Page 3 of Before Now

“Well, I’m sure they’ll do that themselves. I’ll just be there to capture it.”

After a beat, he breaks into another grin, looking all the way up this time. “You keep talking like that, and you won’t only have me hard, but I might fall in love with you, Remi Sinner.”

The guard meets my skeptical gaze, followed by his eyes dramatically rolling. Borderline inappropriate must be the norm with Christian, then. Not shocking when it comes to music managers.

“You’ve won me over,” he says, already checking his phone when he hands over mine. “The guys have a few questions before they sign off on the whole thing. Mostly they want to know how in their faces you and a film crew plan on being.”

“Beforethey sign off?” I ask.

When the label’s producer called last week, she made it sound like the deal was done. Mac Records just wanted to fly me to Prague to meet the band and answer any questions they might have about filming.

Christian lowers his phone, noticing my confusion. “We would never agree to someone coming on the road like this without meeting them first. You won’t be some roadie on tour they dodge while walking to the stage. You’ll be in their shit twenty-four-seven—witnessing God knows what between the bus and hotels. Don’t take it personally, doll, but they could very well tell you to fuck off in a few minutes.”

My cheeks heat as I realize this isn’t the “chill little meet and greet” I was promised. It’s a fucking interview.

“Let me guess, they told you this was in the bag?” Christian looks like a man who just regained control of his kingdom, giving me a wink. “No worries, beautiful. I can’t imagine anyone telling you no.”

Then he adjusts his posture. In a split second, he shifts from frat boy to intimidating and in charge, rolling down his sleeves and fastening the buttons at one of the cuffs as he walks away.

The guard straightens and tips his head to the side, waiting for me to follow Christian out of the room. “Honestly,” he says, once I reach the hallway, “that went better than I thought it would.”

“Yay for me,” I deadpan on my way by him.

The band’s dressing room is only a few down from the one they stashed me in. Christian grabs the knob, pausing before he turns it. “Let me brace them for the switch-up, and then let her in.”

“Aye aye, Commander Douche,” the guard says.

“Real fucking mature, Colton.” Christian slips inside.

The door bounces rather than latching behind him, leaving an inch-wide gap. My eyes stay locked on it, muffled voices leaking through but the words unclear. All of my anxiety exists in that tiny space until Colton clears his throat. When I look up, he props his shoulder against the wall.

“You’re an anomaly, you know?” He crosses his arms, and before I can ask how, he tells me, “You’re walking into the lions’ den without planning to lose your clothes.”

I narrow my eyes at him, but the comment takes some of the edge off. And with the half-smile he gives, I think he meant for it to.

He nods for me to go in, and I blow out a breath.

“Thanks for the pep talk, Colton.”

He smirks, pushing the door open for me. With my first step, Christian spins around, and two more sets of eyes shift to me. Felix Mills and Dev Ferris look up, the drummer and bassist with their legs spread wide on the couch.

I pause, awkwardly half in and half out, until a hand presses to my back. Colton nudges me forward, and as he pulls the door shut, he whispers, “Give ’em hell, lioness.”

The latch clicks behind me.

“Perfect timing, Sinner.” Christian saunters over, his grin as wolfish as the first time I saw it.

He hooks me around the waist, drawing me into the center of the room. The bassist and drummer slouch deeper into the cushions, neither making a move to meet me part way for introductions like Christian had. Suits shake hands, and it’s a dead giveaway what side of the line you land on, art or business.

Off to the side of them is a table covered in knocked-over beer and liquor bottles and whatever else their rider required. The opposite wall has a few bags on the floor with clothes strewed around them, a guitar case, and a pair of drumsticks tossed into the mix. It smells like booze and sweat, an intoxicating scent I’m familiar with from dressing rooms at video shoots.

Christian rests his hand on my shoulder once we stop. “I was just telling the guys about our little surprise.”

Felix already has his lips curled up. “Quite the fucking surprise.”

His black hair is pushed back and still damp from sweat. He lifts his hips as he readjusts on the cushion. From the rundown their agent gave me, he’s the wild one of the group. Whenever they have downtime, he finds creative ways to blow off steam, legal or not.

Beside him, Dev chuckles, a sheen across his forehead, the lighter blond of his tips stuck to his glistening skin. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s like the tour gods realized we had way too much dick around lately.”

---