I want what I can’t have.
Even as I think it, his quiet electricity runs rampant throughout my body, engulfing me as the hairs on my arms and neck stand on end. I inhale the charged air between us as memory floods in, of the desire in his eyes, of how we bared ourselves, pulled each other apart, and examined our pieces before fusing ourselves back together so effortlessly. I feel those seconds with every fiber of my being as he engages me fully, his guitar strapped on his back, guttural lyrics of longing pouring from his lips. The tidal wave of his gaze ebbs away, slowly receding as they drift closed, unmistakable ache in his voice just as he sings the last line before the stage goes dark.
When the lights come back up, I’m utterly seduced, drenched in him from feet away, my desire for him at an immeasurable high. Forcing my selfish needs down, I smile and extend my hands in a clap as the crowd roars to a deafening level. Even without seeing them, I can physically feel the bond between Easton and his audience, of the love he spoke so fondly of. Not only that, as Easton scans the throng of fans, taking it all in, I can see the elation on his features as he engages them. “Thanks so much for coming out, Oklahoma City,” he places a hand on his chest before his eyes flick to mine. “I’m so glad you came.”
“Me too,” I mouth, still cradled inside the curtains asking myself the question again.
How the fuck am I supposed to resist this man?
How could anyone resist this man?
It’s then I decide the pain will be worth it. Just to know him, to witness him start his life path, his career path, because of who he is. Briefly, I entertain the idea we could have some sort of friendship eventually, but that notion is shot to hell the second the image of him hovering above me at the studio shutters in. His hand gripping the end of the couch, the other cradling my jaw, his beautiful features twisted in pleasure when he pulsed inside me.
Here and now, Nat. Here and now.
These precious moments with him, witnessing the start of his journey, will be my consolation when I’m forced to tear myself away from him a second time.
This, right here, is the sweet spot, somewhere between easily recognizable and the full blow stardom sure to come. It’s taken only months to build an audience this size, and he’s already sold a stadium out for the end of his first van tour. A year from now, I won’t be able to get near him so easily or possibly at all. This knowledge instills some fear for him. Because by the time he’s done touring, he’ll probably be swept into a level of fame he doesn’t want. Ironically, on stage now, he seems completely at ease. I know he’s at peace because, despite the fears he confided in me, his connection with them is his consolation.
“Give it up for REVERB! Baseline by Syd Patel, ripping on lead LL Garrison, and on drums Tack fucking Garrett!” Easton shouts, nodding toward the band before addressing them. “How about one more?” he asks, bouncing his gaze between LL, Tack, and Syd, who ready themselves in agreement, their faces lit due to recognition from the crowd. I love the fact that he spared the audience the ego-driven walk off stage and silent demand they cheer for an encore because that’s not who he is.
A devilish grin lifts his lush lips, and I get buzzed by the sight of it as he easily shifts his shiny black guitar in front of him, making the transition look effortless.
I hold my breath—along with the rest of the audience—in anticipation of what cover they’ll play. So far, he’s covered several eras and genres and made more headlines due to one of his latest encores in which he nailed a rap song to the point it seemed like he’s been rapping his whole life. I must have replayed that footage a hundred times and felt the same pride for him every time. It seems no matter what he tackles, he nails it.
Easton leans into the mic as they continue to cheer for him, his answering smile amping them up before they finally quiet down as he readies his guitar pick.
The lights go out a second time as Easton’s drawl echoes.
“And during the few moments that we have left, we want to talk right down to earth in a language that everybody here can easily understand.”
“Oh my God!” I spring like a Jack in the Box as the lights come up and Easton rips through the first chords of “Cult of Personality” with expertise. Eyes fixed on him, I geek out, bobbing my head and rocking on my heels, hair flying around my face wildly as the stadium explodes in chaos.
Easton rips on his guitar like it’s an extension of him through the solo, running his head back and forth as he plucks the strings, expertly pulling it off alongside LL while I lose all sense of self. The band doesn’t miss a single layer of the song as the four of them blow the roof off the fucking place.
Like me, I suspect most of the post-millennium-born audience has never heard the song. Then again, some of them probably have because if Easton’s taught me anything in our time together, it’s that though music is dated with a time stamp and divided by genre, it’s timeless.
I understand that now more than ever because Easton has proved it so and made certain music eternal for me, this song included.
This revelation isn’t news because not only is Easton outselling every mainstream artist out there, but he’s also breaking demographic barriers, selling to multiple generations, a feat very few artists have managed to do. As he explained to me in the truck that day, he’s creating common ground between us all. Knowing him—and his aversion to media—I’m not even sure he’s aware of it.
Before I can take a full breath, the song is over, and the auditorium is roaring and organically begging for an encore Easton doesn’t grant as the curtains close. The go-to-hell lights come up as I bounce on the balls of my feet, filled to the brim with adrenaline. Feeling euphoric, a sheen of sweat glistening on my skin, I laugh hysterically when I realize I’m becoming trapped between the first and second curtain as they close.
“Oh, bollocks!” I exclaim in mock Brit. “I would applaud you gents, but I can’t seem to find me way out of these!” A whiff of Easton’s scent hits me along with the smooth rumble of his chuckle just before I’m swallowed by the sight of him, the curtains billowing around him as he stalks toward me. In the next second, he’s plastered to me. Our chests collide before he grips the back of my neck and crushes my mouth with his.
His eager kiss elicits a moan from somewhere deep within, representing two excruciating months of longing. Easton uses it, pressing his tongue past my lips before invading me. I’m climbing him in seconds as he molds us together while playing me effortlessly. Ripping at his hair, I feel the vibration on his tongue and suck it feverishly as his hat thuds somewhere below us. Wet and aching, I moan into his mouth as he continues to draw me deeper into the kiss, utterly destroying my every defense until I’m clinging to him, unable to support my own weight. Our tongues furiously duel until he eventually pulls away, staring down at me intently before letting out a low, “Fuck, Beauty.”
Panting, I gape at him, my clit demanding attention between my legs. “Damnit to hell, Crowne,” I mutter in an attempt to catch myself, “you’re already playing dirty.”
“No,” he licks along my lower lip and pulls it briefly between his teeth. “Not yet.” His nose brushes mine, “Not even close, but don’t put it past me.”
“This isn’t a game,” I whisper hoarsely.
He sobers, pulling back slightly so I can clearly see the look in his eyes. “No, it’s not. You punched a hole in my goddamned chest in Seattle, only to leave me in the dark to try and figure out how to fill it.”