“What the hell is with you anyway, Easton? You can’t be that jaded already. You haven’t been weighed by the true critics, yet. Is your contempt for the media real, or is this,” she gestures between us, “contrived especially for me because of how I approached this?”
I lift a brow.
“I mean, sure, I can only assume paparazzi made life difficult as you grew up. I can’t imagine it was easy to maintain privacy with celebrity parents. Still, you’re literally repainting a bullseye on your back by releasing a debut album with your father being who he is. If you hate the press, interviews, media in general, you chose the wrong fucking career.”
“I didn’t choose it,” I snap instantly, and she jumps slightly at the aggression in my tone, though I’m surprised a little by her own blunt delivery.
Annoyed I’ve instilled the wrong fear in her, I rip off my beanie and run my fingers through my hair. She fixes her purplish-blue gaze on their task and my hair before lowering her eyes to my chest, and lower to the beer in my hand before she darts her focus away. “Anything I say to you is off the record until I say so, understood?”
She nods slowly before firing a question anyway. “So, you’re claiming it’s a blood thing?”
“I’m not claiming shit. That’s a fact. I grew up in a whirlwind of notes, tuned by melody, shaped by lyrics. My parents’ obsession with music and their love for it was the seed that I stemmed from. There hasn’t been a day of my life where I haven’t been entangled in the purity of some sort of melody, either someone else’s or my own. Music is as necessary for me as the air I breathe.” She couldn’t possibly understand the extent of it, but she doesn’t miss a beat.
“Fair enough. Did it come easily?”
I hesitate because there’s no easy answer for that. From the time I was able, I was working on becoming a part of it all. I’m just not sure if my talent is natural or earned, or if it’s enough. “I’ve been playing for as far back as I can remember, so I’m not entirely sure. That would be a question for my parents.”
I study her fingers while she keeps them wrapped around her pint. Long, delicate. My eyes flick up to her face—pink-tinged pale skin, a few light, barely-there freckles dart along the side of her nose. Up close, her hair is more blonde than red, slightly on the coppery side. Briefly, I wonder what the rest of her would look like without the layers of clothing she’s wrapped in. It’s obvious she spent mere minutes on her appearance before she got here. The thin layer of makeup she put on is unable to conceal the pale blue half-moons beneath her eyes. She either isn’t trying or is too tired to care. I find myself wondering why I give a fuck as she fires off another question.
“So, would you say you’re a prodigy or just a byproduct of your environment?”
I’m unable to guard the surprise in my eyes, but I shut it down quickly.
“That’s not for me to decide.”
“Can I hear it?”
I give her a firm shake of my head.
“That’s going to make this hard.”
“Then let’s wrap this up. I’m sure there’s a return flight to Austin sometime today.”
“Jesus.” She takes a hearty sip of beer. “I’m not here to stunt your growth.”
“Why the fuck are you here, and why did you bring up our parents dating?”
Casting her eyes down, she sets her beer on the table. There’s obvious guilt there, and I’m clearly missing something important.
“I shouldn’t have mentioned that. Can you just forget I did?”
I remain quiet, my question still demanding an answer.
She traces the rim of her glass. “I’m not expecting to bond over it, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”
“You like to be the one to ask the questions,” I say in a blanket statement, knowing it’s the truth.
“I do. I chose this.”
“It’s an obvious choice. You’re a media princess.”
Her eyes narrow. “And you’re rock royalty. We both have legacies to try and live up to.”
“We won’t be bonding over that, either,” I state, finishing my beer. She pushes the beer she bought over to my side of the table in offering, and I ignore it.
“So, what’s it going to take to get a proper interview with you?”
“I’m here.”
“No, you’re not.”
I give her honesty. “A friendship I’m not offering. Take care, Natalie, and if you print a word of anything I just said, I’ll make it hurt.”