Page 24 of Before Now

The bassist has already set his mug on a table. He flings himself off the couch to his knees, and then he walks on them to me. Stopping beside me with a defeated look, he holds out the bottle and his left hand.

Of all the experiences I’ve had in this industry, a musician basically pleading me with his eyes while on his knees for me to paint his nails is somehow one of the more surprising.

I take it without question, though. The guy already made a mess on the one nail he attempted on what’s clearly his dominant hand.

I’m cleaning it up when Foster appears in my peripheral, sipping from a white mug that matches every other one on this bus. None of them used the brand-new espresso machine, all content with the drip coffee maker.

Foster crosses behind Dev and drops onto the other couch. I hold off as long as possible before I look over. A notebook balances on his knee, a pen in the hand not holding his coffee. He begins writing. The tension leaves his shoulders, his face relaxes. Even the air of annoyance he’s constantly carried around me vanishes. His pen stills, and his eyes shut. He licks his plush lips, leaving them parted slightly. I swear I feel the words he whispers then.

I glance at my camera. The need to capture him like this is a living, breathing thing that pulls in my chest.

“Never stop.” Colton leans forward and swipes up my camera.

He clicks his tongue at me but dutifully hits record and aims at Foster. While he films, I finish up Dev’s nails, determined not to peek again.

I twist the lid on once finished and shoo the bassist away.

“Thanks, slugger. It would have looked like a murder scene if I kept going on my own.” Dev gently knocks my jaw with his fist before returning to the other couch. “I knew you’d come in handy.”

I sigh as he resettles. “Glad you’ve found a use for me.”

Colton chuckles, and I jerk my camera out of his hand. He’s completely unfazed and shifts to get comfortable, returning to his nap.

“So touchy,” he mutters.

But his lips twitch.

I think he’s adopted me.

Outside of the music, the lounge falls quiet. No movement, no distractions. It leaves me hyperaware of the presence on the opposite side. Not the chill one with freshly painted nails. The magnetic one. The space practically pulses around Foster, and I fight the urge to look up from my camera. To see if he’s still lost in his notepad.

He’s writing lyrics.

The words will be messy and scribbled. I’ve seen it before in a notebook he flipped through during a video chat. A chat where he could have switched the camera to his face at any time. He never did, though. I can’t help wondering, what if he had? If he’d broken the only rule I gave him. Would it have changed anything?

I swallow back the sudden lump in my throat. My thoughts are drifting too far in a direction I refuse to go. I can’t. Not now when I’m taking more risks than I have in over five years.

Distracted with ghosts, I forget not to and look up, only to lock eyes with Foster. His pen tip still touches the paper, but his entire focus hangs on me. All intensity like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. My breaths start slipping, too short. The thrum of my pulse paces faster. I think about that damn lyric notebook. How I wrote his words on my bedroom wall, and now I know he wrote mine on his skin.

A few raw seconds pass before his jaw flexes, then his eyes fall away. Brick by brick, he lays a familiar cold wall of resentment between us. Like everything else to do with him, I slam into it heart first.

The pitiful thing clearly hasn’t learned its lesson.

Gathering my camera and nail polish, I knock Colton’s feet as I retreat to the only place I can. I drag myself up the ladder and collapse on my bed and fucking breathe.

I need the man down there to be Adams North. Not only for the documentary but my sanity. He can’t be the wandering boy. He can’t be that restless soul who’s always echoed in mine. He can’t be memories and constant reminders.

That man can’t be Foster.

Because Foster hurts too much.

* * *

The atmosphere backstageahead of a show is hypnotic, a drug direct in your veins.

At least it is with Of Men and Wolves.

People rush around, orders are given, and the air hums with an unidentifiable electricity. A mounting hype promised when the band takes the stage. It’s hectic and fast-paced, but at the center of it all lies the eye of the storm.

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