Page 77 of Reverse

“Yeah, not even my mother,” he says softly. “I didn’t want her feeling pressured.”

I gape at him. “You trust me this much?”

“Guess so.”

The urge to launch myself at him intensifies and I do my best to sidebar the plethora of emotions threatening. “Sure hope it doesn’t suck, or this could backfire badly.”

“Clock’s ticking, Butler, and you have a plane to catch and seventy-seven minutes of music to listen to.”

“Seventy-seven minutes. Is there a significance to that?”

“You tell me.” He gently pulls the tie securing the pile of curls on top of my head, teasingly ruffling them loose before placing the headphones on my ears.

“Why the headphones?”

“Because I’ve heard it far too many times, and I don’t want to concentrate on the music.”

“Perfectionist?” I ask.

“You have no idea,” he says, his expression tightening.

“I have some idea.”

“You going to shut up anytime soon?”

“Sorry, I’m excited,” I clap giddily. “You don’t really intend on watching me, do you?”

“Since I’ve been waiting seven long years, yeah, I absolutely fucking do.”

“Geesh, no pressure,” I spout nervously. “If I’m this nervous, I can’t imagine what you’re feeling.”

“Comfortable?” He asks, dodging my question.

“Yeah,” I say, bobbing my head with emphasis.

“Close your eyes,” he whispers. Immediately, I flutter them closed, thankful for the reprieve of being so close to him and unable to touch. It’s a special kind of hell.

All words fall away as the intro—an atmospheric sort of melody—surrounds me before notes begin pouring through the headphones.

I can feel Easton’s gaze as he keeps the seat opposite me, our knees touching, his earthy scent surrounding me as his velvet voice sounds with the first lyrics. In seconds, I’m transported from the dimly lit room we’re sitting in into his universe. Heavy drums kick as he sings between searing guitar riffs, my lips parting at the heaviness of the song’s message.

The introduction song comes to a close, the last of the lyrics lingering as I melt further into the chair, mind blown, keeping my eyes closed. When the next song begins to play, my eyes bulge open in response, and I see Easton’s expectant smile in place due to the drastic difference in sound from the first song to the second. Both are different in feel, yet just as phenomenal.

My eyes flutter closed as he sings of mistrust. When it ends, I open my eyes briefly, and his lips part as he conveys something unintelligible, but I purposefully refuse to lift my headphones in fear of missing a single note. By the third song, I’m completely in orbit, unable to give him a second of my attention as I’m swept further and further into the journey he’s so effortlessly taking me on. There’s a theme mixed in the brilliance, but even as I try to mentally take notes, I’m unable to formulate a single coherent thought.

I feel it all, goosebumps erupting over my skin over and over as I’m continually seduced, brought up to immeasurable highs only to be swept into sorrow. I lose time, fully absorbed, emotions warring as the music continues to play with only a few short seconds of reprieve between songs—which isn’t nearly enough time to recover.

The journalist inside desperately wants her poker face back, but even as I try, I fail to formulate a single cohesive sentence for what I’m experiencing. Ultimately, I bat her away because the journalist that resides inside me is not who he’s playing his music for.

So, I sit, failing to hide the totality of the feelings he’s evoking as my throat constricts and his voice pulls at the last of my restraint, my eyes burning with tears as they escape and trickle down my cheeks. I don’t stop them, nor do I wipe them away. He deserves every one of them.

Easton Crowne makes beautiful music, his sound unlike any I’ve ever heard. Faint echoes of musicians—past and present—thread through his soul-searing lyrics and complicated melodies, but in a distinctive way I know will be trademarked as his own.

The truth becomes evident as I continue to listen and realize he’s probably not at all ashamed his father helped him produce it. He’s proud of it. I conclude he doesn’t want it publicly known he got the help because the sound he created is uniquely his own.

I know if I open my eyes, it may well ruin me, so I rest my head back against the leather seat—my senses heightened exponentially as he continues to wage war on my every emotion. His brilliant, beautiful lyrics and carefully laid out melodies drown me for endless minutes as I’m swarmed in the sensation of his mindboggling creation. I embrace every second of the feeling.

Just as I reach immeasurable heights by the beauty of new lyrics, Easton removes the headphones and unplugs them, the gorgeous ballad surrounding us both as I open my eyes. The ready praises on my tongue are silenced when Easton’s lips capture mine.

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