Page 23 of Before Now

“Hey, Colt,” Dev says before he flips him off. “Get fucked. And for the record, my balls are licked clean regularly.”

My nose scrunches. “Ew.”

He gives anot sorryshrug and goes back to his nails with his lips quirked up. “Like you won’t be privy to every pussy we hit, anyway.”

“Preferably you won’t be using my recording equipment while getting a blow job,” I counter.

Colton stands and heads to the kitchenette. “Trust me, if it’s going to happen, it’ll be Felix’s footage.”

Dev snorts in agreement.

Now I know not to review Felix’s footage around other people.

Colton returns with his own coffee and settles on the opposite end of the couch. He stretches his legs out on the cushions toward me. His socked feet sit a mere inch from my leg. In a weird way, it makes me feel included again.

Like he’s accepted me as part of the herd.

He swipes the remote off the back of the couch and turns up the volume. The playlist from my phone pours out of the speakers lining this part of the bus.

Dev nods along with the song, seemingly approving of the punk anthem, while Colton drops his head back on the wooden cabinet behind him. His eyes close. His toes tap to the beat.

The moment has me leaning over for my camera off the floor. Colton cracks a lid when I move, his lips tipping up at what I’m doing.

“Never stop,” he sighs out the words with a touch of disapproval.

I ignore him and hit record. The scene already unfolds in my head. An acoustic version of their song “Haunted” playing—if the label approves it—with cuts of their time on the road. Mostly on the bus. Candid moments like these. Ones like what I get by slowly panning from the landscape rushing by through the window to Dev on his couch. He has his head down in pure concentration, trying to paint the nails on his left hand. His profile is similar to how he appeared on stage last night, pouring every ounce of his focus into the finger movements of his bass.

From what I’ve learned, Dev’s the dreamer of the group. He told a story during our initial interview about the first time he performed—strumming a play guitar in front of his grandmother and her friends during one of their weekly get-togethers. Even while telling me about the sun shining through the windows and the rush he could feel over his skin, he appeared lost in the moment.

He’s wanted exactly what they’re doing now ever since: to change hearts with his music, repay his grandmother for every encouraging word she gave him growing up, to find a way to inspire the next generation to dream bigger than they can even imagine.

He glances up, breaking into a grin when he sees the camera, and with a shake of his head goes back to work. “Nothing is sacred now, huh?”

I zoom closer to draw attention to his profile—a snapshot of a little boy living his dream. Only now he has eyebrow rings and ink on his temple. This time he looks up to play-snarl at the camera, and I laugh.

After I get a little more footage of him, I ease the shot away to show the rest of the bus. The kitchenette, and then the heavy curtain to the hallway. Except the screen doesn’t show the black fabric. I still when I land on tan skin stretched tight over carved pecs. Lower are hard abs, and then black ink disappears into sweatpants hanging off his hips, leaving only the top half of the word visible.

I figured it out when Foster pulled up his shirt for the mic pack. The word was like a spike in my chest, dragging the memory out of me regardless of how deep I tried to lock it away.

“You think you know me so well? Then describe me in one word.”

Restless.

“I won’t be once I get to you.”

My eyes lift to a faded blue pair, watching me over my camera. Foster has a lazy look to him, effortlessly sexy in a state women would kill to see him in, with his hooded gaze all on me. My lips part as I draw in a breath, but I swear he drains the air from the entire bus, or at least the air that was feedingmylungs.

We haven’t said a word to each other since he bailed on his interview at the label. I haven’t even pushed to try again. Partly because the tour started up again and he’s had zero downtime. Mostly because I can’t be alone with him until I see him as Adams.

Given the way my chest fucking burns from not breathing right now, I’d definitely say I’m in a staredown with Foster West.

“Morning, sunshine,” Colton says from behind me.

Foster’s jaw clenches as his attention rises over my head to his best friend, but it lowers back to me before he rasps, “Hey.”

His gravelly morning voice skates over my skin, rough and jarring enough I lower the camera, along with my eyes. Avoidance is the only escape I have right now.

While I set the camera on the cushion behind Colton’s feet, Foster walks to the kitchenette. I’m fighting not to look again when Dev hisses, “Shit.”

---