“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 the true critics, 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?”
She nods slowly before firing a question anyway. “So, you’re claiming it’s a blood thing?”
“I’m not claiming shit. That’s a fact. I grew up in a whirlwind of notes, tuned by melody, shaped by lyrics. My parents’ obsession with music and their love for it was the seed that I stemmed from. There hasn’t been a day of my life where I haven’t been entangled in the purity of some sort of melody, either someone else’s or my own. Music is as necessary for me as the air I breathe.” She couldn’t possibly understand the extent of it, but she doesn’t miss a beat.
“Fair enough. Did it come easily?”
I hesitate because there’s no easy answer for that. From the time I was able, I was working on becoming a part of it all. I’m just not sure if my talent is natural or earned, or if it’s enough. “I’ve been playing for as far back as I can remember, so I’m not entirely sure. That would be a question for my parents.”
I study her fingers while she keeps them wrapped around her pint. Long, delicate. My eyes flick up to her face—pink-tinged pale skin, a few light, barely-there freckles dart along the side of her nose. Up close, her hair is more blonde than red, slightly on the coppery side. Briefly, I wonder what the rest of her would look like without the layers of clothing she’s wrapped in. It’s obvious she spent mere minutes on her appearance before she got here. The thin layer of makeup she put on is unable to conceal the pale blue half-moons beneath her eyes. She either isn’t trying or is too tired to care. I find myself wondering why I give a fuck as she fires off another question.
“So, would you say you’re a prodigy or just a byproduct of your environment?”
I’m unable to guard the surprise in my eyes, but I shut it down quickly.
“That’s not for me to decide.”
“Can I hear it?”
I give her a firm shake of my head.
“That’s going to make this hard.”
“Then let’s wrap this up. I’m sure there’s a return flight to Austin sometime today.”
“Jesus.” She takes a hearty sip of beer. “I’m not here to stunt your growth.”
“Why the fuck are you here, and why did you bring up our parents dating?”
Casting her eyes down, she sets her beer on the table. There’s obvious guilt there, and I’m clearly missing something important.
“I shouldn’t have mentioned that. Can you just forget I did?”
I remain quiet, my question still demanding an answer.
She traces the rim of her glass. “I’m not expecting to bond over it, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”
“You like to be the one to ask the questions,” I say in a blanket statement, knowing it’s the truth.
“I do. I chose this.”
“It’s an obvious choice. You’re a media princess.”
Her eyes narrow. “And you’re rock royalty. We both have legacies to try and live up to.”
“We won’t be bonding over that, either,” I state, finishing my beer. She pushes the beer she bought over to my side of the table in offering, and I ignore it.
“So, what’s it going to take to get a proper interview with you?”
“I’m here.”
“No, you’re not.”
I give her honesty. “A friendship I’m not offering. Take care, Natalie, and if you print a word of anything I just said, I’ll make it hurt.”
This time I do stand with every intention to leave, because fuck it, if she carries through with her threat, I’ll deal. I always do.
Got You (Where I Want You)
The Flys
Natalie
This is a lost cause. It’s clear I just wasted eleven hundred dollars on a last-minute plane ticket, maxing out my AmEx for unjustifiable reasons. Nothing could have prepared me for the unsurmountable wrath behind his eyes, or Easton Crowne in general. For a millisecond, I thought his persona might’ve been contrived, but he’s clearly disgusted by anything disingenuous. He also seems to have zero patience for anyone not delivering the truth in the raw. Even if I saw the expression he’s given me a thousand times on the web—which, with the amount of research I did, I probably have—nothing could have prepared me for the punch it packs face-to-face. He’s already raging against the world. While I was ready to face some major resistance, I wasn’t at all prepared for his beauty or his raw presence.
After packing at breakneck speed, I only slept a handful of hours since I landed, and everything about Seattle feels foreign to me. Nothing at all like his mother’s experience of being enveloped in warmth. My parents planned expensive trips overseas for our family vacations and did their best to expose me to various cultures and other walks of life. Though we had some stateside adventures, the Pacific Northwest was never included in them. I’m convinced I now know why. To my father, Washington was probably considered Stella and Reid’s designated corner of the universe, the rest of the world their playground. I’m sure Dad—much like the rest of the world—was always aware in which grounds the Crowne family were stomping and made sure to steer us clear. The question is, who was he protecting? Himself, my mother, Stella?
Glaring down at me, Easton takes a large swallow of the beer I bought before tossing ten bucks on the table to ensure I know my place with him. Nowhere.
“I don’t need to be your friend.”
“No danger there. Admit defeat and go home, Natalie. You’re not ready for this.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know you came underprepared, and you’re grasping at straws already.”
“You don’t know shit,” I snap, exasperated.
“Then fire away.”
He doesn’t give me longer than a second to form a response.
“Either come with decent questions or grant me my freedom.”
I sit stunned at his audacity as he looms over me, six feet and inches of venomous contempt.
“That’s what I thought.”
Before I can blink, he’s stalking away. He’s already on the sidewalk when I catch up to him and keep my voice low. “Why are you so against promoting your album or word getting out that your father is helping produce it?”
“Lame start, and we both know why,” he says, clear irritation in his voice as he pulls keys from his pocket, stops at the door of his classic Chevy, and unlocks it. I manage to catch the door before he slams it.
“Look, asshole, I traveled halfway across the country for this interview, and I don’t have enough to print a full page.”
“Not my problem,” he snaps, reaching for the handle to close himself inside the cab just as I wedge myself between his driver’s seat and the door he’s intent on slamming me out with.