Until Easton

by Sandy Alvarez

  "No. Just him," Jax says. "If you agree, I can have a security system put in on the house and have some cameras placed around the property. I want you to know I wouldn't ask this of you if I thought there was any real threat to you or your grandfather, Becca."

  I give Jax a warm smile. "I don't know you all that well, Jax, but that I do know."

  "And you can save yourself the hassle of security," Grandpa cuts in again as he angles himself to show Jax the weapon strapped to his side and then pulls up his right pant leg to show the one he has strapped to his ankle. "I got my own damn security. Don't let my age fool ya, son."

  "No, Sir. I would never underestimate you, Mr. Connelly," Jax respectfully tells my grandfather.

  My grandfather is an excellent shot, and he taught me how to shoot as well. Most importantly, he gave me the knowledge on safely handling firearms and respecting them. And what Jax doesn't know is you won't hardly find a time I'm not carrying. "Well, I guess the only other question I have is when can we expect our guest?"

  * * *

  Later that night, I step out on the back porch with a glass of wine and my laptop. I had lain in my bed, unable to find sleep, for the better part of two hours. After Jax had left earlier, my grandfather and I looked at each other, and a few unspoken words were said before we went about our day. Bottom line: when someone needs help, and you have the means to get them the help they need, you do. Simple as that. It may not be the way of others, but it's the Connelly way. Now, my problem is I am finding myself curious about Easton Evans. He’d better not be some cocky jerk who thinks he can come here and order people to be at his beck and call. Just because he's rich and famous doesn't mean me or anyone here will put up with any bullshit. Though it's probably wrong of me to judge the guy before he even gets here. But I'm not too naïve to know how those celebrity types can be. And because I like torturing myself, I decided to come out here and do my stalk of shame in private.

  Sitting down on the lounge, I set my glass on the table beside me and tuck my legs underneath my butt. A cool summer breeze picks up, causing my exposed skin to prickle but feel good at the same time. The breeze carries the smell of honeysuckle, and I close my eyes as I take in the familiar scent. It also brings with it the comfort of home and how much I love this place. With that comes the dreaded reality of what would happen if I lost this place. I love Connelly Ranch. There is no other place in this world I want to call home. Not wanting the weight of what the future might hold and the fate of my home in jeopardy, I push those thoughts away and bring my attention back to the computer sitting on my lap. Cracking it open, I move the cursor to the search engine and type in Easton Evans. I've listened to his music and seen a picture of him before, but I'm still not prepared for all that is Easton to pop up on the screen. I suck in a sharp breath and stare at the image of him up on stage at some concert: tall, black hair, piercing gray eyes, tattoos covering both arms. I won't lie, the man is gorgeous. I don't typically describe a man as beautiful, but if any male specimen on this earth can be described as such, it would be Easton Evans. He's standing on stage with a guitar in his hands, his mouth inches away from the microphone. He's wearing a black t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his shoulders and a pair of faded jeans. And though it's just a picture, I can't help but be mesmerized by his full lips and the way he commands the crowd's attention in front of him. I imagine every person hanging on to each word that passes over those panty-melting lips of his.

  Shaking my head, I force myself out of its current daze and continue to scroll through dozens of photos. Easton on stage and Easton leaving clubs. Some appear to be Easton hanging out on a bus with his bandmates. But most of the pictures filling the computer screen are of Easton with women. Walking into hotels, walking out of hotels, leaving restaurants, leaving clubs and bars. Each time he's photographed with a different woman. And they all have something in common; they all look like models—tall, willowy, long sleek hair, sophisticated. I snort. Seems he has a type. An unexplainable feeling settles into the pit of my stomach, and that feeling resembles jealousy. What a stupid thing to be feeling. I don't know this man. And if I did, it's not like I'm someone he'd look at twice. I'm the complete opposite of all those women. I'm five-feet, two-inches tall on a good day. I have red curly hair that I've long ago given up trying to tame. Ellie tells me all the time she'd kill me if I ever cut or dyed it. I also like pie way too much to be considered thin. Though, I do like my curves. Life is too short to not have pie whenever you want.

  Deciding I've had enough stalking, I slap the laptop shut and gulp down what's left of my wine. Jax said to expect Easton in a couple days, and I just hope I know what I've gotten myself into.

  5

  EASTON

  When my plane lands back in Nashville, I get a text from Jax with the address and directions to Connelly Ranch. Aside from the name, I know nothing about my destination, but peace and quiet away from civilization are just what I need.

  Not allowing anyone to know I'm back in town, I head for my apartment. Something doesn't feel right the instant I walk through the door. The vibes I get cause me to pause, and I slowly reach for the handgun I keep hidden in a secret slide-out compartment within the bookshelf nearby. If there is one thing I have learned from my family after the band gained fame, it’s to always be prepared. Since our success, we've had more than our fair share of threats and unwanted visitors. I sweep the apartment, finding nothing out of place, but I still can't shake the feeling someone was here. Then it dawns on me. "Miles." I feel like an idiot. He came by the afternoon I left for Montana to get my cat and take him home.

  After taking a quick shower and repacking, I lock up and ride the elevator down to the garage located downstairs. Tossing my bags onto the seat, I climb in behind the wheel of my ride and take a moment to appreciate the old classic. I don't take it out often, which is a shame. My truck is a 1969 fully restored full soft top blue Ford Bronco 4X4 with a V8. When I bought it from my friend's uncle during high school, it was nothing more than a metal shell.

  My parents rode my ass for weeks afterward, telling me I wasted hard-earned money on something I couldn't even drive because it had no motor. They just couldn't see the potential. Besides, it was my money. I'd busted my ass for two summers working for Bruce down at the guitar store to buy this baby and a new Fender Stratocaster.

  I shove the key into the ignition and start her up—the sound of the motor echoes through the concrete parking lot. Reaching into the glovebox, I retrieve my shades and ball cap. It's not much of a disguise, but it works well enough to not draw attention to myself. Not that I'm famous enough to have paparazzi outside my building or anything, but we get fans who seek us out from time to time, sometimes camping outside our homes. Damn internet. You can find anyone nowadays just by searching their name.

  Putting the truck in reverse, I back out and exit the garage.

  After sitting in traffic for more than an hour due to road construction, I finally hit the open highway. Connelly Ranch isn't much of a drive, so I should make it there by noon. I take a deep breath in and turn on some tunes. "Dream On'' by Aerosmith begins playing, and I crank the volume up. The words resonate with me. The guys and I have busted our asses day in and day out to make East of Addiction into what we are today. We had the hunger all those years ago to chase our dreams and make music, and after all this time, we still do—most days.

  Hopefully, this retreat and some good old country living will give me the inspiration I need for a few new songs, because the moment our vacations end, we hit the studio and begin recording again.

  A short time later, I'm taking my exit. In need of gas and the restroom, I pull into the first gas station I see and stop my truck at one of the gas pumps. Parked right in front of the store is a true classic. I pause a moment to admire it, then walk inside. I take care of business, grab myself a sports drink, a couple of sausage sticks, and a bag of skittles. The older guy behind the counter stands from his resting spot in a chair watching TV. "W
hat can I do for ya, son?" he greets me.

  I lay my purchase on the counter. "I need forty in gas, please."

  "You in the Bronco?"

  "Yes, sir," I tell him, and he nods.

  "You got good taste. I own a classic myself." He rings me up and places my items in a small paper bag.

  "The surf green Hudson Hornet out front?"

  "Yep." The old man hands back my change then rounds the counter. "You know your stuff. Would you like to look at her?" His face lights up, and I can't say no to his enthusiasm.

  "Love too." I grab my bag and follow him out the door.

  "I've had her for a long time." He runs his palm over the hood of the car.

  I walk around. "A 54?" I ask.

  He shoves his hands into the front pockets of his slacks. "Close. She's a 1953."

  "She's a beauty," I tell him.

  "Can't say I've seen you around here before." He studies me for a moment.

  "I live in Nashville."

  He nods. "Nice place, but small town livin' suits me better. Where are you heading?"

  "Connelly Ranch." I don't worry about telling the old guy. He seems harmless enough.

  "I know Arthur Connelly. His family are good people. Well, I won't take up any more of your time. Safe travels and tell Arthur that Lloyd says hello."

  "Will do." I wave and walk toward my truck. After filling the tank with gas, I hit the road again.

  Turns out, Connelly Ranch is a few miles down the road. A sign hangs above the entrance road. Green pastures and white fences line the road leading to the large two-story house I see in the distance.

  I pull around the circular drive and park my truck. Beyond the house, several yards out, is a roomy stable.

  "You must be Easton." I turn at the sound of my name to see an older man sitting in a rocker on the front porch. The man looks to be in his late seventies, is at least six feet tall, and has broad shoulders and a reddish grey beard.

  "Yes, sir." I get out of the truck.

  "Jax and Ellie told us you'd be joining us today." He stands and greets me with a handshake. "Do you do drugs?" His eyes narrow.

  "No, sir."

  "Good. Name Is Arthur Connelly. Welcome to Connelly Ranch." He looks around, standing a little taller. "I'm gettin' ready to head for the co-op for some horse feed, so let me take you to meet Becca. Becca is my granddaughter and she helps me run the place. She′ll get you settled in your room."

  I fall in beside him as we head across the property that leads up onto a gravel road. "Cash there—" Arthur points to a brown and white horse "—is our purebred Appaloosa stallion."

  "So, you breed and raise horses?" I ask.

  "Quarter horses, Mustangs, but we also board horses that belong to outside individuals." Arthur sounds a bit winded from the walk.

  "Are you okay?" I become concerned.

  "I'm fine, son. Just a little old age tryin' to kick me in the ass." We walk into the stables. "Becca!" he shouts.

  "Back here Daideò!" a woman's voice calls from the back of the building.

  "Our guest is here!" Arthur shouts again, but Becca doesn't answer. "I'll be right back," he states and leaves me standing near a stable where a horse decides to take notice of me.

  "Hey there." I rub the friendly horse's forehead.

  "Grandpa, I'm covered in hay and horse manure." I overhear the woman talking.

  "Come on, now. A little dirt hurts nobody," Arthur tells her, and I chuckle.

  A few seconds later, a petite woman with a mass of curly red hair walks out of a horse stall beside Arthur, looking down and brushing off her clothes. I admire the curves she's showing in those dirt-stained jeans. I find myself hypnotized by the way her hips sway as she strolls toward me. The blue tank she wears showcases her full breasts and tiny waist. Even the old worn boots on her feet are sexy as hell.

  She lifts her head, and a pair of eyes, one blue, one brown—framed by long red lashes—lock with mine. I feel my body sway like the ground fell from under my feet.

  What the fuck was that?

  Becca stops in front of me. A spattering of reddish freckles decorates the apples of her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. She's not wearing a smidge of make-up. Everything about this woman is natural and flawless. She is mind-numbingly beautiful.

  Becca's face scrunches. "What's wrong with him?"

  "Son, are you alright?" Arthur asks, sounding concerned. Quite frankly, so am I.

  "I'm fine." I shake off the strange feeling that took control of my body and plaster on a winning smile.

  "Meet my granddaughter, Becca. She's the glue holding all this together these days," Arthur says. He beams with pride when he looks at her, and to me, that says a lot.

  "Every hand on this ranch helps keep it all together." Becca looks from her granddad to me and holds out her hand. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Evans."

  "Call me Easton." I take her hand, and the moment our fingertips graze each other it creates a zap of energy like static electricity. By the look on Becca's face, she felt it too.

  "Well, I'll leave you to it. Becca, sweetheart, give Easton here the ten-cent tour. I'll be back within the hour." Arthur kisses Becca on the cheek.

  "Oh, could you stop by Mrs. Crawford's? She has a couple of her blue-ribbon apple pies baked up for us!" Becca shouts at her grandad, who is already walking away.

  "Will do," he says without looking back.

  Becca watches Arthur retreat for a few extra seconds, then faces me. I can't help but notice the two straws of hay stuck in her hair and grime on her face. "Um…you have a little something…" Without thinking, I reach out and swipe a smudge of dirt off her chin.

  "You make it a habit of touching people without their permission, Mr. Evans?"

  Feisty. I like it. "Sorry," I apologize.

  "Follow me, and I'll show you around." Becca rushes out of the stables.

  "What's the rush?" I keep pace beside her.

  "Look, Mr. Evans. I have a horse ranch to run."

  "Easton. And I'm getting the impression you don't like me." I stop walking, which causes Becca to pause and look at me.

  She sighs and closes her eyes. "I apologize. It's just—" Becca takes a deep breath. "How about I show you to your room first, then we'll go from there."

  "Works for me." Once we've reached my truck, I grab my bags from the backseat and follow Becca inside the house.

  "Welcome to Connelly Ranch Inn. My granddad grew up here, as well as my parents and myself," Becca explains.

  To the right, I notice a living area with a large fireplace. In front of us, a staircase leads to the second floor. "Straight ahead is the kitchen." Becca points but instead shows the way to the second floor. My eyes fall on her shapely ass as we climb the stairs. "So, you're a musician?" Becca asks.

  "I am."

  "East of Addiction, right?"" We turn left down a short hallway, then enter a bedroom. I look around and toss my bags on the queen-sized bed.

  "Have you heard of us?"

  Becca shrugs. Walking over to the window and pulling open the curtains. "A little," she tells me. "You can put your things in the dresser there if you like." Becca crosses the room. "I'm sure the room isn't what you're used to." She opens a door leading to a small bathroom. "It's one of the few rooms with a private bath. Extra linens are in the closet. If you need more, just ask." Becca bustles about the room.

  "Do you ever slow down?" I chuckle at her constant moving.

  "Can't afford to slow down." Becca stops, faces me, and shoves her hands into her back pockets, thrusting her breasts forward. A move she doesn't do purposefully, but I'm not complaining.

  "Time waits for no one, right?" I say.

  "Something like that," Becca replies, and an awkward silence hangs between us for a second. Then my stomach growls, and Becca giggles, which breaks the tension in the air. "Would you like something to eat? I could make you a sandwich." She gives a small smile, and I feel a pain in my chest.

  "A sandwich sounds awes
ome."

  Down in the kitchen, I lean against the refrigerator while Becca throws us a quick lunch together. "We cook breakfast around seven in the morning, so if you want it hot, I suggest you be down here ten minutes prior. And dinner is around the same time."

  "What about lunch?" I ask.

  "You're on your own with that one, but the kitchen is always open. So, feel free to help yourself to whatever we have." Becca turns and looks back at me. "Grab us a bottle of water." She motions to the refrigerator I'm leaning against. "We'll eat on the go."

  * * *

  I spend the next hour with Becca showing me around the ranch and listening to her tell me about her family history and the legacy her great grandparents started. I hang on to every word she says. "I should get back to work. Four more stalls needing cleaning."

  "I'll help," I offer, and it shocks Becca.

  "You—help?"

  "Yeah."

  "Are you sure shoveling manure is how you want to spend the rest of your day?" Becca asks with a cocked head and raised brow.

  Truth is, I am willing to shovel shit. Hell, anything, if it means being with Becca. I find myself craving to be in her presence. "Positive," I say. Becca smiles, and fuck if I don't feel like I need to keep her smiling like that forever.

  "I'm pretty sure we can find you a pair of boots to replace those pricey-looking shoes on your feet. You also might want to change your clothes, as well. I wouldn't want you to get a stain on that white shirt." Becca assesses the rest of my attire.

  I pull the shirt over my head. "Problem solved." Becca's eyes fall to my shirtless chest. She's checking me out. It's not the first time she's done it since I've arrived, either. Becca has stolen just as many glances at me as I have her. I clear my throat, and her eyes dart back to my face.

  "Put me to work."

  6

  BECCA