Page 13 of Before Now

I listen to the heartbeat of the museum while Foster pauses beside a large stone statue. Something abstract and harsh with smooth lines. Then he moves on to a wall of artwork, lingering on each long enough for me to absorb them fully.

It’s how I know he’s truly looking at them too.

When he stops the camera on a painting longer than the others, I study it, trying to figure out what about the colors he wants more time to appreciate. Why he’s spending it on these brushstrokes over the others.

Eventually he starts to move again. He’s crossing to the opposite wall when a brunette passes him, her eyes not leaving him and her mouth turning up. She’s almost out of sight when the camera follows, keeping her in view longer.

That’s the one drawback of Foster—among the culture and city sights are smooth legs in short skirts. I usually ignore them, but this one keeps cutting into the shot. The artwork’s always off to the side to include at least her ass.

It starts to look like she’ll be a permanent part of the tour, and I roll my eyes. I open the chat between us for the first time, not paying attention to the prompt telling me to say hi to my tour guide.

SAINTR:Not that she isn’t pretty, but a little more art, maybe?

Miles said a few of the surrogates were sent glasses with a camera in them to test. Foster must be one because as soon as I hit send on the message, the video shifts down to his phone in his hand, and I can see the red dot by the chat icon in the corner.

Instead of opening it, the camera moves back and forth, as if he were shaking his head, and then he looks up again.

“Calm down, Remi Saint,” a low voice says into my ears. “We’ll go look at Impressionism shit.”

Something about the way he says my name makes me smile as he walks in the opposite direction of her.

SAINTR:Thank you, Foster West.

When he glances down this time, he opens the chat and reads my messages.

5

REMI

Now…

I have lessthan an hour until the car arrives, but I’m standing in the middle of my torn-apart bedroom, scanning for my red skirt like I haven’t had the past four weeks to pack for a four-month tour.

My eyes dart to the sound of my phone, buried under a pile of rejected outfits. I shove them off the bed and swipe to answer before even lifting the phone off the mattress.

“I’m drowning,” I say. “Send the Coast Guard.”

A deep sigh comes over the line. “You’re not even out of the kiddie pool, Sinner. Stand the fuck up.”

I lower onto the bed beside my suitcase. “Is this where you tell me you’ve taught me everything you can, and it’s time to make my way in the world?”

Heath huffs out a breath, the closest he gets to a laugh. “You know half of what I do, and I’ll be surprised if you make it through the first two weeks without calling me, crying, and begging me to bail you out.”

My mentor, ever the nurturer.

I grab a top from beside me and play with the label, distracting myself from the sudden tug in my chest. The same one as every other time I’ve thought about the documentary over the past several weeks. It starts with a second of bliss, realizing how close I am to what I’ve wanted for so long. Then it stings when I remember Foster’s hands gripping my waist, his calloused fingers dragging over my skin. The way he looked at me before walking away as Adams North.

The rest isn’t far behind, and I blink a few times, running my fingernail along the stitches of the tag.

“You’ll be fine, Sinner,” Heath says when my silence drags out. “If you’re not, I’ll make sure this tour is the last one of their careers.”

“You’re lying,” I tell him with half a smile.

He flicks his lighter on the other end, and I hear the crackle of burning paper as he lights a cigarette. “Of course I am. I’ve told you from the beginning I don’t do the coddling shit. You either grow a pair and rule the fucking world or get on your knees for those of us who already do.”

I blow out a breath and fold the top, laying it aside. “Well, thank you for the attempt. I truly appreciate it.”

Spotting red fabric, I go to the dresser, moving the jeans from on top of my lost skirt. I tuck it in with the rest of my clothes and then flip the lid shut before jerking the zipper across.

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