Page 49 of Before Now

He adds a wink. I shoot him a look to knock it off, but he just pinches my cheek.

It switches after that to me constantly dodging. Suddenly, Chase is bound and determined to get me to fuck one of them—even pulling out the eleven-inch dick guitarist shit. The relentless pushing starts to piss me off. I told him before we threw on the costumes I’m not hunting for buried treasure tonight.

When they all empty their drinks, they decide we need shots. Chase throws an arm over my shoulders, bringing me along. We stop at one of the drink stations set up around the club. They have different themes, this one a vampire’s lair. The bar top looks like a coffin with candelabras and skulls for decoration.

The lifeguards and Chase order two rounds of “bloodlust” shots, which end up being rum and raspberry syrup, but I wave off the second.

“I’m good,” I tell him.

He rotates away from the lifeguards on his other side toward me. The redhead touches his arm and pouts, but he puts the shot down in front of him on the coffin, not paying attention. She realizes he doesn’t care, so she returns to giggling with her friends.

By now, Chase is lasered in on me. “You finally come out and don’t want to drink yourself into oblivion, and now you’re cutting yourself off by midnight?” He drunkenly sighs and sets his hand on the back of my neck. “I love you, my little rock star, but you’re killing the image of being one.”

I shake my head. “I’m not your little anything. And considering I barely have a band, I think it’s safe to say I’m not a rock star either.”

“Yet. You’re not a rock staryet.” Nudging the drink closer, he says, “But you fucking will be, Foster West, so you might as well start drinking like one now. Raw dog the life you want or some manifestation shit.”

I snort. “Pretty sure that’s exactly how the saying goes, brother.” My irritation slips, and deciding fuck it, I raise the glass. “Carpe dick.”

He grins as I take the shot. “There you go, buddy. The world is your Fleshlight.”

“You’re getting that on a pillow for Christmas.” I smile, and he shakes me around until I shove him off.

Before we bro-spire the entire club, a panda and a witch pass behind us, talking about another DJ on the roof. I feel Chase refocus on me before I swing toward him.

“They have a roof,” I say at the same time as he shouts, “A fucking roof?”

We have a thing that started when I moved back to Texas at fourteen. After all the shit surfaced with my dad in New York and the way it went down, I hated everything and everyone. So, Chase would force my ass up to the roof of his house. Nobody but us. No reason to hold it all in. I could tell the person I trust most in this world whatever I needed to get out.

It became our ritual. Something shitty happens, we find a rooftop—even if we had to pop a lock for access. Hell, we go on them without a reason anymore.

It’s just what we do.

No surprise, he invites the lifeguards to go with us. Conveniently, they all have trench coats.

The closed stairwell up still has a throb of bass, but the tempo switches the closer we get to the top. Chase smirks at me before he throws the metal door open. And we walk out to a rooftop rave. Glowsticks andboomsh-boomshand a strobe-lit dance floor under a canopy. People sprawl on glowing cubes, serving as furniture, and we might be the only ones not splattered with blacklight body paint.

Which seems like a top priority.

Chase already has a bundled-up lifeguard under each arm. “Let’s paint, drink, and then we’ll get you ladies out of here.” He nods at the brunette he’s been forcing on me all night. “Foster will give you that tour of flat surfaces in our flat with the flat of his tongue.”

I let out an exasperated, “Dude,” but don’t finish because he walks off toward the stall set up for paint.

After another douche move, I’m seriously considering bailing, but the brunette grabs my bicep and hauls me in that direction. We stop behind the other three, people everywhere, close to a speaker. The last two shots are kicking in, which has everything developing a slight haze.

The brunette shouts up at me, laughing and hanging off my arm. Her hold slides all the way down, and she links our fingers. I look down at them, entwined, my eyebrows lowering. Her hand in mine, mine in hers. It scrapes at something inside me—and as she tries to tuck herself against my side, my mind finally catches up.

I can’t detach myself fast enough. I actually have to hold her wrist to retrieve my hand. Then I walk away. From her. From the pounding music and the wasted crowd and the entire fucking scene.

None of it’s what I want right now.

Maybe that should be a glaring reason to stay. The fact I have no interest in all the things I should want. Things I was interested in until a little red dot appeared on my screen in Paris. When Remi Saint told me to stop looking at women and show her beautiful things.

I make it all the way to the opposite side of the roof before I crash down on a wicker sofa. The air feels cooler, and the music doesn’t take up all the space in my head anymore.

But someone fills in the gaps.

Digging my phone out of my pocket, I check out the view. One I haven’t seen of the city. I know just who I want to share it with.

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