A perk of when she’s here is that she’s one less testosterone-driven man to take up Austin Speak office space, for which I’m thankful. Because of my admiration for her work—and our closeness in age—we took up easily together as friends, so my lunch invitation isn’t out of the ordinary. However, my motive for extending the invite is far from innocent.
“What are you working on?” she asks, forking a bite with a manicured hand, her blonde locks pulled into a high ponytail. Though she’s got a little of that California-bred Barbie look going on, she’s down-to-earth and can quickly shift to a split-tongued devil when provoked. These traits made her an instant ally. She can drive the most ego-driven man to his knees on any given day of her choosing. Another reason to love Rosie today is that she’s prompting me with the right questions out of the gate. Bless her.
I shrug nonchalantly. “Just going through the archives and pulling old columns for the thirtieth edition. We’re going to highlight the headlines that got the paper where it is today. I just finished year one.”
“Damn, that’s a task.”
“I’m up for it and have months to prepare, so I’m determined to do it justice.” I sip my lemonade and decide it’s go time. “I’m sorting through some of Stella’s old articles now.”
Rosie’s eyes widen, letting me know she’s already on the hook. Despite her age and the fact that she’s brushed elbows with countless A-list celebrities, she is a die-hard fan of all things Crowne family.
“Oh,” she jumps in her seat as if in afterthought. “Speaking of,” she palms her forehead dramatically as I hold in my chuckle. “I totally forgot. I just got a line on something big.”
“Oh, yeah?” I ask, keeping my tone even and proud of my acting skills for the moment. “What’s that?”
“Well, according to my source,” she starts as we share a smile, “young Crowne is releasing a debut album very soon.”
“Young Crowne? You mean—”
“Elliot Easton Crowne.” She fans herself as I try to conceal my victory smile behind my sandwich. Here we go.
“Did you know Easton was named after The Cars guitarist; you know, the band who wrote the song—”
“Drive,” I finish for her, clear hearts flashing in her eyes.
“Technically, a man named Ben wrote that song and sang it, but Ben was obviously taken because Ben First is the Sergeants’ lead singer. He and Lexi made Benji, who is fire hot as fuck now, by the way.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah, at least the last time he was pictured. I’m guessing Easton’s namesake was Stella’s idea, and she didn’t like Rick.”
“Rick?”
“The lead singer of The Cars.”
“Ah.”
“So, I’m assuming they grabbed Easton’s name because you know Stella believes in all that cosmic stuff,” she waves her hand around animatedly, “and that song helped bring them back together, so no doubt that’s where he got his namesake.”
Recalling the movie, I place the part where Stella walked into a club she used to frequent with Reid and discovered him singing her favorite song as if willing her back to him. I’d teared up watching it as she sobbed at the edge of the stage while Reid sang, oblivious that she was standing there. That scene took place just before the end of the movie, a few scenes before they found each other in Seattle.
“I watched the movie last night,” I declare, knowing it will earn me points.
“Really?”
“Yeah, I mean, I’ve been reading her articles, so I got curious.”
Rosie sighs dreamily. “It’s still my favorite.”
As subtly as I can, I lead her back to the point. “So, Easton’s releasing a debut album? I didn’t even know he was a musician.”
“Honey, have you seen a recent picture of Easton Crowne?” She admonishes, pulling up her phone and tapping furiously.
While I do genuinely love Rosie and her company, this behavior is precisely why I dragged her out of the office to dig around. If there’s any dirt—good or bad—on the Crownes, she’s the one to go to. Reid and Stella’s story is one she considers a modern-day Elvis and Priscilla. Though it’s old news, it happens to be her favorite news, especially since King and Queen Crowne had a prince. A prince that’s rarely ever mentioned in the media.
I must admit, as much as my father’s relationship with Stella intrigues me, so does the other half of the story. Stella’s half. Maybe if I get closer to that half, I’ll find some of the answers I seek.
I’m just not sure what the questions are…yet.
It’s when Rosie lifts the phone that I’m struck by just how much of the other side exists. Hazel eyes glare back at me—or rather at the camera—as I take her phone and study the picture, cupping shade over it with my hand.
“Yeah, honey, take your time and drink that man in. Mm Mm Mm.”
Grinning due to her reaction, I do. From the top of his six-plus frame lays thick unruly, jet-black hair which juts out beneath a beanie. In this particular shot, he’s dressed in a form-fitting, faded grey thermal, dark, snug-fitting jeans, a plastic bag of takeout in one hand, the other grips the handle of an ancient, black box Chevy Truck. His posture next to it insinuates protection as if the truck has sentimental value while he scowls at the pap taking the picture. Everything in his demeanor screams, ‘fuck off.’
“It’s clear he hates the camera,” I note.
“That’s why he’s releasing it without promoting it.”
“What?”
“Yes, girl, no PR, no press announcement, no warning at all, and from what I was told, he’s not planning on granting a single interview. Which is crazy considering—”
“Stella is a journalist,” I interject.
“Exactly, Easton Crowne either doesn’t give a shit if it sells a single copy, or he hates the media so much he’s not willing to help himself get the word out. If the photos are any indication—”
“It’s definitely the latter,” I finish for her.
“Right. He’s been almost impossible to photograph over the years—along with all the Sergeants’ other kids—which has, of course, made his photos worth a shitload and the paps more relentless.” She finally bites into her salad, but that doesn’t stop her gushing. “The whole damned band has done a good job keeping their kids out of the spotlight over the years to the point they’re hardly recognizable now. But daaaaammmmn, just look at him.” She sighs. “I’m willing to bet his father is helping him produce, and he doesn’t want that out.”
And that’s your in, Natalie.
I jump on it. “Keep that out of it. We don’t want legal breathing down our necks.”
“Sure?” she asks. “It’s just speculation.”
“Even so, as protective as they are, we don’t need the headache. Trust me. The fact that he’s releasing an album will be enough.”
“Agreed,” she says quickly when I hand the phone back, and she again admires the picture. “Damn, he’s gorgeous.”
“And a raging asshole from the looks of it,” I say through a mouthful.
“Hard to believe Stella worked at Speak and then went on to marry a rock star,” she sighs wistfully.
“She helped make him a rock star,” I remind her. And my father helped make her. That part I leave out as the movie replays in my head, and the underlying resentment again begins to simmer.
“I think that might be why I took the job at Speak,” she says, swatting a fly away from her lettuce. “Damn sure isn’t the weather here.”
I nod, my thoughts beginning to wander back to the emails.
“Lucky bitch,” Rosie adds. “Can you even imagine what it’s like to have the attention of a man like that?”
I shake my head as her eyes light, and dread courses through me as I anticipate Rosie’s next words. She again delivers.
“You know, maybe you could contact her. Stella is down to earth, seems like a remember your roots and pay homage type of gal. I bet she would give you a quote or a few paragraphs about her time during the startup of the paper. It could really boost circulation.”
“Not a bad idea.” I lie, wiping my mouth with a napkin. “I’ll bring it up with Dad.”
Never.
Never will I ever bring up Stella in front of my father again. “When are you planning on publishing the article about Easton?”
“I’m still digging around,” she says, “but I’ll have it up by Monday.”
It’s Wednesday, and if I decide to use this angle, I’ll have to work fast.
Casually, I pick up my lemonade as my head swims with possible scenarios. “So, what else is going on?”