“It’s a little small. I guess I just expected bigger.”
“Wow, Easton Crowne skirting around a question?” I pull some panties from my delicates drawer and toss them into my case. “What you really want to ask is why I’m living in seven hundred square feet when my parents are well off?”
“Pretty much,” he says.
“Because…we have more in common than you think.” I tuck some bras into the zipper bag. “I maxed out my AmEx to go to Seattle, remember?”
He nods.
“Well, that’s because wet-behind-the-ears college graduates don’t get high spending limits. I, too, intend to fully earn my way. I live on the salary I make at the paper, not off some trust fund. I will admit, like you, my parents still attempt to and often spoil me pretty damned rotten.”
His probing stare trails me as I grab my amenities bag from my bathroom and start to load it into my suitcase.
“You didn’t say anything,” he whispers softly.
“No, I didn’t.” I pause with a T-shirt in hand, “I was having a hard enough time with,” I gesture between us, “you know.”
“Who’s skirting now?” He dives in—relentless in his pursuit of the truth—as I roll up the T-shirt for the second time and shove it into my suitcase.
“I didn’t think it was that important.”
“No, don’t backtrack. You didn’t want to highlight how much we had in common.”
“Easton,” I sigh, “make no mistake. I am happy to see you. I do want to hang out with you and watch you play, but we can’t go further than that. After this weekend—”
“You won’t even answer my fucking phone calls,” he quips coldly. “So, it’s pretty safe to assume I’m wasting my time with that.”
I nod solemnly.
“Like I said,” he sighs, “we can argue about this later.”
I cross my arms. “All that means is that you’re not hearing me.”
“What makes you so fucking sure I’m here for that anyway? We only hooked up once.” He shrugs. “You’re being mighty presumptuous.”
“I…oh,” my neck heats as I drop my gaze to my overpacked suitcase. A low chuckle rumbles from where he stands, and I glare at him while he runs his teeth along his upper lip.
“You’re a real asshole, you know that?”
“Yep, but don’t worry. I’m not in the business of forcing my will on women who won’t even bother to pick up the phone for me.”
“I wanted to answer,” I say. “I really did.”
“I saw, but you didn’t.”
I wrangle more clothes into my suitcase as he pipes up, mirth in his tone. “We’re only going for two days. You do know that, right?”
“I like options. So, how do you like the band?”
He grins, seeming thoroughly amused by my abrupt change of subject, but he allows it.
“All of them have some years on me, but I don’t consider it a bad thing. Every one of them is crazy talented.”
“That’s awesome.”
“Yeah. So far, the gamble’s paid off. They play my originals just like I laid it out, but if it all works out and we decide to move forward, we’re going to collaborate on the next album, and I’m really hoping it works out. It’s definitely an eclectic mix.”
“Uh oh, you want to give me the rundown so I know what I’m in for?”
“Nah, you can handle them and get their stories when you meet them.”
“Do you like them?”
“So far. We were practically fucking strangers when we hit the road a month ago, but that’s the whole point of doing the van thing, to remedy that and see if we vibe. We’re basically living in the fucking thing, stuck together for endless hours on the road. It’s been…” he widens his eyes with a chuckle, “something.”
“Already collecting war stories, huh?”
“You could say that.”
“I’m sure.” Even I hear the hint of jealousy in my tone and berate myself for it.
Ewww, Natalie.
Still, it’s hard to imagine he’s immune to the staggering amount of female attention he’s getting. He probably has hourly opportunities to get his needs met, and damn if that doesn’t sting. The memory of the feel of him inside me that day at his studio hits me like a tidal wave as I look over at him.
I swear I catch a hint of a smile on his face before he turns and stalks back over to the digital photo frame just as an old picture of my dad and me appears. I’m in my softball uniform, holding my glove awkwardly. Dad’s kneeling behind me, surrounding me in his large build as we flash twin smiles for the camera.
“I’d just made catch of the year,” I tell Easton as he holds his finger on the photo to keep it from changing.
“You were that good?”
“Just the opposite, I was terrible,” I laugh as I pull out a drawer. “Outside of riding horses, I don’t have an athletic bone in my body. See how big that glove is?”
“Yeah, it’s huge.”
“I’d forgotten mine that day and had to use my coach’s. I think that’s the only reason I made that catch. Dad was in the stands as the ball was popped right to me. I just stuck my glove out to shield myself and miraculously caught it. Stunned, I just stared at it in my hand as Dad screamed at me from the stands to throw it to second. When I did, it earned us a double play, and we won the game.” I giggle at the memory. “That was my first and last season. I quit when I was on top. Played soccer for a few seasons though, Dad coached. Turns out I was just good at running, and he liked it because I had a lot of energy and would pass out on the way home. So, basically, he wanted to be seen as a doting father but was just a bad parent.”
Easton chuckles, releasing the picture as more snapshots of my life unfold on screen. Scanning the suitcase, I opt to pull on some white shorts beneath my skirt before discarding it.
“Keep the heels,” Easton orders thickly, glancing over at me as I turn my head, and our eyes collide.
The air charges between us as I lift a brow.
“Please,” he adds dryly as if he’s reached his limit for the day and the word is now leaving a bad taste in his mouth.
“Thought you weren’t here for that,” I snark.
“I’m here for you. But we’re not going anywhere if you don’t hurry the hell up.”
I slip on my worn checkered Vans and opt to toss my favorite heels in the suitcase before zipping it up.
Without prompt, he walks over and lifts the case from my bed, running his fingers over my patched quilt comforter as if he couldn’t resist feeling it on his fingertips before extending his hand toward me. The familiarity of the act brings forth everything lingering between us, and so I do what feels natural. I take it.
Steal Away
Robbie Dupree
Natalie
Gaping at the footage on the cell phone, I glance back at Jason Garett, aka Tack, Easton’s hired drummer, as he grins back at me from the first row of the van. Stunned, I flit my gaze to Easton, who opted to drive while I ride shotgun.
“You outran a fucking tornado?” I scold in my Bactine and Band-Aid maternal tone.
“We were at a safe enough distance,” Easton defends weakly, a grin brewing on his lips.
“That’s a bit of a stretch. Look at this,” Tack admits, thrusting a picture of golf ball-sized hail cradled in his heavily tattooed hand toward me.
“Jesus, Easton,” I chide, which only makes his smile bloom.
“Crazy, right?” Tack shakes his head before pulling a beer from the cooler on the floorboard and thrusting it toward me. “Want one, Nat?”
“No thanks, I’m kind of a lightweight,” I admit. “I’ll wait for the show.”
A question strikes me then. “Easton?”
“Yeah?”
“We aren’t sleeping in the van, right?”
He chuckles. “I wouldn’t subject you to that.”
“We tried a few nights the first week,” Tack says with clear annoyance, lifting his chin in Easton’s direction. “This fucker insisted on it, but it was a nightmare.”
“Too fucking right,” Syd pipes from next to him.
“So sorry you missed your morning tea, darling,” Easton says unapologetically.
“As you should be.” Syd snarks back in his British accent.