Page 112 of Reverse

“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 clearwewouldn’t make it back united if we got lost in the Australian Outback if you act likethisduring 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.

Iwantto belong to Easton.

I wantusto 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.

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