Chapter 17
17
REMI
Now …
“Here’s next week’s scene list.”
I copy it from the notes on my phone and send it to Glory and Nate in our group chat. “The key one will be the meet and greet. We’ll go over specifics that morning, but I want all of us on cams, getting as much footage as possible since we haven’t snagged much fan interaction.”
Thanks to Mac Records for that one.
Felix mentioned they had more time with fans up until this leg of the tour. From what I can guess, it was the easiest cut to make to account for the extra shows, other than days off for the band.
Who cares about the artists and fans so long as the former performs and the latter buys, buys, buys?
Of Men and Wolves are feeling the effects of their tightened schedule. They won’t admit it, but the entire point of me being here is to see them. Audible sighs when climbing on the bus without downtime after a show. Ducking the cameras more often to do what I assume is coke. Even with it, Dev and Felix crashed during their writing session yesterday.
All of us could use a breather. I want to sleep while standing still. A shower not shared with four dudes. Maybe even a break from toting my camera around—a short one. Like a day.
“Who’s the best bet for spy glasses there?” Glory asks.
She slips on her own glasses so she can scan over what I sent. Nate’s doing the same, the third side to our little triangle in the parking lot by the buses. I’m sure they’re feeling the bars on the cage, too. Which is why I opted to meet out here rather than on their bus like we have been.
I worked with the two of them a few times last year on different shoots with Heath. When the label and band came back with the requirement for minimal crew, I easily decided on them. Glory has a similar instinct to me for grabbing a camera to capture what others might overlook. Nate’s quick to learn and mimic different styles.
Heath calls them the twins even though they are in no way related. In fact, they didn’t even meet until he started throwing together his original crew. But their hair might be a shade of dirty blonde apart. Nate has had his glasses on since coming off the bus, and both have dimples in their chins.
“Adams would be ideal,” Nate answers absentmindedly. He looks up fast, panicked he overstepped. “I’m sorry.”
A symptom from working under Heath. We’re still working it out of my crew’s systems.
“Don’t be. You’re right.” I toss in a smile, hoping it comes across as encouraging. “Adams would be perfect. He knows how to work the glasses best to frame a shot.”
Almost like he’s experienced—or the reason I started using them in the first place.
All the sprinkles of Foster’s influence along my path are glaringly obvious from the glasses to the damn industry I work in the most. Fortunately, he’s the only one who can play connections with it all. Unfortunate, too, considering he might very well hate me.
“We’ll plan on him wearing a pair,” I tell them, checking to see if we need to cover anything else ahead of time.
Since I might change my mind by the day of, I keep it vague most of the time. They’ll get an equipment list each morning, but nothing’s ever set. It’s one of the alluring parts of filming unscripted, realizing you have the shot halfway through it.
“When is the group interview?” Nate asks, so cautiously it almost hurts. I think his hand even trembles. “It’s the last scene on here, but without a date or time.”
“Call that one wishful thinking on my part. I want to try to get them as a band before the break in Texas next week, but Christian won’t commit to anything yet. Depending on how much time he can find us and how much of a heads-up he gives me, we’ll figure out the logistics.”
“And the one-on-ones will be when we’re back on the road?” Glory finally looks up from her screen.
“Either then or during the break since they’ll be easier to coordinate.”
She nods. Nate nods. Then the not-twins-twin energy really kicks in when they share a furtive glance before Nate throws my smile from earlier back at me, his equally supportive.
I’m not sure what exactly I need supported until he clears his throat, staring at our circle of feet.
“The, uh … Adams interview.”
A half-second of silence from me sets them both into a panic.
“Sorry,” Nate blurts.
“He’s only asking because of the second round of one-on-ones,” Glory rushes out with a squeak. “We can totally get away with editing one interview to look like two, if that’s what you want. Or three, if you want to wait until the end of the tour. Whatever you decide, Remi.”
“Breathe,” I say.
She actually inhales through her nose and exhales through her mouth. Maybe when this is all over, I’ll give these two a crash course in how to survive Heath Erickson. The man scents weakness on the wind and feeds on doubt. No need to let him binge. Then again, he’d get a snack out of me right now.
“I’m working on the Adams interview.” Not really, I’m avoiding him after being abandoned tits-out in a dingy bathtub. “But we’ll edit around it if we need to. Plan?”
Double nods. “Okay,” they say in unison.
My lips twitch as my phone goes off in my hand. “I’ll press Christian on the group interview.” I back away toward my own bus. “You guys are doing amazing. Maybe you should go do something fun this afternoon before the concert.”
I catch Nate’s brows dip before turning around, so I’ll assume Glory’s do too.
Seeing Xander’s scrunched face on my screen, I answer on my way past the venue’s security and the metal barricades set up, providing a straight path from our bus to the building’s exit. The video connects, and the same face is shoved into one of our couch pillows.
“I’m glad things are going better for you,” I say dryly, boarding the bus.
His muffled groan reminds me of my first month with the director. Xander can handle him, though, playing cool until he can scream into cushions.
I left my earbuds up in the loft, but everyone already went inside the venue. Of Men and Wolves did a photoshoot this morning, and the magazine sent someone for the interview that will pair with it. So, I take advantage of the silence and empty lounge area, settling onto one of the couches.
Then I have to smother a flare of annoyance over Adams North being at an interview while still dodging all attempts at mine.
I sit against the cushioned arm and stretch my legs down the cushions. “Tell me more.”
Xander rolls his head to the side, near-defeat in his pretty hazel eyes. “He’s openly torturing me at this point. I’m convinced he’s acting out because you’re not here, so really, you’re the problem.”
“Clearly,” I laugh out. “I’m sorry he’s still putting you through it, but remember, it’s his love language.”
He squints. “Heath Erickson would explode into dust before he felt enough emotion to love.”
“The prophecies do say it’s the only way to vanquish him.”
He cracks a grin and drags the pillow down, hooking an arm around it. “I have twenty minutes before I have to go help plan a baby sprinkle for Jasmine—whatever the fuck that is. Soothe me with tales from the road. How’s the tour going?”
I search to find out what he’s in for with Heath’s wife. “Great. Some of the shots we’ve gotten—God, Xan. This has so much potential if the label will let it happen. The band will be unstoppable if Mac would get out of the way.”
“And you’ll be a part of it.”
I half-smile, tapping to bring him full-screen again. “ If the label lets it happen.”
“They’ll have to once they see what you’re putting together. The footage I’ve seen come through with your notes is gold. I can always tell when you’re behind the lens. The entire vibe is set and direction clear.” He huffs. “Heath can’t even find shit to bitch about.” His gaze lifts as he weighs that a little. “Other than the missing Adams interview. You need to get that locked down, or I might be the one who suffers.”
I wince. “Yeah, I know.”
With it mentioned a second time in less than half an hour, my time for avoiding the one-on-one with Foster has run out. Whether either of us likes it.
The thing is, I want his answers to the questions. I’ve heard Dev’s version of the band’s origin story. Of his drummer not showing for a gig, and Felix subbing in, improvising most of the set. How they saw Foster play that same night at an open mic when they went out to drink after the show. Felix told me the heavens opened the first time they jammed all three of them. He said he never truly understood what it meant to belong until they started writing their first song.
But it feels incomplete without hearing Foster’s experience. Besides the interview questions, I want him to tell me how he became Adams North. If he’s experienced his fuck you moment with his dad yet, or if that happens when they play their last show on the tour at Madison Square Garden.
“Are you sure everything’s okay?” he asks. “It seems like something else is going on with this.”
A thought of confiding in him flits through. Maybe I give enough about Adams I could at least talk to someone.
Xander and I’ve been bonded in the flames as far as work, and we even spent last Christmas together. But I still want the rest to stay locked away, where it belongs. The only way it can happen is to keep the past vague and the truth smudged.
I shrug it off. “It’s just rock stars being rock stars.”
“We both know what that can mean.” His expression softens. “Is everyone treating you right?”
“Of course they are, Xander.”
“No one’s making you uncomfortable or pushing shit too far?—”
“No,” I tell him, and then I repeat it to make sure he hears me. “No. I just…”
Foster bounces up the steps, roughing up his dark hair. He has on low-slung sweats and a sleeveless shirt despite the chill outside. I’ve detached from the world, even before he looks up and pauses. Suddenly it’s all noise and blurry edges, other than the path between us.
Outside of a mic pack handoff and the required words for filming, we barely even exchanged glances since last week. We definitely haven’t been alone. For good reason since two seconds in and all I can think about is coming on his hand. How right it felt with him looking at me like he did once upon a time.
What happened after creeps in then. The coldness in his eyes and dead tone when he walked out, leaving me with his pirate mask and emotional whiplash.
“Rem? You good?” Xander asks.
The sound of his voice has the iciness seeping into Foster again, his nostrils flaring.
“Yeah,” I say, experiencing a chilling of my own.
I jerk my gaze back to my phone, forcing it to stay there when Foster storms past.
Xander sighs. “You have no idea how much I miss you.”
He smiles and drags his teeth over his bottom lip. It reminds me of the last night we went out and the next morning when I was the goal.
My attention shifts to the picture-in-picture, where I can see Foster stopped behind me, gripping the curtain, then he disappears through it.
“I need to go.” I flash a smile at Xander, but it falls flat. “A baby sprinkle’s like a shower but less about necessities. Pick some mocktails you can make baby puns with and always choose the most bougie option. Jasmine will love it, and you’ll earn an extra toleration point with Heath. Good luck.”
I end the call before he can respond, tossing my phone next to my camera at the end of the couch. I’m on my feet by the time the curtain rips back a second later. Foster comes out, but I block his path to the exit, forcing him to a stop.
“Move,” he grits out.
“Not until we talk.”
His eyes remain locked with mine. “It seems to me you already have someone to talk to. The wannabe boyfriend, right? Your rock god .”
Heat rushes to my cheeks as he refers to Xander’s text from Halloween.
I can be your rock god, baby.
My gaze lowers to the floor. “He’s not … Xander’s my roommate.” When he doesn’t answer, I glance up. “He was making a joke about the half-built baby crib behind him. Heath made him bail on a party to put it together since he’s covering for me while I’m here.”
Foster shakes his head like he doesn’t believe me.
“Is that the reason you shut me out that night? Because you saw his texts?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he says dismissively. “None of this matters.”
My embarrassment flares along with the hurt. “It fucking matters if that’s the reason you left me there.”
I glare at him, but Foster’s scathing look puts my indignation to shame.
“Why? Did it feel shitty to have someone abandon you?” The air thins as he steps toward me, readying words tipped in the worst type of venom—the truth. “For someone to disappear with no warning. To have them there and then not?”
Tears sting my eyes, the past deafening and raging. “Foster?—”
“Come on, Remi. Let’s compare notes. Tell me how much it fucking hurts to believe everything you have with someone is real only to find out it never was.”
The last part cuts me as deep as it appears to slice him. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
Foster’s expression fills with disgust, and he backs away. “Great fucking talk,” he mutters.
Then he whips around, leaving me reeling and wanting to scream at him to stop. Only he pushes through the curtain without me moving or finding my voice.
Because my Foster scar’s been ripped wide open, the edges jagged and raw. One wrong move, and all the others twisted with it tear open too.
The threat immobilizes me. But then the curtain falls between us. I can’t see him anymore, and for a shaky breath, it feels like he might not even be on the other side at all.
Somehow the possibility of him being gone again frightens me more.