Page 25 of Before Now

Lounging in Dev’s case.

His long limbs sprawl over the blue fabric couch in their dressing room. He has his eyes closed while his thumb strums invisible strings, his fingers stretched over an imaginary fretboard and his foot tapping. He’s running through the entire setlist in his head. Every riff and interval.

It’s his ritual.

They each have their own, I’ve noticed. It all starts and ends with shots as a band. Dev visualizes first. Then he’ll jog in place, dispelling the building energy. He also has a tiny keychain shaped like Arizona. He’ll kiss it and tuck it in his pocket. A gift from his grandma, he told me.

Felix takes a few extra shots and jerks off. A little less sentimental than a reminder of Grams. No one can deny the calmness and focus in him ahead of taking to the stage, though. All the chaos and crudeness step aside to let him do what he does best. Shockingly, that has nothing to do with pussy but sticks and a kick.

Adams, I haven’t the slightest idea. He vanishes after the shot and returns in time for the other one. A buzz surrounds him then, and for the moment he seems to have tamed his demons.

Right before the final shot, the bandmates huddle together. The three of them form their own little world, foreheads pressed together and hands on each other’s napes.

Then they go simultaneously devastate and enamor tens of thousands.

I check in with Glory and Nate to make sure they have everything they need. The tour has audio recording taken care of, so we can cover more ground with cameras. Glory will have one on the platform in the crowd, and Nate is at the front of the stage for closer shots. Christian has a pair of spy glasses ready for Felix. He won’t get them until he goes onstage to avoid any “unnecessary” footage being caught beforehand.

Felix had grinned at that one, then grabbed his junk. “Everything about my cock’s necessary. Vital, some might say.”

With them all set, I grab my handheld from my bag and set off for a shot I’ve been desperate for since the first show. Several people flood through the hallway, but the closer I get to the stage, the quieter it becomes. Soon, though, a different sound begins to build. One that carries such an addictive quality, which makes evenmyblood pump a little harder.

By the time I stop at the steps leading to the stage, the noise of the crowd has taken over. Just like the previous nights, a slow chant starts somewhere deep in the arena, weak at first but growing until the words beat through the entire world.

Adams.

Adams.

Adams.

My heartbeat syncs to it.

A few renditions will continue until they roar for the opening band.

Wanting to be ready for the next one, I search for an angle. I move to the side of the stairs where a couple tall speaker stacks tower high. There’s space behind them and a gap in the heavy curtains that otherwise block any view of the crowd. It creates a little hideaway, tucked right up beside the stage.

Dark, secluded, and the perfect place for my shot.

I turn sideways to wedge through a crack and hold my camera as high as I can to barely clear the top of the music equipment. Once I grunt my way in, the world below stage level vanishes. The overheads from the front barely reach through the gap, and the speakers block the dim backstage lighting. It bathes all of me in shadow except for eyes up, so I go slow and feel my way toward the stage. I step on a coil of cords, but mostly my path is clear.

Famous last words.

My shin slams into something hard and unmovable. I curse at the sharp pain that radiates and stumble. My hand flattens on top of whatever assaulted me and catches me. The addiction to obtaining the best shot immediately numbs everything when I push down. The coarse fuzz beneath my palm has no give.

I smile in the dark. “Perfect.”

With one more test to see if it holds, I rest my knee on top of the equipment. It doesn’t collapse right away, so I pull the other up to kneel. Between the curtains, I can see over top of the stage and lift the camera. The viewfinder catches some of the crowd, but something seems off. I adjust my position, walking on my knees sideways away from the stairs. My eyes flick between the digital image and the real one.

So fucking close.

I realize too late I’ve run out of fuzzy land. My knee misses the edge and keeps going. I gasp in a breath, losing my balance, and grab blindly for anything to save me. A warm hand clamps around my bare thigh to steady me just as I find something solid to hold onto. The solid moves ever so slightly. I realize it all in rapid fire. Soft fabric below my hand. A hard shoulder beneath that. Fingers flexing into my skin. My heart batters against my rib cage, but it turns into a full-on escape attempt when the hot palm slips higher.

Then it starts again.

The chant. The name.

A barely distinguishable shadow shifts off to the side of me. I can just make out a head rest back, the vagueness of someone sitting on who knows what below.

“Get your shot,” Foster says, voice easy.

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