“Okay,” I acquiesce as he takes my hand, a balm to last night’s rushed goodbye.
Even though I know he withdrew for both our sakes, I can’t deny it was painful in a way I wasn’t prepared for. Butterflies swarm me as he gently nudges me forward to give him space before he takes the lead, guiding me down a short hallway. A single door is closed to our left before he stops at another closed door on the right. Opening it, he ushers me in, and I glance around.
“Oh,” I say, taking in our surroundings. Straight ahead is a large soundboard with two comfortable-looking chairs edging it.
A long, newer-looking leather couch takes up a good amount of the wall immediately to my right. Next to it is a glass door leading into a sound booth which sits opposite the board. The booth is so small, it’s got barely enough space to fit the instruments it currently houses. Though it seems equipped, it’s severely outdated. Even with all the necessities, the room looks to be something straight out of the ’70s era, the surrounding walls made up of paneled wood. I turn to Easton, confused.
“This is your studio?”
He chuckles at my obvious surprise. “Not impressed?”
“It looks like a ’70s porno set and smells like mothballs. Seriously, Easton, why here?”
“I’m here mostly because of this soundboard, and I told you, I earned every single dime to record myself. This is the only place I could afford.”
“Don’t get me wrong, it’s um, nice enough—”
“Liar,” he grins and scolds simultaneously. “It’s a total shithole. But it’s been my home on and off for years. I’ve slept on that couch more than I have in my own bed.”
“Did you sanitize it first?” I jab.
“I bought it new, asshole,” he growls, nudging my shoulder.
“So, do you own this palace?”
He shakes his head. “I fucking should with as much time as I’ve spent here, but no. I lease it long term because no one else wants it.”
I open my mouth to talk, and he covers it with his palm, his eyes lit with humor.
I peel his hand away. “I was only going to say a coat of paint, or…a wrecking ball, and this place could really be…something.”
Wrinkling his nose, he pinches my sides, and I jump as our smiles collide. My heart flutters in my chest as we get caught up in the other for a few seconds while his palms rest on either side of my waist. Sucking in my lip as my body begins to thrum, I glance around and try to imagine him holed up in this relic he labels his studio. “And you’re by yourself when you’re here?”
“Most of the time. You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Don’t you get lonely?”
“Not with all the music in my head,” he says, tapping his temple.
“You’re beautiful…” His eyes snap to mine. “…and I feel sorry for you.”
I’m graced with a full grin before he leads me deeper into the room.
“Come on, it won’t bite, and I got rid of the rats years ago.”
“That’s reassuring.”
He smirks as I take one of two seats behind the soundboard. Putting on my most serious expression, I straighten my shoulders. “So, you going to teach me how to drive this spaceship or what?”
“Only if it lands us in an alternate universe,” he rasps out, taking the seat next to me. His eyes bore into mine, the sentiment hitting hard.
“Then what are you waiting for? Let’s go.”
“I’ll do you one better.”
I feign busy, pushing up a lever I know he can easily adjust back. “I don’t quite see how that’s possible, Mr. Crowne.”
He ducks under the board and retrieves a set of headphones, and I gape at him. “You’re going to let me hear it?”
“How are you going to write your article without hearing it?”
“We both know I’m—”
The ‘play along with me’ look in his eyes cuts me off.
“Exactly,” I snark, tossing my shoulders back and exaggeratedly clearing my throat. “I can’t perform miracles. I don’t know how you expect me to sway people otherwise.”
“Let’s remedy that,” he says, a nervous underlay in his tone.
“How many people have heard it?”
“My dad—so that makes you—number two.”
An audible gasp leaves me. “Easton.”
“Yeah, not even my mother,” he says softly. “I didn’t want her feeling pressured.”
I gape at him. “You trust me this much?”
“Guess so.”
The urge to launch myself at him intensifies and I do my best to sidebar the plethora of emotions threatening. “Sure hope it doesn’t suck, or this could backfire badly.”
“Clock’s ticking, Butler, and you have a plane to catch and seventy-seven minutes of music to listen to.”
“Seventy-seven minutes. Is there a significance to that?”
“You tell me.” He gently pulls the tie securing the pile of curls on top of my head, teasingly ruffling them loose before placing the headphones on my ears.
“Why the headphones?”
“Because I’ve heard it far too many times, and I don’t want to concentrate on the music.”
“Perfectionist?” I ask.
“You have no idea,” he says, his expression tightening.
“I have some idea.”
“You going to shut up anytime soon?”
“Sorry, I’m excited,” I clap giddily. “You don’t really intend on watching me, do you?”
“Since I’ve been waiting seven long years, yeah, I absolutely fucking do.”
“Geesh, no pressure,” I spout nervously. “If I’m this nervous, I can’t imagine what you’re feeling.”
“Comfortable?” He asks, dodging my question.
“Yeah,” I say, bobbing my head with emphasis.
“Close your eyes,” he whispers. Immediately, I flutter them closed, thankful for the reprieve of being so close to him and unable to touch. It’s a special kind of hell.
All words fall away as the intro—an atmospheric sort of melody—surrounds me before notes begin pouring through the headphones.
I can feel Easton’s gaze as he keeps the seat opposite me, our knees touching, his earthy scent surrounding me as his velvet voice sounds with the first lyrics. In seconds, I’m transported from the dimly lit room we’re sitting in into his universe. Heavy drums kick as he sings between searing guitar riffs, my lips parting at the heaviness of the song’s message.
The introduction song comes to a close, the last of the lyrics lingering as I melt further into the chair, mind blown, keeping my eyes closed. When the next song begins to play, my eyes bulge open in response, and I see Easton’s expectant smile in place due to the drastic difference in sound from the first song to the second. Both are different in feel, yet just as phenomenal.
My eyes flutter closed as he sings of mistrust. When it ends, I open my eyes briefly, and his lips part as he conveys something unintelligible, but I purposefully refuse to lift my headphones in fear of missing a single note. By the third song, I’m completely in orbit, unable to give him a second of my attention as I’m swept further and further into the journey he’s so effortlessly taking me on. There’s a theme mixed in the brilliance, but even as I try to mentally take notes, I’m unable to formulate a single coherent thought.
I feel it all, goosebumps erupting over my skin over and over as I’m continually seduced, brought up to immeasurable highs only to be swept into sorrow. I lose time, fully absorbed, emotions warring as the music continues to play with only a few short seconds of reprieve between songs—which isn’t nearly enough time to recover.
The journalist inside desperately wants her poker face back, but even as I try, I fail to formulate a single cohesive sentence for what I’m experiencing. Ultimately, I bat her away because the journalist that resides inside me is not who he’s playing his music for.
So, I sit, failing to hide the totality of the feelings he’s evoking as my throat constricts and his voice pulls at the last of my restraint, my eyes burning with tears as they escape and trickle down my cheeks. I don’t stop them, nor do I wipe them away. He deserves every one of them.