Reverse (Bittersweet Symphony Duet #2)

SIXTY-TWO “Impaled”

SIXTY-TWO

“Impaled”

Skylar Grey

Natalie

I n and out, Natalie.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. It can get pretty confusing,” the man who introduced himself to me as Donald says while whizzing the golf cart around another curve. Brisk wind lashes my cheeks just as my phone buzzes in my hand.

Tye: Where are you?

Got turned around and retrieved. I’ll be there in a few. I’m so sorry.

Tye: No worries, beautiful. Hurry up!

It’s only been three weeks since Tye approached me at my mother’s annual media party in Dallas and charmed me into giving him my number. Tye was one of a few sought-after Texas-based celebrities invited to attend. It took the better part of two weeks for me to take his advances seriously and consider them, despite his insane schedule. After a lot of thought, I agreed to dinner—a dinner which the paparazzi was made privy to fifteen minutes after we were seated at the restaurant.

They stalked us for the rest of the night, making it impossible for us to retain any semblance of intimacy. Even worse, the media twisted our maybe something first date into some sort of whirlwind fairytale romance. The truth is, I hardly know him. Though I admit, if I’m being forced to try and move on—as my husband seems to be doing—Tye wouldn’t be the worst way to go.

Not only is he easy on the eyes, but he’s also taking his place as one of the most legendary quarterbacks in the NFL. In addition, he’s a businessman, an entrepreneur of sorts, who has big plans beyond leaving a mark in football history. His disarming charisma made it impossible for me to turn him away completely. I battled between head and heart endlessly when he presented himself as a prospect after deciding to entertain the thought of dating again. Reason being? Easton’s headlines.

The hardest-hitting report circulating a month ago with photos of him with a rock goddess named Misty Long, whom he’s collaborated with on a song yet to be released. While Misty’s reps denied they are dating, the pictures the paparazzi managed to get are just as damning as my shots with Jonathan, which were splashed everywhere for weeks after the gala.

The image that haunts me most is a candid of them huddled closely on the beach in Malibu just outside her home. He was smiling at her, the kind of smile that’s hard to earn from him, and the sight of it damn near killed me.

Though Easton’s allowed the media to paint a picture on his behalf, I remain indecisive, thankful Tye has taken the reins. He’s been aggressive and decisive enough for the both of us, a burden I allow him to have as I try to come up with some clarity for a new vision of my future. Not the future my heart remains set on, which I’m mentally trying to dismantle daily.

My parents are, of course, thrilled with the possibility of me dating an NFL player, Dad especially, which is no surprise. While it’s been an out-of-body experience for me, our courting mostly consists of scattered texts and a few late phone calls because dating hasn’t been possible for us yet. For that, I’ve been thankful.

Ironically, our second “date” just so happens to be the day Tye plays for his second Super Bowl ring. If they win, it will be his first as the Cowboys’ quarterback. He earned the last ring when he played for Tampa two years ago. In the short time we’ve had to get to know each other, the media has been relentless, camping out at my parents’ house, my apartment, and at the doors of Austin Speak . The pressure is even more grueling now as I’m whisked toward Tye, knowing a hundred million pairs of eyes might be directed toward me in a few hours for more reasons than one.

“Almost there,” Donald assures, three different lanyards tangled around his neck as I marvel at my idiocy. I got lost within minutes of being ushered inside the stadium. My racing mind turned simple instructions complicated as some panic slithered in. To be fair, it’s not like I’ve ever been inside the massive, multi-billion-dollar sports arena. The state-of-the-art stadium I’m being escorted through now is a Goliath compared to the David-sized field in Austin.

Even as I fly toward the man of the hour with the support of everyone in my life—including the media who labeled me the abandoning villainess just after our trip to the altar—I feel the crushing weight of today’s expectations. Though the media seems to have forgiven me recently. My guess is because there has been speculation that Easton has moved on with his goddess, which led to questions about his fidelity and the reason for me filing.

All of it bullshit.

Following Easton’s lead, I’ve kept my ‘no comment’ stance as firm as he has. Positive he hasn’t worried himself over the headlines produced from our corners and remained oblivious to the trash talk we’ve both been subjects of. It’s my job to watch both our futures, speculated or not, unfold in the press. Even if I try to avoid it at this point, I can’t because his rising stardom parallels any other sensational performer in history. The more his star shines, as it’s sure to, the more Easton’s name will become synonymous with others like Prince, Madonna, and the likes. As it is, he’s constantly being compared to Elvis, his media-donned nickname, ‘The New King,’ which I’m certain he loathes—if he’s aware of it. His music is getting more play than any other artist. As I predicted, the world is fascinated by him and more blood-thirsty than ever, thanks to his aversion to media. False Image got the Diamond award twice in recent months selling over twenty million copies, sales climbing daily. With the growing demand for added tour dates, the band is set for a European tour which kicks off in six weeks.

While I’m proud of him, it’s been a living hell watching him resume his life and being aware of his every move and staggering success. No doubt no less grueling than what my father endured when he covered Stella and Reid’s engagement, wedding, and the birth of their only child—my husband.

Easton’s been on my mind more than usual. In a horrendous twist of fate—today, of all days—the powers that be saw fit to throw a gigantic wrench into my first and only attempt at moving on.

What’s even more damning is that legally, I’m still married to Easton Crowne. Though we’ve been separated for nearly six months, neither of us has signed the papers, the live document still resting in our idle hands.

The second time I opened the document, I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw his signature was absent. What I didn’t realize was that when I did, Easton would be notified by email each time I opened it, and vice versa.

Stupidly and repeatedly, I still check anyway, praying I haven’t accidentally missed the notification email. All my hopes clinging to the absence of his signature until recently.

When Easton’s headline with Misty was blasted into the stratosphere, my jealousy boiled over. Grapevine news reported from every major paper stated they were recording together, but TMZ was the source that reported a blacked-out SUV hadn’t moved from her Malibu mansion in days.

Seconds after hearing those details and studying the photos while trying to interpret Easton’s body language, I allowed suspicion and anger to take over. That day I opened the document, fully intent on signing. I scribbled my name, my finger hovering over the accept button. But no matter how angry I was, I couldn’t go through with it.

Just as I cleared my signature, Easton’s name lit up as active on the left-hand side of the screen. We engaged in a virtual standoff, and I knew he was there watching, knowing I’d read the news and was waiting just to see if I’d sign.

Though I assumed he’d eventually leave, he stayed with me as more time ticked by. Every minute he lingered caused another tear to fall. Ten minutes came and went, as did twenty, and at the hour mark, I was sobbing at my desk, furious with him—all the while relieved no signature appeared. His continued presence gave me every indication that he didn’t want it either.

Or maybe I’m just the delusional ex who still wants to believe he cares more than he does. As the details of the picture ate me alive, and I broke down behind my office desk in Chicago, the sincerity in his words from our honeymoon hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest.

“We’re as close as two people could ever be.”

Feeling those words to my marrow while reliving that memory had me closing the document without signing, giving Easton the victory. Just after, I stared at my phone, praying for any word from him, but it never rang—and I knew why.

While he’s blaming me, I’m blaming us both and my father . His determination to keep the ball in my court and remain silent only magnifies the fact that he feels I should shoulder

all the blame for our marriage imploding. And for that, I’m still furious he was so damned impatient he didn’t even give us the time to sort out the nuclear bomb we set off by eloping. He gave me six weeks to clean up the destruction we left in our wake, my life having the most debris to sort through, before doling out his impossible and unfair ultimatum.

Five hours after that headline broke, Nate Butler was standing in the doorway of my Chicago office. Though we spoke briefly during the months of my absence—mostly through Mom, curt check-in texts, and emails—our dynamic had drastically changed, and it was painfully apparent.

Not long after his unexpected arrival, Dad whisked me to a small, screen-littered sports bar he frequented when he came to Chicago, which sits a few city blocks from Hearst’s high rise.

Half a beer in, the silence lingered as I glanced over at my father, who felt more of a stranger to me than he ever had in my entire adult life. Sipping my beer, I’d allowed him the floor to start the conversation until he finally took his cue.

“I hate that I don’t know what you’re thinking right now and that it’s my fault,” he admits, opening a line of honest conversation.

“I do too.”

“Tell me what to do, Natalie. I can’t do my part to repair our relationship if you continue to give me vague replies while remaining in Chicago.”

“I’m trying to figure out what I want,” I tell him honestly.

“You want Speak ,” he fires back. “Or you did, and I feel like I’ve tainted that. No, I know I have,” he exhales harshly, clear fatigue in his posture.

Guilt threatens as I bat it away, having declared it an enemy of self-preservation.

“The truth is,” Dad continues as I keep my gaze fixed on my beer, “more than anything, I still want to hand it over to you when we’re both ready.”

He says my name with a fair amount of authority—in a request for my full attention—and I oblige, lifting my eyes to his. “But not because it’s some birthright. It’s what you’ve been working toward for a large part of your life. That chair is yours, if you still feel like it’s where you belong, Natalie.”

“It’s easier for me to work at Hearst,” I relay, “ Speak would be a circus if I came back now.”

“Not necessarily. The traffic has cleared out for the most part. It thinned out a lot when I hired security.”

“Jesus,” I palm my forehead. “I’m sorry you had to do that.”

He waves his hand in dismissal.

“You know as well as I do, Dad, they’ll just come running back to the doors if and when our divorce is final.” I see no satisfaction in his eyes with that admission.

“I don’t give a damn about that . . . the media part,” he clarifies, knowing the hard line still exists where I refuse to discuss my relationship status with Easton. I’m still protective of my husband, even if I’m shifting from one emotion to another regarding him on the daily.

“You have employees that will care. It’s not fair to them.”

“Already thinking like a chief,” he says with immense pride, “but tough shit if they can’t handle it. It’s our chosen arena, so they can deal with it or find the door.” He pauses, his beer halfway to his mouth, “but that’s not why you won’t come home.”

Pushing up the sleeves of my thick sweater, I turn and face him fully. “I’m still in Chicago because I’ve realized I’ve let the people in my life—especially the men I trusted—have too much sway over me and say in my decisions. A flaw I didn’t realize I desperately needed to correct—if only for my sanity’s sake. I’ve set new boundaries because of it, and I refuse to go back to that.”

“I’m proud of you, and I’m not trying to lure you back with the promise of inheriting a position you’ve already earned. It’s your decision, okay?”

Dipping my chin, I take another long sip of beer. Unable to help myself, I finally speak up.

“How in the hell did you endure it?”

Fiddling with the cocktail napkin, he returns my gaze point-blank. “Sometimes, love, no matter how real it feels and is, isn’t always the right love, and you don’t figure that part out until you’ve lost it and put some time between your feelings and reality. I got that perspective after my split with Stella. In my case, time helped, Natalie, and it’s been a very, very long time.”

I shake my head. “But you still had so much animosity.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not proud of myself,” he says, looking down at the napkin he’s shredding. “But that had far more to do with you. Between finding out the way I did and being in the same room with Reid and his son—knowing your last name was theirs—it was too much at once. Though I’ll forever be sorry for how I behaved that day and the ones after.” His next admission is full of remorse. “I had Brad draw up those papers in my worst hour.”

“I’ll always be sorry, too, especially for the way you found out. I never thought it would go as far as it has.”

Silence lingers until he tilts his head back up to me. “Do you still want to know?”

I dip my chin.

“Okay . . . the honest to God truth about my relationship with Stella is that I realized in retrospect that I held her back with my own aspirations for the paper and expectations for my own future.” He shifts back on his stool, his eyes glazing over with thoughts of the past. “She tried to talk to me about it more than once, but I was selfish because I was perfectly content with the way things were. At times it felt as if she was waiting for something to happen, for her life to begin, and I couldn’t figure out why. As much as I wanted to be the man for her, I wasn’t right for the future she envisioned for herself and was working so tirelessly for. When I saw how much she wanted her idea of her future and with whom, I broke off our engagement immediately.”

“So, you broke up with her?”

“Yeah, I did,” he sighs. “But she loved me, Natalie, truly. I still believe she loved me enough to go through with marrying me. If I hadn’t broken it off so abruptly, I think she might have because we were good together. But some of that choice would have been made from loyalty, and I fucking hated that. I hated it so much that I kept my distance from her for months after we broke up. That was after being together for almost four years, living together for half of that time. Talk about hell on earth. It was hard.” He sips his beer.

“So, you didn’t know about Reid?”

“She told me she got hurt before we got together but hid the depth of her relationship and feelings for Reid from me. The night I found out was one of the most painful nights of my life. Seeing how much she loved him and how drawn she was to him fucking gutted me. I broke it off right then.”

“Is that when she quit the paper?”

“Yes, and it was brutal,” he confesses. “Despite making her aware he wanted her back, Reid kept his distance. He respected her choice to stay with me if that’s what she wanted—and I did the same. Selfishly, I entertained getting back with her when she didn’t go running to him, but it would never have been right. Because though we were very much in love, we never fit the way we needed to in order to last. So, I let her go, and she set out on her own and started a future without either of us. You read the emails.”

I nod.

“They found each other again by crazy coincidence, and the rest is their history, Natalie—not mine.”

“The headlines, though,” I whisper. “How did you handle it?”

“It stung pretty badly,” he says honestly. “But it wasn’t news to me. We’d been apart so long I made peace with it. The truth for me is, if I had stayed with Stella, married Stella knowing what I did, I would have been the one settling.”

I mull over his revelation, his truth flipping so many of my theories on their head. “So, after . . . when you met Mom—”

“I love your mother,” he cuts in sharply, “On an unparalleled level. No other love I have ever had compares to what I feel for her. I fell for her because she is beautiful, strong, independent, brave, ridiculously intelligent, loved football, and did not put up with my shit for one second. If you want the truth, she terrorized me from day one, swear to God.” He grins down at the foam on his beer. “I married Addie because we fit together in a way we would work long term, because I learned how vitally important that was. The rest of that love stems from the history we made spending so much of our lives together.” He turns to me. “So, I didn’t tell you about my history with Stella, because frankly, it was a history I’d outgrown, living out my future with the woman I was meant to marry—and it was none of your damned business.”

“I know, and I’m sorry,” I let out a harsh exhale. “To be fair, Dad, I knowingly committed every single crime you called me out for when we got back from Arizona.” Taking a large sip of beer, I settle in, intent on finally explaining myself.

“It started small, shocking but a minor enough offense. I read an email I wasn’t supposed to see. But it was that small shock that had me reading the second email, which led to the third. But when I realized my source was the one hurt in the love story I was becoming so invested in—and probably wouldn’t be forthcoming with the whole of it—I took my father’s advice and sought out another source, but in the wrong way.”

I look at him pointedly, allowing my admission to flow freely. “I was utterly fascinated by it because I’d never experienced those feelings for myself.” A lump begins to build in my throat. “I figured out soon after—with the help of my alternate source—that what I truly was, was envious. But in digging, I incriminated myself to the point I knew it would damage us badly . . . and I was terrified. At first, the solution was just a short walk to your office. An answer to a question, a brief communication between us to put all the mystery to rest.” Forcing my eyes to remain on his despite my guilt, I continue. “The next thing I knew, the tables were turned, and I was existing in a different world that you knew nothing about.”

We both sit for several minutes in silent contemplation of our reciprocal admissions before I speak up. “Now I’m in limbo between them.”

“You don’t have to be,” he rasps out hoarsely. “I can handle a lot, but knowing your absence is my fault . . . It’s my biggest regret as a father.” He turns to me, eyes misting, “Come home, and if you do, Natalie, I promise you I won’t ever abuse the paper or my relationship with you like that again.”

Dad left me at the bar that night with a standing invitation to return home, along with a promise to allow me space to live my life. That conversation left the door wide open for more reconciliation. The following week, I flew back to Austin and into my mother’s waiting arms, my future still uncertain but determined to restore some semblance of order.

Keeping that decision in mind this morning, I drew up a simple game plan for today—to wish Tye a good game, hide in the back of the owner’s box, away from the cameras and speculation, and remain undetected.

My escort takes another curve jerking me out of my thoughts as I yelp and grip the side of the cart.

“Sorry,” he chuckles. Though an older man, Donald seems to be having the time of his life, as he should be, because it is game day, and this is arguably the best sporting event in the world. My phone rattles in my hand again, and I open the text.

Dad: Where are you?

I’ll be up shortly.

Dad: Two beers in. Devil Emoji. Go Cowboys! Football Emoji

I can’t help my smile at his enthusiasm. Despite my hesitance to come, on the plus side, Dad is being treated like royalty at his first Super Bowl. Tye outdid himself, providing everything from plane tickets to transportation to the stadium. He’s deserving of a thank you at the very least. If Easton can sleep at a rock goddess’s house for three days, I’m allowed to accept an invitation to the Super Bowl. Case closed.

Even if it’s too late to back out, I’m already in the thick of it, so I might as well enjoy myself.

“There he is,” Donald chirps happily as Tye appears, all six-feet-four of him. His dark brown hair is mostly concealed by his NFC championship ball cap. Beneath the brim, dark blue eyes find mine. His stark white grin widens from where he stands in pinstriped ball pants, a starched towel hanging from his waist, and a matching NFC championship hoodie finishes off his pre-game look.

In and out, Natalie.

The game starts in less than ninety minutes, and due to the time wasted in getting to him, I’ve got just enough time to say a quick hello so he can rally and warm up with the rest of the team.

Donald stops the cart abruptly, and I bounce forward as Tye stalks toward us, chuckling through his scold. “Easy, man, that’s precious cargo.”

Donald reddens slightly. “Sorry about that, Tye.”

“All good.” Tye’s eyes rake me, obvious satisfaction in them over the way I’m dressed—or the way he dressed me.

“Come here, beautiful.” Tye pulls me from the seat flush to him, grinning down at me with his hundred-and-sixty-million-dollar smile. “You good?”

“Am I good?” I ask. Not at all . “You’re the one about to play the game of a lifetime, so you can turn that question around.”

He lifts a brow, the act making him boyishly adorable. Though he’s not outspoken in the media, he can be a bit of a bad boy with his delivery when taunted. I love that aspect about him, and it’s no mystery why. Our conversations are light and easy. Tye’s been hesitant to broach the subject of how he knew of me at the party. I saw the recognition on his face just before he placed me. My face has been splashed across the media since the news of our elopement broke. Hence, Tye dodges the subject we’ve both been careful to avoid.

“I thought I was feeling pretty good until I saw you, and I have to say, I’m feeling pretty damn lucky.” His eyes fixate on my jersey, a gift he had delivered to Speak with his invitation to the Super Bowl. Putting it to use, I’m dressed in the tightest pair of dark denim jeans and killer heels. I altered the pink jersey to mold to my frame by tying the material in a knot at my back. In turn, it now accentuates my hips over the form-fitting long-sleeved white tee that exposes a little midriff. From the look in Tye’s eyes, he approves. “Gotta say, I love the way my number looks on you,” he compliments with a pride-filled smirk.

“Head in the game, sir,” I playfully tug on the brim of his hat.

He keeps me close, his voice suggestive. “I’m all fucking over it.”

“Seriously,” I ask, putting some space between us to get a better look at him. “Are you feeling good?”

“Never better,” he assures confidently. “Slept well last night.”

“Oh? Good.”

One side of his mouth lifts. “Off-season starts tomorrow.”

“Going to kill it, Tye!” A man shouts, making me jump as he passes in the bustling hall. We haven’t exactly been alone since our convo started. There’s a ton going on behind the scenes, and everyone seems to be traveling at breakneck speed. Tye lifts his chin in acknowledgment to the supportive passersby before his eyes flit back to me, where I’m curled into his body protectively.

“Where was I?”

“Off-season,” I remind him, studying his square, clean-shaven jaw as he glances at a nearby digital clock hanging on the wall, eyes seeming to dim with regret.

“Shit, I have to go. But yeah,” his voice heats. “Post season. We should talk about it . . .”

“If you earn another ring, I’ll consider it.”

“More motivation,” he utters softly, cupping the back of my head before he dips, pausing for a second before pressing a tentative kiss to my lips. He pulls away before I get a chance to register the feel of it. Licking his lower lip, he goes to speak, but whatever words he was about to say are cut off when he’s approached in every direction—one by a teammate just coming out of a closed door behind him, the other a staff member. Tye eyes me apologetically as I give him the out that I, myself, am becoming desperate for.

“Go. Go win the Super Bowl.” With my order, I flash him a smile and do an about-face, ready to seek refuge in my getaway cart. Instead, I’m met by one of life’s cruelest moments when I see two sets of hazel eyes fixed on me. Easton stands in the middle of the bustling hall with Reid by his side, Reid’s palm flattened on Easton’s stomach as if to protect him from me .