Runaway Train
Soul Asylum
Natalie
The clock is ticking. That truth continues to bounce through my racing mind as I do my best to psych myself up, still trying to justify the reasoning behind the act I’m about to commit.
So, maybe part of the job of an investigative reporter involves a little bit of calculating as well. No budding journalist worth their salt can skirt the fact that it takes some manipulation—along with a set of brass balls—to get in where you can fit in, at least during the formative years.
Facts are, unless you’ve established a name for yourself as a journalist, few will pay you a bit of attention unless the subject of the story is newsworthy. It’s a dog-eat-dog world in media, always has been, and unfortunately, due to the increasingly cutthroat nature of instant news—as in reporting a full-fledged story within hours before you’re scooped—it appears it always will be. Rosie is confident in her position that no one else has a clue on the line she’s landed on Easton; because of that, I have the luxury of the window that I do.
Typically, Rosie would hit publish on such a worthy headline within hours. She’s holding back due to confidence in her source, and maybe due to her slight obsession with the subject and her need to get it just right—which buys me time. The downside? It also gives me time to go to war with myself morally, and that’s where I’m at.
Before today, I prided myself in not becoming the type of dog to go cannibal. In fact, I want to be just the opposite. Every story I’ve penned so far, I’ve also stamped with a level of integrity I haven’t wavered from. If I do this, if I manipulate this situation out of curiosity, I may not be able to sleep as heavily as I have thus far.
Am I really willing to cross a line I’ve refused to every day of my short career for answers that won’t help my current position? I’m not scooping Rosie, and this isn’t my story. What harm could it do just to dig a little, to get a glimpse of the other side?
“Just fucking do it,” I scold myself. Eyes fixed on the most recent shot of Easton—which Rosie pulled up at lunch—I keep my peripheral vision sharp, mainly on my father as he sits at his desk.
Aside from his open hostility toward the media, the rest of Easton Crowne remains a mystery. There’s so little about him on the web it’s ridiculous, especially in this day and age. It’s absolutely astounding to me that there are literally crumbs and nothing more. Rosie is right. The entire band did everything to protect the identity and privacy of their children, and now that they are all grown, they seem to be keeping it that way by choice. It’s plausible they hired someone or a team of someones to help them with that task over the years—which has proved money well spent.
Even more staggering is that the entire Sergeants’ family seems to have an impenetrable circle of people they trust who haven’t sold them out to the media—until now—which is another astonishing rarity indeed. Rosie has never, nor will ever, reveal a source who wishes to remain anonymous. If I want to know the who, as far as her source is concerned, I’ll have to figure it out on my own.
But that’s not my intention.
What is your intention, Natalie?
The answer is becoming as clear as the line that appeared yesterday—the need to know that’s ingrained in my psyche.
Not just a part of a story but the whole of it. A need that’s been embedded in my bones ever since I was a child.
All I do know at this point—especially after reading a few more emails between Stella and Dad—is that I’m becoming more and more curious about the other side. As I war with myself, I decide to make rules, new rules, and create a new uncrossable line that will allow me to get close enough to the fire to see what it consists of, but remain far enough away not to get burned.
I’ll draw the line at any point to spare my father because of the line I’ve already crossed by invading his privacy. Come what may, I’ll take the heat upon myself to protect him from a single degree of it.
Gazing at the picture while gathering more courage, I surmise that the only thing evident about Easton Crowne is that he’s good-looking. Yet, there’s a bit of depth to his angry stare. His evident aversion to the press is slightly surprising because of his mother’s position as one of the world’s leading music journalists. At the same time, it isn’t surprising he hates the media. Being a child of a celebrity, two celebrities, couldn’t have been easy.
As I study the beautiful byproduct of my father’s heartbreak, a few things become clear.
One, I’ll have to tread lightly with him. Easton is, no doubt, well versed in how to handle the press and does so mainly with blatant hostility.
Two, he’ll probably fall under one of two categories. He’s either an entitled celebutante or mature beyond his years and smug because of it. From his expression, I’m guessing it’s the latter.
Inhaling a calming breath, I muster the courage to dial the number. My window is closing, and I’ve only got four and a half days to pull this off. Not only that, I’ll have to do it completely off my parents’ radar. Guilt surfaces again as I hang up the phone before the end of the first ring and groan in frustration.
Dad hid the facts from me. Therefore, I’m safe in playing ignorant. But if I’m not careful, I could hurt him. It’s deceptive as hell, but because of Rosie, I’m covered regardless. Summoning my confidence, I dial again and brace myself for the inevitable backlash. Phone to my ear, I kick back in my office, crossing the expensive Choo pumps Mom gifted me for graduation on my desktop.
“’Lo?”
“Hi, Easton, I—”
The line goes silent due to disconnect.
I bark out a laugh, knowing he thinks I’m some groupie who became privy to his personal cell number. Deciding to go all in, I type up and take a screenshot of the beginning of a mock article before shooting it off with an accompanying text.
I’m not a groupie. Feel free to dial me back.
Three minutes later, my phone rattles in my hand, and I can’t help the victorious lift of my lips. Without uttering a word, Easton just confirmed Rosie’s source is legitimate.
“Let’s try this again, shall we? Hi, Easton.”
“Who the fuck are you?”
“If you give me a chance to tell you—”
“Cut the shit. How did you get the information?”
“It’s my job.”
“Fucking press.” Though he’s speaking low, his timbre reeks of mildly reserved disgust, like he’s holding himself back from doing real damage to me. “I’m not talking to you unless you tell me who the fuck you are.”
“My name is Natalie Hearst. I work for Austin Speak.”
I’m met by another telltale silence, which only confirms he’s aware his mother used to work here. It’s then I cling to the hope that he may know something that might help me fill in the why of the secrecy. Intuition tells me to follow my gut, just as fresh venom snakes over the line.
“What the hell do you want?”
“My father and your mother used to date. I didn’t know if you were aware of that—”
“If this is some ploy to get to my parents—”
“If I wanted your mother’s audience, I’m pretty sure I could get it considering… Look, I’ll be frank since that seems to be your love language, and I’m fluent. I’m only interested in interviewing you on your upcoming debut album.” Lie. “I have to say, in the spirit of full disclosure, I’m a huge fan of your mother’s work and the Sergeants.” Truth. “But I’d love to get an exclusive with you before you release.”
“You have no basis—”
“You’ve already confirmed it’s true by calling me back.” I go all in. “Maybe we can even do a sidebar with you and your dad and his involvement in producing it.”
More silence, and it’s damning.