Page 136 of Before Now

I shake my head, and Dev backs it up.

“No.” He steals a glance at Felix, and I do too.

Our drummer’s not the only one wearing thin at the seams. Dev’s showing signs, but Felix’s crash-outs stand to cause more damage.

He brings his head up and throws a grateful look our way, but we’ve got him. We watch out for each other. Because at the end of all this—the fame and money—we’ll still be family.

My Cali-boy roommate included.

Christian scans us, his arms drop, and he nods. “Then it’s a no. All of you on board or none.”

Then, not wanting to call attention to the fact he’s more chill vibes than dollar signs at the moment, he checks his unnecessarily expensive watch. “Buses leave in two hours.” He zeros in on Dev. “And they’re leaving without extra passengers.”

Dev blinks at him, feigning innocence, but it doesn’t quite land after the other night. To be fair, the woman had no qualms with climbing into an Uber for a four-hour trip back home.

With Christian already on his phone, I throw a smile at my bandmates on my way out.

I plan on heading back to the dressing room, but Colton’s there to snag me right outside the door.

“Hold up.”

“Can it wait?” I ask, strolling past him. “I have somewhere to be.”

“Yeah, you need to be center stage. Remi’s setting up for your interview.”

I pause and spin to him, confused given the requirements I laid out for her. “She said center stage? Now?”

He nods. “And I wouldn’t fuck with her either. You didn’t see the daggers she threw at me, demanding I tell you when and where.”

My eyebrows draw in as Colt glares knives of his own. Aimed at me.

“I don’t know what the fuck you did,” he says, voice pitched low to stay between us, “but I’ve never seen her look so hurt. Even when we iced her out.”

I shake my head, trying to figure out if Smith would have said something to tip her off when he called. But even if he spilled every detail, her being hurt doesn’t make any sense. “Help me out here, man. She didn’t say anything else?”

Colton hands me my phone. “Apparently she’s not a liar?”

Even more unsure what the fuck is going on, I pocket it and run back to the dressing room to rinse off the concert. After the quick shower and a change of clothes, I return to the stage. The wet hair look is going to have to be part of the aesthetic.

I spot her on my way up the stairs, bent over her open duffel bag, grabbing her tripod. When she sees me, she abandons it and straightens. She waits by the single stool she set up for me, all business with a hard set to her jaw.

“What happened?” I ignore the mic pack she shoves at me, reaching up to cup her cheek instead.

She knocks my hand away. “Put on the mic so we can do the interview.”

“No,” I say, confused as fuck. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I need you to?—”

“What’s Remi Day?” she asks.

My chest constricts. “What?”

The words are wrong out of her mouth. It sounds even worse the second time.

“Remi Day,” she repeats. The mic pack lands in her bag, and she folds her arms over her chest. “Apparently it was yesterday.”

“Fuck.” It was. It was yesterday. I never even thought about the date. About the phone call I never received—or the follow-up text when I don’t answer. The one I don’t reply to either.

“I was going to tell you after the tour—when the stress of all this was off you. But I swear, Remi, I can explain.”

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