The spotlight illuminates his sweat-soaked hair as he runs his fingers through it, his thin cotton T-shirt drenched and clarifying every muscle that makes up his build. Electrified, insides warring, and breathless in anticipation of what cover he will play tonight, I glance over at Joel offering up a smile.
“Let’s go back a little,” Easton speaks into the mic as the stadium roars in approval. Grinning at the reception, Easton glances back at Tack before he and LL pluck the first chords. The intro to the song has a funky, upbeat vibe, and I find myself bouncing a little on my heels along with the easy beat. Though I don’t recognize the song—as I haven’t ninety percent of his library—the crowd seems to and screams in approval. Or maybe it’s just Easton because he’s got that effect.
When he begins to sing, I pay close attention to the lyrics knowing that’s half the appeal for him—a habit I’ve kept since our time together. It’s when the lyrics start to register and resonate with me that I feel the implication.
Only a few lines in, Easton turns his head, smug eyes connecting with mine, his expression cool, as he delivers each line like a blow.
He sings of a lost woman, resembling a car crash, who’s stuck in denial, incapable of paying attention to the world around her due to indecision. Of a woman who sees and hears nothing but what she’s programmed herself to see and hear. A woman who looks through him and talks at him, blind to her needs and therefore incapable of discovering something real with anyone.
My chest caves as the insults are hurled with ease due to his delivery. His posture relays his satisfaction as he holds my gaze while I stand stalk still, under attack.
Fury begins to roll through me as he continues ripping me to pieces using the vulnerabilities I hand-fed him. He breaks contact as he delivers the last part of the song to the audience, the lyrics a hauntingly clear warning that if I don’t wake up, I’ll become another casualty destined to implode due to my own ignorance.
Bastard.
Tears spring to my eyes as he bellows the last line, his plea to an angel going a thousand miles an hour without purpose. I can feel Joel’s eyes on me as I turn to flee when the last line is repeated, and the angel Easton sings of inevitably meets her demise.
Joel calls after me, but I’m already gone, racing down the long hall backstage toward the exit. Applause erupts, and pandemonium ensues just as I burst through the back door. Humidity instantly covers me in a sheen of sweat as I reenter reality before I’m pulled under by the crushing weight of what just happened.
Feeling betrayed in a way I could never have anticipated from him, my vision blurs as I bypass a few lingering fans smoking outside, dodging their stares in seek of refuge. Bolting away from the auditorium, I make the quick decision to order a car and pin my location several blocks away, giving myself a little time to physically try and burn through some of the hurt. Ten minutes later, a Honda pulls up to where I’m waiting before the passenger side window lowers.
“Natalie Butler?”
“That’s me,” I say, the driver’s inquiry of my full name a reminder of exactly why I’ve gone to the lengths I have to ensure I don’t in any way forsake a name I take pride in.
I am my father’s daughter.
I’m his legacy, and his legacy is my future.
Nate Butler has been my rock, my hero, and the man in my life my whole existence, and I can’t forgo him or our relationship so easily. Our relationship is precious and sacred to me, and I’m done explaining that to Easton because it’s falling on deaf ears.
Safely inside the car—feeling like I just ran an emotional marathon—I let the anger take over.
Smug, self-righteous, son of a bitch!
As if he’s got me so easily pegged—along with my flaws—like he’s some sort of solution. For a man who claims he wants no part of ego, he damned sure seems to have procured a massive one when it comes to me, what he thinks of me, and my actions.
“Just come from the concert?”
Glancing up, I meet the eyes of the driver, who my app told me is Tom and looks to be close to my age, if not a little older.
“Yes,” I clip out.
“I wish like hell I’d gotten tickets. How was it? Is he any good live?”
My verbal lashing dies on my tongue, and I deny myself the petty satisfaction in place of the truth.
“He’s incredible. He’s better than you could ever imagine.”
“I fucking knew it,” he replies as I wonder if that was Easton’s version of a sendoff, the notion of us parting ways like adults now laughable.