Page 26 of Before Now

Foster. Despite what I said to myself and what an entire arena tells me now, it’s not Adams.

Even with his touch branding me, the chant’s so strong I can’t keep myself from releasing his shoulder and bringing up the camera. I stretch in his direction, still not far enough over. Foster readjusts, sliding his grip to the back of my thigh to hold me stable. I take advantage and lean more, and then it happens.

An angle of the stage covers the bottom third of the frame, leaving the rest to show the crowd. Light shining off animated faces, fists pumping in the air. MARRY ME ADAMS signs, and a FELIX I’M PREGNANT.

Foster’s thumb strokes over my skin, and I suck in air as goosebumps scatter up my thigh.

I stabilize the shot but look down into the shadows at the indistinct outline. It moves, and hot breath teases my naked skin. The sensation travels all the way to my clit.

“Foster,” I breathe, asking a question.

His hand creeps higher, under the bottom of my skirt. And let’s be honest, it’s not that long.

“Keep filming,” he rasps.

The words caress my thigh. I swallow and return my eyes to the viewfinder. Foster’s other hand slides up my calf as I zoom in on a girl. She’s beaming, balanced on a dude’s shoulders, her arms down, his bent up, and their hands linked. I capture another couple, a guy’s arm slung around another’s waist, dragging him against his body.

All of them shout for Adams while Foster caresses higher. His calloused fingertips reach the curve of my ass. I stop breathing. Thank God I’ve already gotten what I wanted for the shot because every fiber of my being is focused on the slide of his palm.

He teases the lace edge of my panties before he starts to trail it back down. The camera lowers, and I close my eyes. My core is already throbbing, and he’s barely touching me.

When he traces inward, I clench my thighs together. He bites the one closest to him, and I bite my lip to keep in a moan. It’s all for nothing since I whimper the second Foster strokes over the drenched fabric covering my pussy. Featherlight the first time. Dragging the second. Then his thumb slips under the edge, and I shove my hand into his hair.

“Keep this area clear,” a woman says.

I jump at her proximity, and Foster’s hand falls from under my skirt, his hair slipping through my grasp. Realizing someone’s by the stairs, I scramble backward off the fuzzy surface. I can’t see shit once I’m down. I’m about to turn around but freeze when a hot body ghosts my back. His clothes brush mine. Touching but not touching. It makes my skin burn. A painful anticipation of more.

“Opening band is moving,” a guy barks outside the speakers.

A strand of hair moves by my neck, the lightest of a sweep on my shoulder. Then the heat of him vanishes. Air moves behind me and stills. I turn around already knowing he won’t be there.

My insides twist anyway, and I hate it.

I wish I could stop it. I want to promise myself it won’t happen again.

But I’m already standing here alone. My breaths are still shallow, my panties soaked, and the dark feels darker. I just don’t have it in me to lie to myself on top of it.

9

FOSTER

Not so long ago,I almost met my idol at a party. He stood on the opposite side of a room, both of us with drinks in hand. The musician talking to me casually offered to introduce us unprompted. In that moment, the stars had finally aligned. The fates wove the cosmic strings just right. My life had flipped so surreal, I fit seamlessly into his reality. He wouldn’t even question if I strolled up to him. Fuck, he might even tell me he knew my music.

One of the final life-defining experiences I’d fought for waited for a head nod.

I threw my drink back and walked out.

They say to never meet your idols because they won’t live up to the version of them you created. I think it’s crueler than the bite of disappointment. Once you meet your idol, it’s over and can never happen again. You’ve touched the star. Brushed your fingers over the string. The moment is capsuled, the exhilaration fades, and you’re stuck chasing a high that can’t be replicated. I wasn’t ready for that to be gone.

Meeting your muse couldn’t be more different. They’ve already been aligned and deeply woven into your tapestry. They’re a part of the air you breathe, coloring every aspect of your world. Meeting your muse can never end because they feel like a piece that’s been there all along. Something you always knew but never quite understood.

This makes losing your muse such a fucking tragedy.

She’s suddenly everywhere and nowhere.

I can’t see her, but I feel her in the dark.

And fuck her for feeling so damn perfect.

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