I fight my tongue from escaping my lips as the two of them banter as if standing beachside, golden skin, muscles taut and taunting for everyone without a swinging dick to admire—which makes me a lone party of one. Ripping my eyes away, I shrug.
“Well, big shit, so he’s pretty.” I cross my arms, “They make ’em just as pretty in Texas,” I spout to Joel, which has him belting out another loud laugh. Easton turns at Joel’s outburst, his eyes darting curiously between Joel and me as we share a smile. In the next second, both Easton and Jedidiah are dressed in riding gear.
It’s when I see the bikes being rolled up that the fear kicks in, and I step up to Easton in an attempt to be some sort of voice of reason. He gazes down at me with glittering eyes full of mischief, seemingly ready for my protest. It’s then I notice they’re far greener in color than a mix of both. The light honey-brown color surrounding his pupils threading out like tiny sun rays before disappearing in a sea of emerald green.
Pretty man on motorbike, destination—death. Focus, Natalie!
“Look, I know it’s not my place, and we just met, but are you fucking crazy?!” My voice of reason sounds more like the screech of a grandmother with a fanny pack full of Bactine and Band-Aids. Supplies that won’t help Easton one damn bit if he loses control on the massive track behind him.
“I wouldn’t argue with that assessment,” Easton retorts. “Seems I’m in good company.”
“Har, har,” I whisper-hiss, leaning in, “just so you know, you don’t opt to ride a death trap on Mt. Suicide before you drop your first album and break every bone in your body!” I mentally search the endless articles I read last night about Easton—or any mention of him—and not one of them cited motocross or anything else helpful for that matter. Fear escalating, I eye the monstrous track behind him. Intimidating mounds of dirt are piled high, expertly architected for the Evel Knievel-type motherfuckers surrounding him in encouragement.
“You’ve done this before, right?” I ask, further invading his space. “Right, Easton?” I press when he doesn’t answer, the early morning wind whipping around my face, my wayward curls sticking to my lip gloss.
Wordlessly, Easton slides on his gloves as an amused Jedidiah nudges him before handing him a helmet and goggles. “Little lady is worried about you.”
“I’m not his little lady,” I snap. “I’m just the journalist who will not get her story if her subject ends up in a damned coma!”
“Ah, now don’t go hurting my feelings,” Easton chides, “you’re acting a lot like my little lady…and I kind of dig the concern. If you feign indifference now, it will only hurt my confidence.”
“Oh, you’ll survive,” I snark with an eyeroll before I straighten and sober considerably. “You will survive, right?”
Easton weighs my expression before he slides on his helmet. He’s doing this.
“You know if you break your neck, you’ll never know if your album goes platinum! Does your mother know you’re doing this?”
“Why, you going to call her?” I can only see the tips of his smile, but I can tell it’s full by the devilish glint in his eyes. My heart begins to pound erratically inside my chest as I dart my attention between Easton and the track.
I know fuck all about motocross, but I’ve seen it in passing on TV, and from what I can tell, you have to be close to a professional level to take on a track like the one looming behind him.
“Easton,” I plea. “You’ve done this before, right?”
He gestures for me to step back, and I lay my hand on one of his gloved hands where it rests on the handle of the bike and shake my head. It’s then he lifts a gloved hand and takes the hair I’m close to eating away from my lips, the gesture intimate but short-lived. Instead of replying to any one of my protests, he lowers his goggles and kicks the bike to life, forcing me back.
Jedidiah looks back over to me, a smirk firmly in place to match my horror-filled expression. His shout barely registers over the hornet-sounding engine ringing in my ears. “Trust him. He’s got this.”
I nod as Joel grips me by the shoulders and ushers me back toward the stands.
The next few minutes are a battle to keep my coffee down as Easton keeps to one area of the course, opening the bike up, his wheels catching once or twice in a way that has my stomach roiling.
“He’s in the rut,” Joel says.
“I’ll say. Is this some sort of cry for help?”