Page 18 of Before Now

“And the interview?” she hollers after me.

I hit the button and swing my head toward her. She has her arms crossed, a hip popped out to the side in a sassy little display of the fire beneath the cool exterior.

“We have nearly four months together,” I remind her. The elevator opens, so I walk in, turning around at the back to face her again. “I’m sure I’ll have time eventually.”

She drops her arms, frustrated, our eyes staying locked while the doors close between us.

It’s the last time I’ll be able to get away from her for the next few months.

Fuck if I’m not going to take advantage.

Sure, it’s a dick move. I know it. But that’s what I was missing the first time around with her—the armor. Since she’s the reason I forged it in the first place, it’s only fair she gets the shiniest, most dickish parts.

7

FOSTER

Before…

The tipof my pen taps on the paper, leaving little dots and lines. Evidence I’m trying and failing to perfect these lyrics. The ones I’ve been working on the entire trip.

An entire month of scribbling shit words only to cross them out. The last few pages of my notebook have seen more ink than a tattoo artist.

Flinging the pen to the floor, I fall backward on the pillow. I’m prepared to stare at the ceiling for a while. Truly brood over my failed artistic endeavors.

I only get a few minutes, though, before my phone buzzes. I swipe it off the mattress and crack a smile.

SaintR has signed in.

I roll out of bed and grab my jacket off the floor. Pocketing my phone, I snag the black-rimmed glasses off the desk on my way out.

The room’s technically an office with a mattress tucked in. Not that I’ll complain. The fact we have a place to sleep that’s not a park bench is more than enough for me while on this insane trip.

Reaching the kitchen, I’m unsurprised to see it’s standing room only. People are piled on chairs around the table with extra stools and boxes dragged around for more seating. The group all has a glass in hand, drinking their way to drunk while playing poker.

I get a few raised glasses when I enter, a shouted “Foster,” and a head turn. I nod in greeting, but it’s the dude in the Cowboys jersey with a chick planted on his lap I slap on the shoulder.

Chase looks back with a buzzed gleam in his eyes and the girl’s fingers in his dark hair. He gives me a cool once-over, noticing the jacket.

“Where are you going?” he drawls, hitting the Texan accent heavy.

“Where do you think?”

“Dude,” he says.

“Dude.”

“Brother,” he tries.

“Brother.” I give him a tight-lipped smile as I back away. “Someone has to pay for your ass to gallivant.”

He glares at me as I reach the flat’s door. Then my best friend dismisses me with a wave of his hand before using the same hand to grip the chick’s ass, making her squeal.

The jackass makes a kissy face at me over her head while she slaps at him, and I wink back. A chorus of my name and byes follows me out, all cutting off when I shut the door behind me.

I shake my head on my way down the hall.

The last thing I expected when we ended up in Paris two weeks ago was crashing with a bunch of American college students. We ran into them the first day, and Chase latched onto the familiar.

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