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.
“None of this is public fucking information.”
“Look, I know you don’t want it out, but it’s happening, and it’s my job to fish out the details. Although help from your father isn’t exactly newsworthy, considering it would be expected support. But if you’re so adamant about it, we can leave that part out. Either way, we’re reporting you’re releasing a debut album because apparently, you won’t, and I think it’s only fair that we hear from you, especially regarding your reasoning behind—”
“This is blackmail.”
“Hardly. It’s a chance to get your view in print.”
“It’s fucking blackmail to grant an interview.”
“Tomato, toe-mah-toe.”
“Tell me this, how is an exclusive in a regional fucking paper going to help promote my album?”
“First of all, your mother’s illustrious career started with this regional paper, and it’s about to celebrate thirty years in print, so a modicum of respect would be appreciated. A paper, by the way, which was ad-based and is now owned by a major media company that reports nationally and makes your point even more moot. I’m assuming the reason for your silence is that you don’t want the media’s help, but—”