This time I do stand with every intention to leave, because fuck it, if she carries through with her threat, I’ll deal. I always do.
Got You （Where I Want You）
The Flys
Natalie
This is a lost cause. It’s clear I just wasted eleven hundred dollars on a last-minute plane ticket, maxing out my AmEx for unjustifiable reasons. Nothing could have prepared me for the unsurmountable wrath behind his eyes, or Easton Crowne in general. For a millisecond, I thought his persona might’ve been contrived, but he’s clearly disgusted by anything disingenuous. He also seems to have zero patience for anyone not delivering the truth in the raw. Even if I saw the expression he’s given me a thousand times on the web—which, with the amount of research I did, I probably have—nothing could have prepared me for the punch it packs face-to-face. He’s already raging against the world. While I was ready to face some major resistance, I wasn’t at all prepared for his beauty or his raw presence.
After packing at breakneck speed, I only slept a handful of hours since I landed, and everything about Seattle feels foreign to me. Nothing at all like his mother’s experience of being enveloped in warmth. My parents planned expensive trips overseas for our family vacations and did their best to expose me to various cultures and other walks of life. Though we had some stateside adventures, the Pacific Northwest was never included in them. I’m convinced I now know why. To my father, Washington was probably considered Stella and Reid’s designated corner of the universe, the rest of the world their playground. I’m sure Dad—much like the rest of the world—was always aware in which grounds the Crowne family were stomping and made sure to steer us clear. The question is, who was he protecting? Himself, my mother, Stella?
Glaring down at me, Easton takes a large swallow of the beer I bought before tossing ten bucks on the table to ensure I know my place with him. Nowhere.
“I don’t need to be your friend.”
“No danger there. Admit defeat and go home, Natalie. You’re not ready for this.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know you came underprepared, and you’re grasping at straws already.”
“You don’t know shit,” I snap, exasperated.
“Then fire away.”
He doesn’t give me longer than a second to form a response.
“Either come with decent questions or grant me my freedom.”
I sit stunned at his audacity as he looms over me, six feet and inches of venomous contempt.
“That’s what I thought.”
Before I can blink, he’s stalking away. He’s already on the sidewalk when I catch up to him and keep my voice low. “Why are you so against promoting your album or word getting out that your father is helping produce it?”
“Lame start, and we both know why,” he says, clear irritation in his voice as he pulls keys from his pocket, stops at the door of his classic Chevy, and unlocks it. I manage to catch the door before he slams it.
“Look, asshole, I traveled halfway across the country for this interview, and I don’t have enough to print a full page.”
“Not my problem,” he snaps, reaching for the handle to close himself inside the cab just as I wedge myself between his driver’s seat and the door he’s intent on slamming me out with.
“Yeah, well, I’m making it your problem,” I say, gripping the wheel and boxing myself farther in by stepping up into the cab and hovering above him.
He cants his head up at me as my hair is whipped continuously around my face by the freezing wind. Ducking farther into the truck, ass in the air, catcalls sound out around me from the occupied tables outside the bar. Briefly, I swear I see Easton’s lips lift, but it’s gone before I can properly gauge it as my hair repeatedly slaps my face. “Are you hesitant because you don’t want your father’s status in any way adding to your possible success, or is it because you’re afraid your work won’t be viewed as your own?”
“Are you seriously going to try to conduct this interview with your ass hanging out of my truck?”
I inch closer for some reprieve from the wind, hovering above him as he stares up at me, his expression unreadable.
“Yeah, I am. I blame lack of sleep. So, is that it?” He mulls the question over as I study his face. Perfection. His father’s perfect bone structure, his mother’s dark hair and olive skin tone, which is much deeper in person than pictured. “And if so, why allow him to participate at all?”