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?”
Runaway Train
Soul Asylum
Natalie