Page 19 of Reverse

I’m educated enough in what Mom calls her ‘past life’ in Texas to know there may be some truth to her claim our parents dated. Although why she mentioned it remains a mystery, especially since she made it clear she wants them kept out of this. If anything, that useless information was a display in poor taste, the definition of classless.

If she’d shown a little of that, I might not be sitting here ready to rip into her. With respect to my mother’s profession, there’s a big difference between hungry mass media and good journalism. There’s also a fine line in how to approach someone with a request to pry into their personal life—and she crossed a dozen lines in minute one. Her father might own Speak, and her mother might have inherited a media empire, but it’s obvious growing up surrounded by seasoned professionals has done fuck all for her. I’m willing to bet she’s newly graduated and hungry to make worthy headlines to compete with her parents’ legacy. If so, she’s going about it all wrong. Especially if I’m her first stop in making a real effort.

Anger resurfaces as I mentally run through the list of those who could have sold me out—my suspects limited to a few. Even with that list, I can’t think of one who would benefit by uttering a word about me releasing my album. It’s that she mentioned Dad playing the role of producer that’s really thrown me.

Acidic irritation runs through me as music begins to blare from the digital jukebox in the corner of the bar opposite me, accompanying the background noise of scattered conversations and clinking glasses.

No matter how hellbent Dad is on me seeing this through, he would never compromise my need to do this my way or our relationship in this capacity. Both my parents have spent my entire existence trying to protect me from the information-hungry masses, more so, bloodthirsty predators like Natalie Hearst. I’m positive Dad would never do so much to shield me, only to toss me straight into the lion’s den—even with us at odds about how I chose to go about this. This source—whoever the fuck they are—can’t possibly be on my shortlist. Sadly, the only way I’ll find outwhois, is by getting it from her. This means, temporarily, I’ll have to play amicable enough while keeping my temper at bay. This is an ask that, at the moment, is too fucking much.

I’ve been without the need of my parents’ protection for far longer than either of them would admit, but have yet to relinquish their rights in doing so. Their need to believe—especially my mother—has kept me silent, but not for much longer.

Anger simmering close to boiling, I do my best to sink into the easy rhythm of the music, mimicking the pluck of guitar strings with the fingers wrapped around my pint glass.

Glancing up at the plastic, ketchup-splattered clock hanging above the bar, I decide if she’s a second late, she gets nothing. As the clock ticks past 2:59, I start to count down the seconds, willing it to run out. I watch it tick down to fifteen and go to get up when I catch sight of her. Strawberry blonde hair whips around her face disrupting the view as she takes confident strides toward the bar. Her long, toned legs are covered in tight-fitting black denim and matching plain Uggs. The rest of her is swallowed in layers of colorful shirts, a sweater, and a thick scarf. It’s as if she put everything in her suitcase on. Opening the door, she steps in and searches the bar. Her eyes find me easily as she zeroes in and walks my way. Her lips lift slightly in greeting as her eyes fix on me, her gaze not meeting mine fully until she comes to a stop at the foot of the table.

It’s then she lifts them fully to peer down at me as she starts to unwrap her scarf, her plump, glossy lips upturning. The initial hit of indigo eyes feels like the strike of a crowbar being leveraged against my chest. Tightening my grip on my pint, I kick back in the booth, resolved that she’s a snake. A beautiful snake, but a snake just the same.

“You’ve already decided you don’t like me,” she says, a barely perceptible Texas lilt curling the end of each word. “I can’t really say that I blame you right now.” She slides into the opposite side of the booth before signaling to the bartender, pointing to my beer before lifting two fingers. I remain silent. It’s her shitshow.

She casts her eyes down briefly before lifting them back to mine to thoroughly inspect me. “Look, Easton,” she sighs, “I’m sorry. That phone call was,” she shakes her head, “to put it bluntly, it was an asshole way to approach this and get an interview, though I’m sure you’re used to it.”

I give her a dead stare in return.

“I reconsidered coming,” she lifts her head to the bartender, who summons her with the flick of his wrist to pick up her own fucking beers.

Yeah, princess, this isn’t that kind of place.

If I hadn’t researched enough to know that she is an heir to a media empire, I would assume she was a pageant princess of some sort. She’s beautiful, polite enough, obviously educated, and proper when speaking as if she’s ready for the next spelling question. Nothing about her sticks out as extraordinary, except the eyes. They have a depth I wasn’t expecting, probably intelligence. Either way, I flick that aside as she fetches her beer and rejoins me, pushing a fresh dark draft my way. I push it back toward her to decline while tilting my own up. She sits back, taking a large sip of brew while glancing around, no doubt to sum up the place with a few sentences for her article.

“Describe it,” I order.

“Sorry?”

“Describe the bar,” I lean forward, bracing my forearms on the table. “How would you write it?”

“Sticky,” she says with a light laugh, peeling the menu off the side of her palm.

“Fuck this,” I say, unable to believe I entertained her in the first place as I move to stand. She grips my arm to stop me, and I sneer at her, my shoulders locking up as my anger spikes. I shouldn’t have agreed to this. Showing up gave her too much leverage.

“Jesus, okay.” She licks her gloss-slicked lower lip. “Dark and dank, clearly in need of a deep clean . . . but perfectly necessary. If there were a list of the lost art of bars, this would rank high.”

“Why?”

“The jukebox, for one,” she adds quickly, “the selection itself is a nostalgic trip down memory lane. I’ve been here two minutes, and I can feel it already.” She sweeps the room with her gaze before bringing it back to me. “This is what bars used to be. Shots and beer, nothing to grind or garnish with an herb. The definition of a classic dive bar . . .” She keeps her gaze pinned on me as the crowbar digs further into my chest. “Black walls, matching but worn comfortable leather booths, checkered tile floors.” She glances to our left and grins. “Bumper sticker slogans plastered at eye level.” She clears her throat, projecting her voice in presentation. “Bathed in a symphony of neon light the second you step inside, you can picture the bloody, loose molars from desperation-laced bar fights. The atmosphere alone screams, ‘welcome all those who are lost. We offer nothing but spirits to wash your confusion down with.’”

Momentarily settling back in, I sip my beer as her eyes flare in irritation.

“So, did I pass?” She shakes her head, her posture weary but not from our battle. I haven’t even given her a tenth of what I had prepared.

“What the hell is with you anyway, Easton? You can’t be that jaded already. You haven’t been weighed by thetruecritics,yet. Is your contempt for the media real, or is this,” she gestures between us, “contrived especially for me because of how I approached this?”

I lift a brow.

“I mean, sure, I can only assume paparazzi made life difficult as you grew up. I can’t imagine it was easy to maintain privacy with celebrity parents. Still, you’re literally repainting a bullseye on your back by releasing a debut album with your father being who he is. If you hate the press, interviews, media in general, you chose the wrong fucking career.”

“I didn’t choose it,” I snap instantly, and she jumps slightly at the aggression in my tone, though I’m surprised a little by her own blunt delivery.

Annoyed I’ve instilled the wrong fear in her, I rip off my beanie and run my fingers through my hair. She fixes her purplish-blue gaze on their task and my hair before lowering her eyes to my chest, and lower to the beer in my hand before she darts her focus away. “Anything I say to you is off the record until I say so, understood?”

---