Page 41 of Reverse

Easton immediately dips his chin, his head bobbing perfectly to the heavy beat that follows. It’s fucking sexy as hell, so natural. He holds me captive for a few minutes as I listen attentively. When his eyes dart my way, I avert them to the title—“Cult of Personality” by Living Colour. Adding it to the list of songs Easton’s played during our time together, I allow myself to sink into it. In minutes, I’m immersed in the powerful lyrics, the attitude of the song ringing in unison with Easton’s thoughts about the power of media and his personal beliefs.

I glance over to find he’s full-on smirking and know he was waiting for me to grasp the point of it.

Touché, Crowne.

As Easton continues to rock out at an ear-bleeding level, I can’t help but glance around self-consciously as we pull to a busy stoplight. Easton ignores the odd looks coming in our direction from the idling cars beside us and turns it up louder in response, which has me bursting out in nervous laughter. Grinning, I start to mimic his movements, which earns me another half-smile.

It’s when he pulls up through the drive-through of the hotel—the song still blaring out of our open windows—that my face flushes.

“Easton!” I exclaim with wide eyes as the music echoes through the wind tunnel of the entrance and into the hotel lobby. He continues to tap on the steering wheel, his fingers ticking off in perfect time with the drums, no fucks at all to give. Reddening by the second, I glance out the window to see an older couple exiting the hotel. Instantly, I reach for the volume, and Easton bats my hand away. Hand stinging and tempted to flee, I look back to the couple just as the older man animates and starts bobbing his head, giving Easton a thumbs up.

More hysterical laughter bursts out of me as I track the couple in the passenger’s side view mirror as the man continues to jam-walk until they disappear from sight. Shaking my head ironically but still smiling from ear to ear, I turn back to see Easton carefully scanning my profile.

“Well played,” I clap my hands sarcastically as the song comes to an end. “I got your point, but did you have to bang me over the head with it with such a heavy hammer?” I exaggerate my eyeroll upward. “But that’s you . . . isn’t it?”

My smile begins to slip as his gaze burns me from face to boot and back up. Swept up in his sudden intensity, I unbuckle my seatbelt as I try to compose appropriate parting words. He beats me to it with a rough whisper. “You just fucking fell out of the sky, didn’t you?”

The cabin of the SUV clouds with energy as a surreal gravity threatens to draw us closer.

“In a way,” I swallow, “I guess I did.” My mouth dries as he refuses to free me from the power of his perusal. As I opt for honesty, my heart begins to thrum harder with each passing second. “Thank you for giving me a soft place to land, Easton.” Fumbling, I find and tug on the handle of the truck before slamming it closed. Gripping the top of the open window with my fingers—unsure if I’ll see him again—I peer over at him and try to convince myself that if this is the last time, I’ll be fine with it.

“I’ll . . .” a nervous laugh escapes me, “thanks again, and good night.” Turning abruptly, I stalk toward the lobby, my pounding heartbeat and footsteps in sync. I don’t have to look back to know. I can feel his eyes on me.

TWELVE

“White Noise”

Exitmusic

Easton

Adding more weight to my press bar, I glance down as my phone lights up with an incoming text.

Natalie: I just want you to know that you don’t have to regret or worry about what you confided in me today.

Downing my water, I take the bench seat and text back.

Still not claiming to be villain or vulture?

Natalie: Exactly.

So, if my secrets are safe with you, what will you write?

Natalie: Let me worry about that.

The bubbles start and stop for almost a full minute before stopping altogether.

“East!” Mom calls from atop the stairs of our basement, which Dad converted into a state-of-the-art home gym and theatre years ago. “I left a plate of dinner on the counter if you’re hungry!”

“Okay, thanks,” I call up to her, distracted by the image of Natalie’s panic-stricken face when Mom called earlier today. It was obvious by her reaction that the answer to some of her mystery lies there, but I surprised myself by letting her off the hook without explanation.

What are you so afraid to tell me?

The bubbles start and stop again for over a minute, and I can’t help my grin. I’ve got her cornered, and she’s flailing.

Are you really that afraid of me?

Her answer is immediate and defiant, just like her.

---