“I trust you,” he murmurs with pride as my heart drops. “I’m sure it’s fine.”
“Okay, well…Night.”
They both echo goodnights as I end the call and fling myself across the bed, feeling like an altogether shitty human. I know I have their complete trust, but with the acts I’ve committed, I no longer feel worthy of it. With Easton’s kiss still fresh on my lying lips, I tell myself for the umpteenth time that this weekend is all I can give him because my entire future resides on this secret being precisely that, a secret.
Even though remaining close-knit with my family is sewn into my future, I try to remind myself that I’m also very much a grown woman. A grown woman who shouldn’t have to answer to her parents for every move she makes, especially when it comes to her personal life.
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.