Chapter 8
8
REMI
Now…
I’ve always dreamed of being fully immersed in my work. Of shooting a documentary where I live, breathe, and sleep the subject. I just never really thought through the sleeping part until right now, awkwardly standing with my camera bag slipping off my shoulder in front of a luxury bus.
The band just finished kicking off the last leg of their tour with a show in LA. I’ve been filming with my handheld ever since they stampeded off the stage. Loving every second of the excitement of finally getting on the road. Even if it is mostly B-roll of cables being wound and bags flinging into storage beneath the buses. The power of adventure intoxicates.
At least it did until a few seconds ago when the coordinator directed me to a bus. The one without the band’s faces on the side. The discreet one, lower profile for the higher-profile occupants.
Glory and Nate—my assistants for cam and audio—disappeared onto the other bus a few minutes ago with the rest of our equipment. The bus I should be on. I can easily film footage on the road by riding with the band a few hours here and there if that’s what the label’s worried about.
I’m hesitating outside the bus, about to go object when a hot body brushes by me. Foster’s arm grazes mine, causing him to pause on the bus’s steps and look over his shoulder. He quirks a brow, seeing me below. I can’t help but take it as a challenge, and with a dismissive shake of his head, he makes up my mind for me.
I readjust my bag’s strap and climb up behind him.
Christian’s waiting at the top with a smile, even as he dodges Foster. I force something similar onto my face. I slip by him and stop to survey the lounge area. Two sweaty rock stars already cover one of the expansive couches lining each side. Plush and overstuffed with the worn-in throw pillows tossed out of the way.
Felix sinks deeper into the dark charcoal cushions. “Welcome home.”
He slaps Dev on the chest with a flat palm, and the bassist throws me a smirk.
I scoped out the buses earlier today. I ran my fingers over the pristine leather of the couches, opened the microwave in the kitchenette for no reason. The four spacious bunks deeper on the bus are twice the size of the six on the other one. Worthy of rock gods in the making.
I’m flashing back to sleep-away camp and trying to recall which bunk is best when Colton appears from behind the drape that separates the back from the front. My brows slant together.
“You’re sleeping on this one too?”
He stalls his steps. “Where else would I sleep?”
Four of these guys. Four bunks.
“Doing the math?” Christian asks, and I cut him a look. “Have no fear, gorgeous. I took care of you.”
His eyes shift, and mine follow to carved-out footholds in the wall. I missed them earlier. They lead up to what looks like a loft space above the cabin.
“Roomiest digs on the bus,” he says.
I question that but try another quick smile before taking the ladder. My head breaches first, and I stop. A queen mattress waits for me, fresh bedding and extra pillows. A small ledge borders three sides of the bed. A foot or so of space by the ladder already has my bags with more room to spare. I can’t help the real smile that curves my lips.
I rush the rest of the way up and drop my camera bag with the others before I flop onto the bed. Flipping over, I blow out air and stare up through the skylight perfectly centered above me. Not much to see now, but I can already imagine the stars as we cross the country. Muted sounds filter up from below. A cushioned beat of bass. Someone laughs.
I close my eyes and listen in what feels like a room all to myself.
* * *
I angle the camera to avoid any reflection as I shoot out the tinted window. The image through the viewfinder shows the road’s shoulder across from us. Palm trees whip by as we meet cars on the highway.
“You ever stop with that?”
My eyes flick to Colton, his mouth lifted on one side.
The inside of the bus has been silent all morning. Other than the driver, I could forget anyone else existed until now.
We hit the road around two a.m. I slept better than I expected I would at first. The rocking motion as we escaped the city slowly morphed into a rhythm. Even so, I’ve been up for hours with my head spilling out everything I want to capture.
“Filming is kind of my job,” I remind him.
He breaks into a full grin. “Cool. Mine is to keep these assholes safe. Doesn’t mean I can never turn it off.”
I pull my legs off the couch seconds before he drops onto them. Readjusting, I turn off the camera and set it on the floor beside me. Colton’s studying me, I realize, glancing up, so I settle back and serve him a stare right back. He’s wearing a tight black T-shirt again. His typical uniform from what I’ve seen.
After a second, he points his chin toward the side table behind me. “You’ve got my color.”
Next thing I know, he’s leaning over me for the red polish I used to repaint my nails. He drops the bottle onto my lap and tucks a foot under him to sit facing me. He holds a hand out, palm down.
His nails have the slightest remnants of polish lingering. I smile as I cautiously untwist the lid. I swipe the brush over one of his nails as he watches the color deposit. It’s the most normal I’ve felt since this whirlwind began. The most included if I’m being honest.
Last night at the concert, especially, I felt like a documentarian trying to get a shot of a wild animal in its natural habitat. Being as invisible as possible and taking up minimal space—watching but never a part of it.
The thought has me warm, though, closer to my dad than I’ve felt in a long time. This was his day-to-day, on the move and having only seconds to capture an entire world in a frame. Although he was actually photographing wild animals. He would travel to the most incredible places and experience the world in a way so few have. I remember the stories he’d tell me, the promises to take me with him when I was older. How he’d show me the world.
I swallow down the tightness in my throat, re-dipping the brush. Colton sighs, and I glance up at him staring out the window with a content look on his face. His gaze darts over and then back to the scenery.
“Seems like a week ago, we were packed up in a sketchy van, driving this same road to an even sketchier bar gig. I think there were maybe six people standing on the concrete floor in front of the guys. The rest of the bar was regulars who didn’t give a fuck if they were listening to live music or a jukebox. They sure as shit didn’t remember the band’s name by the time we started packing up the gear.”
“And now?” I ask, curious of his take on all of this.
I’ve known since Prague that Colton’s not just a security guard. I mean, he fully believed he could change the band’s minds about bringing me onboard. Knowing he’s been on the road with them since the beginning helps a piece fall into place.
“Now I can’t think about it too hard because…” His eyes sweep over to meet mine before his attention falls to the brush as I finish up his pinky finger. “Because every second of this life feels so surreal.”
“You talk like you’re a member of the band,” I say softly.
Colton whips out a grin made to destroy hearts and swaps hands. “Please. Adams wouldn’t be able to compete with me. My sexiness would tear us all apart.”
I roll my eyes, and he chuckles.
“Nah, I’d much rather experience the whirlwind from my perspective,” he says. “I get to go along for the ride, being proud as fuck of my best friend, and not feel the weight of the world crushing down on me.”
I nod, not needing to ask who he’s talking about. Only one member of the band has that kind of heaviness in his eyes. The other two surely have their own stressors and fears of their sand castles coming crashing down. Anyone in their position would. But it’s not them who look like they’re drowning, fighting off the waves.
“You and Adams were friends before then?” The name tastes strange on my tongue now, as if Adams North disappeared in a wisp of smoke the second I heard his words coming out of Foster’s mouth.
“ Adams has been my brother since the beginning,” Colton says, a sly little smirk forming—he doesn’t realize I’m in on the joke. “He lived down the street when we were little. Our moms were close, so when his family moved to New York, they’d have these little ‘video dates’ for us. It kept us close until he moved back to Texas. And then…” He pauses, and for a split second, I catch his mouth twitch down on one side. Then he sniffs away whatever’s bothering him and grabs the brush out of my hand. “Let’s just say we’ve been through a lot of shit together. At some point, it became an unspoken understanding we’d go through the rest of it together too.”
My thoughts immediately turn toward Foster’s history with his father. The shit he put Foster through, the wounds he left him with to heal. Those are details Foster told Remi Saint in a completely different life, though. Something tells me he’d rather Remi Sinner not have access to those memories.
Even so, I can’t help but wonder what new scars he carries, and the curiosity is burning. So much so I have to sit back against the arm of the couch and take a deep breath before I take a shovel to Foster’s last five years.
I distract myself by watching Colton. He finishes his thumb before he tugs the bottle from my grip and screws the lid on tight. He holds it out for me, and as I reach for it, his eyes move over my head. My fingers graze the bottle while I glance over my shoulder, where my eyes collide with a whole lot of tattooed skin.
Dev’s running a hand down his bare abs to the top of his gym shorts, his eyes half open and his hair a sleepy mess. Even in his drowsy state, he still manages to grin at me. “Morning.”
I whip back around to Colton and his smirk. Right. Bus full of musicians. Skin is a part of the game.
Dev bangs around in cupboards in the kitchenette. He comes into the lounge with a mug of coffee, and then he’s plucking the nail polish from my hand. With a wink, he drops onto the couch across from us. He balances the coffee on the cushion beside him while he opens the bottle.
“Help yourself,” I mumble.
Colton chuckles. “Get used to it. These guys live like barbarians on the road. They see something they want, their brains go caveman. Chest-pounding, grunting, not washing their balls?—”
“Hey, Colt,” Dev says before he flips him off. “Get fucked. And for the record, my balls are licked clean regularly.”
My nose scrunches. “Ew.”
He gives a not sorry shrug and goes back to his nails with his lips quirked up. “Like you won’t be privy to every pussy we hit, anyway.”
“Preferably you won’t be using my recording equipment while getting a blow job,” I counter.
Colton stands and heads to the kitchenette. “Trust me, if it’s going to happen, it’ll be Felix’s footage.”
Dev snorts in agreement.
Now I know not to review Felix’s footage around other people.
Colton returns with his own coffee and settles on the opposite end of the couch. He stretches his legs out on the cushions toward me. His socked feet sit a mere inch from my leg. In a weird way, it makes me feel included again.
Like he’s accepted me as part of the herd.
He swipes the remote off the back of the couch and turns up the volume. The playlist from my phone pours out of the speakers lining this part of the bus.
Dev nods along with the song, seemingly approving of the punk anthem, while Colton drops his head back on the wooden cabinet behind him. His eyes close. His toes tap to the beat.
The moment has me leaning over for my camera off the floor. Colton cracks a lid when I move, his lips tipping up at what I’m doing.
“Never stop,” he sighs out the words with a touch of disapproval.
I ignore him and hit record. The scene already unfolds in my head. An acoustic version of their song “Haunted” playing—if the label approves it—with cuts of their time on the road. Mostly on the bus. Candid moments like these. Ones like what I get by slowly panning from the landscape rushing by through the window to Dev on his couch. He has his head down in pure concentration, trying to paint the nails on his left hand. His profile is similar to how he appeared on stage last night, pouring every ounce of his focus into the finger movements of his bass.
From what I’ve learned, Dev’s the dreamer of the group. He told a story during our initial interview about the first time he performed—strumming a play guitar in front of his grandmother and her friends during one of their weekly get-togethers. Even while telling me about the sun shining through the windows and the rush he could feel over his skin, he appeared lost in the moment.
He’s wanted exactly what they’re doing now ever since: to change hearts with his music, repay his grandmother for every encouraging word she gave him growing up, to find a way to inspire the next generation to dream bigger than they can even imagine.
He glances up, breaking into a grin when he sees the camera, and with a shake of his head goes back to work. “Nothing is sacred now, huh?”
I zoom closer to draw attention to his profile—a snapshot of a little boy living his dream. Only now he has eyebrow rings and ink on his temple. This time he looks up to play-snarl at the camera, and I laugh.
After I get a little more footage of him, I ease the shot away to show the rest of the bus. The kitchenette, and then the heavy curtain to the hallway. Except the screen doesn’t show the black fabric. I still when I land on tan skin stretched tight over carved pecs. Lower are hard abs, and then black ink disappears into sweatpants hanging off his hips, leaving only the top half of the word visible.
I figured it out when Foster pulled up his shirt for the mic pack. The word was like a spike in my chest, dragging the memory out of me regardless of how deep I tried to lock it away.
“ You think you know me so well? Then describe me in one word.”
Restless.
“ I won’t be once I get to you. ”
My eyes lift to a faded blue pair, watching me over my camera. Foster has a lazy look to him, effortlessly sexy in a state women would kill to see him in, with his hooded gaze all on me. My lips part as I draw in a breath, but I swear he drains the air from the entire bus, or at least the air that was feeding my lungs.
We haven’t said a word to each other since he bailed on his interview at the label. I haven’t even pushed to try again. Partly because the tour started up again and he’s had zero downtime. Mostly because I can’t be alone with him until I see him as Adams.
Given the way my chest fucking burns from not breathing right now, I’d definitely say I’m in a staredown with Foster West.
“Morning, sunshine,” Colton says from behind me.
Foster’s jaw clenches as his attention rises over my head to his best friend, but it lowers back to me before he rasps, “Hey.”
His gravelly morning voice skates over my skin, rough and jarring enough I lower the camera, along with my eyes. Avoidance is the only escape I have right now.
While I set the camera on the cushion behind Colton’s feet, Foster walks to the kitchenette. I’m fighting not to look again when Dev hisses, “Shit.”
The bassist has already set his mug on a table. He flings himself off the couch to his knees, and then he walks on them to me. Stopping beside me with a defeated look, he holds out the bottle and his left hand.
Of all the experiences I’ve had in this industry, a musician basically pleading me with his eyes while on his knees for me to paint his nails is somehow one of the more surprising.
I take it without question, though. The guy already made a mess on the one nail he attempted on what’s clearly his dominant hand.
I’m cleaning it up when Foster appears in my peripheral, sipping from a white mug that matches every other one on this bus. None of them used the brand-new espresso machine, all content with the drip coffee maker.
Foster crosses behind Dev and drops onto the other couch. I hold off as long as possible before I look over. A notebook balances on his knee, a pen in the hand not holding his coffee. He begins writing. The tension leaves his shoulders, his face relaxes. Even the air of annoyance he’s constantly carried around me vanishes. His pen stills, and his eyes shut. He licks his plush lips, leaving them parted slightly. I swear I feel the words he whispers then.
I glance at my camera. The need to capture him like this is a living, breathing thing that pulls in my chest.
“Never stop.” Colton leans forward and swipes up my camera.
He clicks his tongue at me but dutifully hits record and aims at Foster. While he films, I finish up Dev’s nails, determined not to peek again.
I twist the lid on once finished and shoo the bassist away.
“Thanks, slugger. It would have looked like a murder scene if I kept going on my own.” Dev gently knocks my jaw with his fist before returning to the other couch. “I knew you’d come in handy.”
I sigh as he resettles. “Glad you’ve found a use for me.”
Colton chuckles, and I jerk my camera out of his hand. He’s completely unfazed and shifts to get comfortable, returning to his nap.
“So touchy,” he mutters.
But his lips twitch.
I think he’s adopted me.
Outside of the music, the lounge falls quiet. No movement, no distractions. It leaves me hyperaware of the presence on the opposite side. Not the chill one with freshly painted nails. The magnetic one. The space practically pulses around Foster, and I fight the urge to look up from my camera. To see if he’s still lost in his notepad.
He’s writing lyrics.
The words will be messy and scribbled. I’ve seen it before in a notebook he flipped through during a video chat. A chat where he could have switched the camera to his face at any time. He never did, though. I can’t help wondering, what if he had? If he’d broken the only rule I gave him. Would it have changed anything?
I swallow back the sudden lump in my throat. My thoughts are drifting too far in a direction I refuse to go. I can’t. Not now when I’m taking more risks than I have in over five years.
Distracted with ghosts, I forget not to and look up, only to lock eyes with Foster. His pen tip still touches the paper, but his entire focus hangs on me. All intensity like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. My breaths start slipping, too short. The thrum of my pulse paces faster. I think about that damn lyric notebook. How I wrote his words on my bedroom wall, and now I know he wrote mine on his skin.
A few raw seconds pass before his jaw flexes, then his eyes fall away. Brick by brick, he lays a familiar cold wall of resentment between us. Like everything else to do with him, I slam into it heart first.
The pitiful thing clearly hasn’t learned its lesson.
Gathering my camera and nail polish, I knock Colton’s feet as I retreat to the only place I can. I drag myself up the ladder and collapse on my bed and fucking breathe.
I need the man down there to be Adams North. Not only for the documentary but my sanity. He can’t be the wandering boy. He can’t be that restless soul who’s always echoed in mine. He can’t be memories and constant reminders.
That man can’t be Foster.
Because Foster hurts too much.
* * *
The atmosphere backstage ahead of a show is hypnotic, a drug direct in your veins.
At least it is with Of Men and Wolves.
People rush around, orders are given, and the air hums with an unidentifiable electricity. A mounting hype promised when the band takes the stage. It’s hectic and fast-paced, but at the center of it all lies the eye of the storm.
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 even my blood 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.
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.