Page 96 of Reverse

“Well, do any of you have a lady in waiting back home?”

“Fuck no,” Tack replies, “and it’s a good thing because—”

“Don’t you fucking finish that,” Easton warns, all too aware of what I’m getting at. Right now, it’s my only line of defense, so I press in.

“Oh, but Tack, I think you should,” I draw out.

“I’m divorced,” Syd offers, tapping his bare ring finger, “no birds to speak of at the moment, which I also consider a good thing.”

“And you, sir,” I ask LL, whose looks could vaporize panties worldwide. The man is stunningly gorgeous, though no Easton Crowne.

LL’s lips curve in a devious smile. “I’m a gentleman.”

Even Easton protests with a loud sigh of “Bullshit” as various debris retrieved from the floorboard flies toward LL’s head. As the chaos erupts, Easton’s fingers discreetly skim up my thigh, and I immediately turn toward him and catch the opposite of what I was expecting. He’s glaring at me in warning, a take no prisoners look marring his features. “Seat belt,now, or I’m fucking pulling over.”

“Geesh,” I turn back and buckle in. Seconds later, Dion’s “Only You Know” comes on through Easton’s playlist, a rare repeat. Easton turns it up, keeping his gaze on the highway as more anarchy erupts from the back of the van.

“What the fuck is this, golden oldies?” Tack wrinkles his nose.

“Exactly, it’s a classic. Listen up, and maybe you’ll learn something. Also, if you’re notdriving, you don’t get a say,” Easton barks in his no fucks given tone.

Apparently, it’s a van rule.

Not long after, I get lost in the melody, in the memory of those minutes he played for me in that hotel. For several seconds, I mentally trace his profile. Though he doesn’t look over at me, I know he’s right there with me. When the song ends, his gaze finally slides over to mine.

“Your first time,” I whisper between us. “I wish I would have recorded it.”

“It’s better you didn’t,” he says in a way I know would tarnish some of the intimacy of that memory, and I slowly nod in agreement.

I’m tempted to fling myself at him, even with the burn of the groupie talk chattering in the back of my mind. I can’t help but ogle him freely, and I do, for miles. That is until Tack grips both our headrests with his heavily inked hands, his head popping up between us.

“So, what’s the deal with you two?” Tack cants his head toward Easton, his question directed toward me. “This fucker was tightlipped the entire way to Austin and only admitted we were picking up his girl five minutes before we pulled up.”

Easton shoots a quick look my way, forcing me to answer on our behalf, his expression muted.

“We’re friends,” I say, with a lead tongue, the words feeling like a betrayal. “Closefriends,” I emphasize, glancing over to see Easton checking his blind spot as he shifts lanes, his reflection revealing he’s not at all happy about my answer, jaw ticking in response.

It’s not like I’m happy about it either, but we can’t be anything else, and somehow, I have to figure out a way to make him understand it while continuing to convince myself of the same thing. I wonder how many times you can lie to yourself before it becomes habitual. That’s what I feel like right now, a liar, because how in the hell am I going to resist this man? But I must. I have to make those words true. My father always taught me the right thing and the hard thing are often the same thing. In the case of Easton Crowne, my resistance to him will be my biggest test.

Unsatisfied, Tack presses in. “How did youclose friendsmeet?”

That’s the crux of it, and I say it out loud to remind usboth. “In the most impossible of situations. Trust me, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me,” Tack challenges.

“Hey, man, sit back,” Easton bites out lightly, “I can’t see out of the rearview.”

Tack rolls his eyes at Easton’s blatant attempt to end our conversation. It’s effective enough. Soon after, the guys start to chat amongst themselves, beers popping at random.

Briefly, I worry that they’ll be drunk by the time they have to play, but Easton looks unconcerned as he stares out at the rapidly darkening road.

After too many miles of uncomfortable silence, a rarity for us, I finally state my piece.

“I’m sorry . . . I didn’t know what else to say.”

He gives me the subtle dip of his chin, but I know that’s not the answer he wanted. In the next two days, I’m determined to make him understand it’s the only answer I can give.

The minute we pull up to the small auditorium, the guys exit like their asses are on fire, having only half an hour to spare before the show starts. Easton had refused to pull over for a third piss break, and the guys threatened to unload in the sea of Gatorade bottles on the floorboard. Needless to say, there was no going back after they’d broken the seal. We ended up stopping four times before we made it to the venue. They all seem in good spirits now, even Easton, who I had refused to let go radio silent on me the rest of the way to Oklahoma. Surprisingly, he seemed just as eager to get us back to the cheerful place we were in when he picked me up. As we caught up, I could see such a change in his posture from the time we met. His smiles are granted far easier. The more I observed the differences in him, the more I realized some of his ill demeanor was due to the fact he was at his own crossroads when ours merged.

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