Chapter 2
2
FOSTER
She didn’t even recognize me. Then again, why would I expect her to? It’s not like we’ve met—not really, that is.
I remember everything about her, though, and she’s exactly the same as she was five years ago. Same high cheekbones and delicate jawline. The rosebud lips I spent hours memorizing. And, of course, those eyes, devastating with the sadness and tearing their way into my soul no matter how hard I tried to keep them out.
The black bleeding in at the ends of her auburn hair is the only difference I noticed. That and she wasn’t Remi Sinner back then.
No, it was Remi Saint who haunted my dreams, waking and asleep.
The elevator dings, dipping to a stop on the lobby floor, and my eyes lift from my phone screen, but I stay against the wall.
I know what happens when I walk into the restaurant, and I’m putting off the inevitable. At least I plan to until Colton rips the phone from my hand.
“Your majesty,” he says, dropping into a low bow.
I swipe my phone on the way by, stepping into the buzzing lobby, voices bouncing off the marble floors and cascading from the vaulted ceilings, leading to the skylight two stories above us.
“So, we’re going with silent and broody today?” Colton falls into step beside me, his eyes sweeping the faces while I continue to ignore him.
The security is most likely overkill with the sunglasses. And those are deemed necessary after a night of trying to forget reawakened ghosts. Even with them on, the glare through the windows is nearly unbearable.
None of this would matter if today had gone the way it was supposed to have, with me buried under the blankets and the heavy curtains drawn. I ignored my phone for a reason this morning. Fucking Colton let himself into my room, tucking his into my hand.
“Christian Vero,” he tells the hostess outside the hotel’s restaurant.
Her eyebrows shoot up, followed by her gaze. They land on Colton first before sliding to me, where they settle.
“Of course.” She bites her lip when she smiles. “Right this way.”
I huff out a chuckle and hold out my hand as Colton groans. He digs in his pocket and slaps cash in my palm and mutters, “Unbelievable,” leading the way with another guard trailing behind us but at a distance.
Overkill.
Christian glances up from his phone as we approach, the irritation palpable by the time I drop into the seat across from him at the table. I feign innocence, shaking out the napkin and blinking at him with a smile.
“Foster.” It’s his entire sentence but represents a full paragraph at least.
I toss my sunglasses on the plate in front of me, not planning to eat, and drag a hand through my hair for about the tenth time today, frustrated as Colton lowers into the chair beside me.
“Why don’t you tell me how you think this conversation is going to go, Christian. Save us some time.”
He nods, checking if anyone’s within earshot other than Colt, and then he leans forward to close the space between. “Of Men and Wolves are doing the Mac Records documentary.”
My jaw clenches as he goes on.
“You’ll tell the other guys you changed your mind. We worked out an agreement, minimal extra people on tour, no one allowed in during writing sessions.”
“If I don’t?” I ask.
“You will,” he counters. “Because this isn’t just you saying fuck off to the label. It’s taking money out of everyone’s pockets—including that chick from last night.”
Just the mention of Remi is equivalent to the lobby glare, and I squint as if I’d been blinded.
“She’s fucking good, Foster. And she’s hungry for this,” he adds. “You watch that video I sent you?”
I nod as Christian relaxes back in his chair. His demeanor even calms enough he eye-strips a woman sauntering past. His attention stays on her long enough Colton clears his throat, and our manager finally brings his focus back to me.
“Then you know she has the talent. Her style is the vibe I thought you, of all people, would want for this thing.” He rushes the last few words, looking up when the server stops at the side of the table.
The problem is he’s not wrong. Remi has the exact style I envisioned when I first heard about the possibility of a documentary. She’s perfect for it.
While Christian orders his five-star meal, my gaze lowers to my phone, partially obscured by the table. I tap the screen, bringing the video I was watching earlier back to life. Not the one Christian sent me, but one that cuts deeper than some kids at a skate park. This one’s personal. This one has a part of me tainting it.
The battle of the bands sign hangs behind the all-girls punk band on the stage, and then it cuts to the singer’s POV, the drums hitting behind her while she nails a riff on her guitar. She turns to the grinning bass guitarist, spinning off to the side. Then the video switches to a camera in the crowd, right in the middle of the excitement and pulse of the show. I swallow, knowing whose eyes I’m looking through at this exact moment.
I thought my mental well-being had finally taken the long-awaited swan dive last night when I looked offstage and saw her at the base of the stairs, watching me perform for a fucking arena full of people. The mic stand might as well have electrocuted me, my entire being in shock. Felix shouted at me, and I glanced away long enough for her to disappear.
It was so surreal. By the time I walked out of the shower, I’d convinced myself she was a full-body apparition. Until I saw her standing in the middle of the dressing room.
“Excuse me.”
I look up at a girl standing beside the table. She has a skittish smile and glances over her shoulder to another girl, seated a few tables away from us.
“You’re Adams North,” she tells me.
When I nod, her eyes light up, her smile spreading before she turns to say something in Czech to her friend. Colton adjusts in his seat like he might need to tackle her, so I pat his leg. “Down, boy.”
The girl whips around, pen already in hand, as her friend rushes to her side. “Might we get your autograph?”
I pluck the pen from her, and the new chick steps forward enough to place a napkin on the table. After I sign it, I hand it back and grab the other napkin the first girl is wiggling in her hands.
“From signing IOUs to napkins,” Colton mutters under his breath. “So proud.”
The corner of my mouth tips up at that, and I shake my head, giving the girls a smile.
“You two catch the show last night?” I ask, sliding the napkin to the edge of the table.
“Yes,” the first one says, snatching it up. “You were incredible.”
“Wasn’t he?” Christian hands the menu off to the server, his eyes dancing over the girls, who seem more than happy with his attention. “Now, you just need to tell him how much you want to see an Of Men and Wolves documentary.”
My eyes snap to his, and he smirks with a shrug.
“What? If you won’t do it for me, maybe you’ll do it for them.”
“Oh my God,” the girl says before talking to her friend. Then they both nod adamantly with her adding, “That would be amazing.”
I try to keep my expression from faltering, not wanting them to think they’ve done anything wrong by playing into Christian’s hand.
“Well, we’ll see what we can do about that then.” I wink, and they giggle.
Christian talks them up a little longer before they grin at me and wander back to their table. I give them a little wave and then turn a scowl on Christian.
“Cheap shot.” My fist clenches under the table, and I notice Colt glance at my hand. We both know he’ll swing for me, not risk screwing up my hand. But something about the idea of punching Christian in his smug face is incredibly appealing at the moment.
“It’s business.” He pauses, seeing the server bringing his scotch. He waits for him to drop it off and then sits forward again, dropping his voice low. “Be pissed at me personally all you want, Foster. But you and I both know this is the best move professionally for every single one of us.”
My college roommate with his surfer hair and all chill vibes flashes through my mind, and I try to pick out those pieces of him now in the black jacket, his hair pulled back in a tight bun. But all I see is the pompous version—the one who knows his shit and won’t let any of mine stand between us and a payday.
This is the Christian we hired, even if the other is more tolerable.
When I nod, he blows out a breath. “Thank fuck.” He drains the scotch glass, lifting a finger to the server for another. “Now, I’ll just have to apologize to the sexy little redhead for you acting like a douche last night and hope you haven’t chased her off. Considering who the label could have sent, I’d say we lucked the fuck out.”
As he pulls out his phone, I swipe to unlock mine. I stare at it for a long moment before opening the app I downloaded the second we landed in Prague. It comes to life, the large purple W throbbing like a heartbeat on the screen until it turns into Wanderer ’s dashboard.
The second it loads, a notification lowers from the top of the screen. The same shock from last night coasts through my bloodstream, and not trusting reality, I have to read it three more times.
SaintR signed on twelve hours ago—location Prague.
“I’ll do it,” I say, not even thinking. My eyes lift to my manager across the table.
Christian’s brow draws in, his eyes trained on his phone. “Do what?”
“Tell the director we changed our minds.” I swallow the lump of doubt in my throat, shoving down the part of me that says I need to leave the past in the past. Let Remi Sinner go on tour with Adams North and Of Men and Wolves without knowing who I am.
But we’re both in Prague. Both have the app.
Christian studies me, searching for the angle he’ll never find. “You won’t pull anything?”
I shoot him a cool smile and slide my shades back on, rising from the table without a word. As I’m walking away, he calls through the restaurant after me, “How are you going to apologize without her number?”
“Don’t need it,” I reply.
I don’t even need to know where she’s staying.
Remi Sinner is about to come straight to me, and then we’ll learn which one of us is more afraid of ghosts.