Guilt refusing to dissipate, I take a quick shower in an attempt to wash off the shame as I try to figure out how I’m going to hide for the next few days.
With the paparazzi earning high dollars for personal shots of Easton, the stakes are much higher now than in Seattle. The chances of us getting caught on the other side of the lens are far greater, so I can’t be seen with him—in any capacity—in public. Standing side stage tonight—even between the curtains—was reckless and dangerous. Not only that, but Easton’s eyes also strayed in my direction enough that anyone watching closely, especially with a keen, trained eye to pay attention to those particulars, could catch on.
Did they? Surely no one was able to get a good shot. I was too far back, practically buried between those curtains. Yet, anxiety begins to run through me as I shoot off a quick text.
I don’t know if dinner is a good idea.
EC: It’s taken care of.
What do you mean? I haven’t told you why.
EC: You don’t have to. I’ve got it handled. Trust me and get down here.
So demanding.
The bubbles start and stop before a text comes through.
EC: I miss you. That’s what I called to say the first time.
Heart pounding erratically, I manage to type a reply.
And the second time?
EC: Maybe I’ll tell you when you get to the table.
Through the Glass
Stone Sour
Easton
Spotting Natalie at the entrance of the hotel bar, I lift my chin as she searches and finds me, Tack continuing to prattle on beside me. He’s still playing off the remaining energy from the stage, as am I. The high of playing is better than I could have ever anticipated. The woman standing side stage sweetened the feel of it exponentially tonight. Her reaction was everything I hoped for, as was she. She’s everything I remembered but somehow even more beautiful, more alluring. Simply put, she’s just fucking more.
So much more. I’m sure she’s intent on ruining me dressed in tight jeans that hug her long, muscular legs, a plain white T-shirt, and a thin as fuck bra. Tack and I stand as she nears the table. It’s when I’m able to read her expression and sense the hesitation in her posture that all of my hopes for the rest of the night slip into murky territory.
Somewhere between the kiss we shared backstage—that left me hard and uncomfortable as we packed up—to now, something has shifted, and she’s back in the no-fly headspace she’s been forcing herself into since I picked her up in Austin. Knowing I’m up against reinforced mental barriers, I allow her to choose her seat just as Tack pulls the chair next to me back in offering.
I dip my chin at him in silent thanks. Tack and I have managed an easy friendship since we started touring, and it’s got a lot to do with the fact that he’s basically a better person than most of the musicians I’ve met. He’s got no bitter chip on his shoulder thanks to years of falling short of his dreams with his other bands. Like me, he plays purely for his love of music, and that fact alone earns him a lot of my respect.
Natalie takes a seat, freshly showered, her face only slightly made up, her curls still drying as a whiff of her clean, floral scent hits me. A scent she drenched me in and left me pining for after she opened herself to me. She gives me the opposite now, posture closed, avoiding eye contact before relinquishing a soft “Hi.”
“Hey,” I answer back, draping my arm along the back of her chair.
“My room is nice, comfortable, thank you,” she says, glancing around the restaurant. “Where are LL and Syd?”
“Preoccupied,” Tack offers up easily.
Hating the fact that she’s deducing exactly what my bandmates are up to, she glances over at me, and I feel her unease before she addresses Tack.
“And you didn’t want to be preoccupied?”
“I’m good here,” he says. “I need a breather, and we have that thing tomorrow night.”
She looks to me. “What thing?”
“An after-party in Dallas,” Tack speaks up.
“Oh?”
“Yeah, we probably won’t be going,” I inform her.
“The fuck?” Tack asks as I stare back at him in warning.
“What am I missing now?” Natalie asks me directly, and I don’t reply because the answer is different for each question, and I don’t want to go there tonight since she seems to be on edge.
“Nothing. What are you hungry for?” I lean in, brushing her arm with mine, doing my best to put her at ease. “I don’t think they serve crab legs here.”
Her lips gradually start to lift as the waitress arrives, dropping us dark beers and water. “I’ll give you guys a minute.”
Natalie thanks her and turns to me. “You ordered for me?”
“Yeah, it’s cool if you don’t want it. It’s last call soon.”
“No, thank you, I do,” she says, glancing around, “I was wondering why we were the only ones in here.”
“No one else is here because your very close friend closed the fucking place down for you,” Tack interrupts as I full-on glare at him. He stands and jabs a tattooed thumb over his shoulder. “I’m going to get us some shots before they close up. Order me a French dip?”
I nod as Natalie turns to me. “You closed the restaurant down?”
“A bit of an exaggeration. There wasn’t many dining. I’ve got this,” I reiterate, “so stop worrying.”
She studies me as I scan the menu. More than anything, I want her at ease, like we were. The fucked-up part is that the clock is ticking just like the last time. A clock I decided to kickstart the second she closed the door in my face in Seattle. Sadly, it is her unearthed fears for herself that’ve aided in my decision. I don’t want to die with regrets at any fucking age, and I sure as hell don’t plan on letting this crazy chemistry and undeniable connection go to waste if I have any say in it. I’ve never been so drawn to another human being, and I’ll be damned if I give up without a fight. Even if she plans on spending the weekend letting me down gently, by the time she leaves, she’ll know exactly how much those days meant to me.
If my efforts prove futile and this goes nowhere—which seems inevitable—I can’t fucking seem to stop wanting to explore it, explore more of her.
As crazy as the last two months have been for me professionally, I’ve spent a large part of all the combined moments quiet and otherwise absorbed by thoughts of her.
“What’s up?” I ask as she traces her coaster with her finger.
“Nothing, I’m good.”
“You spoke to your dad,” I conclude, her resistance too familiar, too easy to read.
“Yeah,” she floats her eyes around the table before lifting them to me. The purple around her irises hits like a fucking lightning bolt to the chest as memories of us without a trace of Nate Butler come to the forefront. I grip her hand beneath the table, and she gently pulls it out of reach.
“Already?”
“No, not already, always have been. Facts are facts.” She lifts her voice as Tack approaches, fully armed. “And the fact is, tonight, you all ruled that stage, and I want to celebrate that.” She taps the neck of her beer against mine.
“I’ll drink to that,” Tack adds, tabling a fistful of shots. We each take one and tap glasses before tossing them back.
As if out of thin air, Syd appears with a tumbler full of liquor and vape smoke clouding around him. The man is a tank and seemingly unflappable. Although we’ve become acquainted enough, he’s still a bit of an enigma to me. His preference for the finer things is the only real defining thing about him so far. That and the fact that he’s a beast on the bass.
“Another?” Tack asks the table.
I shake my head as Natalie nods and Tack ushers Syd away from the table to accompany him.
“…feeling like a third wheel,” Tack says while they’re still within earshot, and I clamp my eyes shut briefly to summon more patience. I had no plan other than to capture Natalie and demand a conversation. But the discomfort—thanks to the need for explanation of what we are and aren’t—makes that simple tactic far more difficult to execute.