’re welcome, sweetheart.”

Unable to help myself, I pull out my compact again and run my fingers around the edges of my lips, catching a little excess of the deep rose matte lipstick I decided on. I barely packed, and in my excitement, I have no idea what’s in my suitcase, but I don’t care. Clothes have seemed optional during our previous times together, and I send a quick thanks to the cosmos that my period came and went last week. All I can imagine right now is the feel of his lips, the emotion inside his kisses, the weight of him, and the sound of his groans. The ecstasy that comes every time we connect, the pillow talks that can last for hours, the way he gazes down at me, and the way I can predict what he’ll say. All of it.

My stomach begins to flutter uncontrollably as Easton-induced butterflies dance around my insides while we race toward my supernova. After what seems like an eternity, we finally pull up into the garage of the auditorium, right next to an elevator.

“Ready?” Joel asks as I eye the five monstrous security guards who swarm the SUV.

Jesus, Crowne.

“Let’s do this,” I take Joel’s hand and step out, keeping my eye-roll inward as security engulfs us on all sides. In seconds, we’re out of the service elevator and being led by the guards down a series of halls. The noise level heightens the closer we get, in turn amplifying my need to get to Easton. If I knew which direction we were headed, I would already be running.

“How long have they been on?” Joel asks one of the mute guards.

“A little over an hour,” the guard answers before barking at a few girls loitering outside a dressing room door. “Get back!”

“Damnit to hell,” I grumble in disappointment. Easton’s sets normally run an hour and twenty minutes. When we take a hard right down another hall—this one abandoned—I curse that I missed the show as the click of my heels echoes with my hurried steps. When LL’s guitar rings out in introduction—the last song of one of two sets Easton rotates—the roar of the audience explodes.

“Hurry, please,” I beg, unable to help myself, speeding up, spirits dipping with the knowledge I’m close to missing the entirety of the concert. Joel grips my hand and squeezes. I manage to muster a smile when he grants me a reassuring wink.

Even a song away from his encore, I find myself thankful we made it in time to catch at least some of it as security stops and parts for us at the foot of the stairs. Joel leads me up by the hand, and in the next second, my anxiety-ridden reality morphs into something more on a fantasy level when Easton appears in my line of sight.

Already midway through “Brimstone,” one of my favorite songs, which just claimed number one on the Billboard charts, I inhale my first full breath since we landed. Soaking him in, Easton reigns hell on the mic, wringing out chords while wailing on his guitar, T-shirt predictably soaked and clinging to his chest, his hair dripping sweat. Closer to him but unable to find my chill, I feel the innate need to fly to him. Immersed in seconds, the rest of the world blurs as I zero in on Easton and see the slight change in his posture the minute he senses me standing there. I don’t miss the faint smile that upturns his lips just before he flits his gaze to mine. My entire body heats as he sweeps me in one long drink, his eyes lingering on his jacket. Even from where I stand, I don’t miss the satisfaction in his expression as I beam at him.

Keeping out of view of the first row, I find myself inching toward him when he breaks eye contact, bowing his head while ripping through his guitar solo. Tack pounds the drums into submission as LL and Syd rock alongside Easton, the song roaring through the packed auditorium. His audience has grown staggeringly in size in the two months since Dallas, which isn’t surprising. Being present to witness it brings the truth of it next level. The second the song ends, the lights go out, and the auditorium filled with thousands upon thousands of fans scream out their praises. Refusing to remain disheartened, I missed the show—save Easton’s encore—I clap enthusiastically along with them as the lights come back up.

I’m here, Easton’s here, and somewhere in the very near future, I’ll be surrounded by him, privately . That knowledge has my smile growing substantially as Easton steals another glance my way, and I mouth, “I’m sorry.”

He gently shakes his head, his answering smile breathtaking as I drink him in. He’s dressed in all black, including his jeans and boots, along with the leather cuffs I bit into, leaving an indentation on them the last time he took me roughly. The sight of them has me reliving it briefly as I squeeze my thighs together.

Easton grabs a water bottle from nearby, gulping it back as pandemonium ensues in the auditorium. He glances back at the band, his expression slightly bewildered as Tack, LL, and Syd all give him a nod as if they can’t believe this is their reality as well.

It’s clear he’s having the time of his life, and they’re feeling the same. Whatever differences he’s having with LL seems to have been cast aside to enjoy this. Easton saunters over to the mic, his natural swagger in effect as he grips it. “Thank you so fucking much, Salt Lake,” he gestures toward the band. “Give it up for REVERB.”

The reply sends a wave of pride through me. I shake my head, amazed at the path they’ve traveled thus far, along with the change in the conflicted man I met versus the heart-seizing performer oozing confidence feet away from me. My admiration for him grows as he speaks up again.

“I know you guys have busy lives to get back to, but we were wondering if you’ve got time for one more?”

Easton grins at the response, eyeing the crowd humbly. The budding emotion clear in his face, only magnified by the view of him on the large screen which sits on stage behind the band. The perspective then shifts to Easton’s as the cameraman scans the stadium, and I gape as I get a glimpse of his view.

“How about we set the mood first?” In an instant, the auditorium is cloaked in darkness. Anticipation thickens the air, and it takes a few minutes for the noise to die down before Easton’s velvet voice circulates throughout. “Pretty dark in here. Can I get some help from you, Salt Lake?”

The darkened stadium roars in response, the screen no longer giving access to the audience view. Unable to help myself, I edge the stage and peek out into the crowd. The sight of thousands of floating lights steals my breath as they continue to pop up, hundreds at a time.

“Perfect. Thank you,” Easton says, just before a lone spotlight shines down on him, where he now sits at his piano, facing me. I light up at the fact he’s far closer now than when he sang on the mic. From where I’m standing, I can see him clearly—the set of his jaw, even the light in his eyes. Easton adjusts himself behind the piano while the rest of us wait with bated breath for whatever cover he has planned. Try as I might, Easton consistently refuses to reveal which cover song he’ll perform at his next show, no matter how I bribe him. Even when I’ve gotten sexually creative, I’ve gotten no dice.

Settling in, Easton leans in and addresses us while trickling his fingers along the keys of the piano.

“I’m going to attempt something tonight, so bear with me.”

Another worshipful rumble reverberates in reply, which gains them one of his signature half-smiles. A flirtation, though he’s already got everyone in the palm of his hand. Adjusting himself one last time, he sweeps his soaked hair away from his forehead, giving me a clear view of his flawless face. He’s never looked more beautiful to me, my supernova, shining so brightly in his element. He’s happy, and it’s so apparent. “I borrowed this one from a family friend.” he says, “He taught me to play piano, so I don’t think he’ll mind.”

He postures himself to play as the audience grows more subdued, the lone spotlight on him dimming slightly. Easton dips his chin, and somewhere from the stage, a synthesized yet beautiful melody begins to play. Easton joins in shortly after and falters, muttering, “Shit, well, he might mind that , sorry, Chris.” His embarrassed chuckle elicits a round of helpful and encouraging cheers, and I can’t help my smile.

He’s nervous.

The raw vulnerability he’s displaying for the world, a world he fears, has me tearing up as he begins again. During that magical moment, as all I feel for him threatens to burst from me, he sweeps us all away in the most beautiful of melodies.

Soon after, Easton begins to sing the first of the lyrics about being lost, of an inner struggle, just before he lifts his eyes to mine. Within a matter of a few stunted breaths, I replay the first time our eyes met at the bar and the second he held out his hand to me in offering at the garden. Tears already shimmering in my eyes, I gaze back at him as the rest of our story unfolds through his chosen cover song. Through the lyrics, Easton sings of the state of the world, our differences, the belonging we all hope for . . . and of finding it in another’s eyes.

It’s then I realize he’s serenading me, singing to me, and the song represents us. I relive it all as my chest goes raw. Within a few more bars and heart-stopping lyrics, the band starts to play along, scattered around him in the pitch dark.

Easton raises his voice, tipping it up and beyond a surreal level as every lyric strikes me to my core, and I allow my tears to spill over. Heartbeat escalating, chest pumping, his words from Seattle come back to me.

“I want you to remember this moment, right now, right here, just you and me in a fucking SUV, taking a drive to nowhere. Promise me you’ll remember this.”

“It’s just us,” I whisper, entranced, gazing back at him as he captivates me wholly. Steadily pulling me closer and closer to him, despite the distance between us. I don’t feel an inch now, and I’ve never in my life felt anything like it—this intimacy, this feeling of belonging to someone so completely.

This can’t be bought or bottled.

It can’t be replicated, duplicated, or imitated.

Being with Easton in any capacity is like trying to cling to a shooting star, and somewhere inside, I know that if I don’t relish this time with him, I’ll miss it as he burns his brightest. Even if it seems impossible that he’ll burn out at all, I know for certain that I want to burn with him for as long as humanly possible.

No . . . there’s nothing to compare this feeling to, and that’s why it’s the meaning of life. Love is purpose, belonging, and the very definition of living.

He continues to sing of my effect on him as his voice caresses my entire being, covering me head to heel in goosebumps while searing itself permanently into my heart. With every fluid stroke of his tongue—his weapon far too lethal for any sort of armor—the needle drives in deep, infusing me with a euphoric, indescribable high.

Surrounded by thousands, he holds me captive as I become helplessly attuned to the fact I’m utterly, hopelessly, and desperately fucking in love with Elliot Easton Crowne.

A rock star he may now be, but for me, he was first a man who reached in with a gentle soul and discovered some of my veiled truths before forcing me to acknowledge parts of who I am—and what I want. A man who made me feel important at a time when I questioned my direction and everything else I thought I knew. A man who has since freed me to be that woman, all the while addicting me to new needs. Needs he himself sparked and created before gifting me with the type of love I dreamed of. The love I hoped to experience for myself.

In becoming her, we both fell—unguarded, raw, and vulnerable—the only way to fall. The most potent aspect of all is that he helped blueprint our love, just as my heart conjured it.

It has nothing to do with anyone else, despite how it happened.

This love story is ours and ours alone.

All of these truths hit me within seconds as he expertly plays an intoxicating, romantic melody—a symphony seeming to consist of only the most beautiful notes. Easton’s gaze remains focused on me as he hits every single one with ease while his fingers glide over the keys.

As the song builds, spotlights begin to pop up on clustered musicians gathered on stage, the last a group of violinists who begin to play.

He planned this. Every second of this, for me .

Standing in a living dream, while floating on the love I feel for him, our eyes lock, our affection clear during the most beautiful minutes of my life.

The song hits its crescendo, shooting a tingling through me before he dips closer to the mic, stare intensifying, his admission clear when he speaks.

“I love you.”

The chaos of the crowd drowns out my gasp as I clutch my chest, my eyes flooding. Refusing to miss a second, I furiously wipe at my tears as my heart thrashes wildly in my chest. Whoever I was before this moment exists no more. Inside, I’m aware I’ll never be her again, the woman who doesn’t know what this kind of love feels like. Whatever I presumed my loves expectations to be feel insignificant for the moment, because his declaration makes me feel immortal.

My decision comes easily.

I’m done hiding. From everyone. I’m done hiding my love for this man, period. Endless daydreams of a repressed future start to unfurl as he continues to pour himself, his love, into me with the most beautiful of love songs.

He loves me.

He. Loves. Me.

As if reading my thoughts, a shy smile graces Easton’s lips as a screen full of swaying lights from the audience become his background.

The power of our connection flows over every inch of the stadium, or at least it feels that way, as it blankets me while he sings the last of the lyrics. Piano notes linger in the air as the violins rush out on high and the stadium goes black.

An explosion of praise fills the air as I manage to make out the slide of Easton’s piano bench due to a small backlight shining brightly just beneath it.

Face covered in the aftermath, I brace myself, my eyes still spilling, scalp tingling as he rushes toward me.

Six feet . . . five . . . four . . . three before he comes into view. I leap for him, and he catches me easily, his mouth capturing a sob as he kisses me like there isn’t a stadium of people screaming for him. But it’s me he soothes with his gentle hands, my tears he wipes away as our kiss intensifies. There’s so much conviction in it on both our parts, yet he fuses more in with every sure swipe of his tongue.

For those precious and monumental seconds, it’s just us.

Natalie and Easton.

He breaks our kiss as the lights go up and immediately starts ushering me out of view and toward safety.

“N-no,” I say, pulling my hand away, “No. N-no more h-hiding.”

He stares down at me, weighing my words.

“You’re sure?”

“Positive,” I sniff. “I l-love you, Easton. With e-everything in me. No more hiding—from anyone.”

Elation brightens his face as he sweeps me back into him and kisses me, this kiss even more intense than the last. I grip him to keep from buckling as he deepens it further, our hands caressing in worship. A blur of bodies starts to move around us as we continue to bind ourselves to the other, our tongues tangling as silent promises flow between us. We seal ourselves together this way until forced apart. Smiling at each other, noses brushing, I speak up. “And to think I was f-freaking out because you hadn’t texted me back,” I murmur.

“I wasn’t going another fucking day without telling you,” he pushes the words against my mouth.

“Jesus, I can’t believe you did this . . . like this.”

“Easy . . . and happy?” He teases, repeating my words from this morning.

God, was that just this morning?

“It’s y-you, only you, that gets me t-tongue-tied and flustered like this. I’ll have you know I’m an a-authoritative woman in every other aspect of my d-damned l-life,” I stutter out horribly. “I h-hope you’re happy,” I sniffle as I try and fail to gather myself. “I-I-I’m ruined. You’ve r-ruined me!”

“Only fair.” I read his lips more than I’m able to hear him due to the increasing commotion surrounding us.

“W-w-wh-hat the hell am I s-s-s-upposed to do now?” I sniff and shake my head as he clears the mascara beneath my eyes.

He grips the sides of my face, his gaze prodding. “Marry me.”