Chapter 28
28
FOSTER
Now…
“I hate you.”
Colton slaps the cash into my hand and then serves the poor chick at the hotel’s reception desk one hell of a glare. I chuckle and stuff the five in my pocket.
“We can stop any time,” I remind him.
But he scans the lobby and then smacks me in the chest. “No fucking way. Put your shades on so you quit cheating.”
I slide them on, and we both wait for the chick crossing toward us, a bellhop following with her bags. Once she’s close enough, Colt coughs. She gives an annoyed glance at first, only to change her mind. She scans us both before smiling on her way by, attention staying on him.
“Fuck, yes.” He forgets her and holds out his palm, his smile smug.
“I never stood a chance against you.” I return the cash.
Neither of us would carry any if not for the bet. For a long time, we traded the same bill back and forth, almost like a marker. The scales tipped in my favor once people started recognizing me in public.
Or when I started cheating, according to Colt.
“You aren’t closing with her?” I ask.
He shrugs, his expression mimicking it. “Those who do not carry bags do so because of their baggage.”
“Preach.”
Christian winks at the other receptionist, tapping the cards on the counter before he spins. “Third floor is ours. Keycard access only for the elevator, which also goes down to the private gym, pool, movie theater, and whatever else she said.” He waves a hand toward the desk and then passes out keycards, rattling the room numbers as he goes.
My eyes move to Wannabe—Xander’s official name now—when his room winds up on the opposite end of the hall from Remi. His head shakes the tiniest bit, and I catch Christian’s lips twitch. He might be a pompous ass, but he’s our pompous ass. Turned out damn good at music management, too. He and his business major were corporate bound until he pivoted to act as our manager. With the way he adapted, navigating the industry and growing with us, the temporary part of the gig extended to indefinite.
I’m dragging, walking off the elevator. One more show tonight and then three days to write before we fly to San Diego, followed right up by the benefit concert.
Just like I expected, the guys agreed to play. Dev pushed his trip to Arizona, and Felix planned on hanging around the hotel anyway. Then we looked into the situation more, the way formal relief has fallen off and the continuing effects on those the disaster displaced, and I’m convinced they would have made it work regardless.
I sent Lee a singing telegram to her office to thank her for bringing it to us. She then signed us to the San Diego appearance since we “clearly have the energy.” Our agent dodged giving a reason, making me wonder if Sav’s right. Mac Records wants to keep us away from her. Lee needs to remember who she works for. And it’s not them.
As for Christian, Felix promised to piss on his designer watch collection if he ducks another opportunity he knows we’d jump on. He’s excellent at his job but forgets goodwill exists. It’s time he realigned his vision and the rest of our team with what we want for ourselves.
Colton stops at his room, one before mine. “Later, ass-face.”
I chuckle, impressed by his maturity as always. When I reach mine, I glance over, but he’s disappearing inside, which has me looking straight at Remi, coming down the hall. She adjusts the strap for her messenger bag and lowers her eyes to avoid mine, cheeks flushing.
It reminds me of the day at the label. How uncomfortable I made her. I’ve earned it now.
More than earned it after the other day. But the dam broke watching her and Wannabe backstage before the concert. Instead of calming while listening to the crowd, my thoughts tangled, past, present. He hugged her, and I couldn’t stop seeing Roman in his place. The guy she chose over me.
They say hurt people hurt people, and the day I went after her broke me. I almost lost a part of myself.
I face my door, feeling her pass behind me. Tapping my card, I look down the hall again. And all the way at the end, Wannabe hesitates in front of his own door, watching her. Or us.
* * *
I crash for a few hours but wake up unsettled. I put on a sweatshirt and step onto the balcony, notebook in hand. The second I look down at the courtyard below, blocked off for privacy, I tip my face to the sky.
“Fucking kidding me.”
Turning right around, I walk back in, shut the door, and erase the fountain from my memory.
I retreat to the oversized sofa. It takes ten minutes of tapping the pen on the page before I throw it across the room.
Goddamn.
Giving up, I sprawl out on my back with my phone, replying to Christian’s text and another. Then I scroll down, down, down. My thoughts keep drifting in this direction, so I might as well.
I go through the same mental gymnastics as every time I call, a hollowness inside me when she answers.
“Hey, Mama.” The last bit of Texas lingering in me slips out at the end. No matter how long it has been since the rest of my accent faded, that one word holds on for dear life.
“Foster, baby,” she says softly. “I’ve been thinking about you.”
“You should have called.” I’m rolling my eyes at her response before it comes through the speaker.
“Well … you know how it is.”
My eyes close, the bite beneath my skin still there after all this time. “Yeah. Are you good? Taking care of yourself?”
“We’ve been good. Your brother decided to not come home for the holidays?—”
“Please don’t call him that,” I sigh out. I can’t stand when she talks about his family like she’s a part of it. But I gave up trying to change it. Change her. All I can do is ask she not force me into the dysfunction.
“Right,” she almost whispers. “Landon’s staying at school for Thanksgiving, possibly Christmas. Your daddy and Rose aren’t too happy about it. He’s been distancing himself lately. It hurts your daddy to see it. I wish I could do more.”
I silently snort, looking at the decorative swirls on the ceiling. “I think you’ve done plenty.” I leave off that the fucker deserves the pain.
Cheers to the kid. Might be hope for him yet.
“Tell me how your music thing is going. I hear you’ve been busy.”
Music thing. My hobby, as far as she’s concerned. “It’s going well, Mama. We’re back on tour, writing our next album, filming a documentary our record label set up.”
“Sounds wonderful, baby. I remember when you got your first guitar. How happy you were to sit and play every day. It warmed my heart.”
I nearly break my teeth, grinding them. “I had to play every day, Mama. Remember? I was in physical therapy after wrist surgery.”
The rest I bite back. If I reminded her my old man threw me down and stomped on my wrist because I reached for water and spilled it on his paperwork, she’d excuse it or act like I’m the confused one.
Denial is one hell of a drug. In my mom’s case, it protects her from the shit. Suppressing memories or manipulating them into a less upsetting narrative.
Her remaining friend in Texas got her mental health license a couple years ago. She stays in touch to keep my mom from being completely isolated in their fucked-up world. She says gentle coaxing is best, but to back off when meeting resistance. And resistance I meet.
“Well,” she says, dismissively. “I’d love to hear you play again sometime. Maybe you could send me another message to listen to.”
“Yeah, Mama. I’ll send one. Or you could come to a concert and see me on stage. We’ll be in New York close to your birthday. I could set you up in the VIP tent.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary. But listen, baby, I’ve got to go. Your daddy’s home. He…” She hesitates while I brace for whatever she’s gearing up to say. “Your daddy … Foster, he worries you’ll try to upset Rose and Landon again. He thinks it’s in our best interests to keep some distance.”
Again. Because it worked so well the first time.
Two years ago, I sent a letter informing the current Mrs. West of her dedicated husband’s infidelity. Little good it did since his ex-wife-turned-mistress helped cover his trail. I’m uncertain of the details of how he convinced his wife it was bullshit, but a PI discovered his house with my mom is in her name—well, Meredith Glaser’s name. She apparently went back to her maiden name, at the behest of the bastard no doubt.
She changed her name for him, and I use a stage name because of him.
Neither of us want to be associated with Andrew West, but for completely different reasons.
Mine will be linked eventually. Maybe I’ll see what else the PI discovered and blow up his shit then.
Right now, I’m too exhausted by it all to bother.
“Okay,” I tell her. “Think about?—”
“Bye.”
She ends the call, and I toss the phone onto the floor. I scrub my hands over my face, groaning out the past few minutes. Then I roll to my feet, grabbing my notebook and pen off the floor. I close the balcony door behind me before lifting the entire fucking bench and setting it down facing the opposite way. Looking at myself in the reflecting privacy glass.
What fountain?
If only I could what everything as easily.
But duty calls. As much as we’d like to avoid Remi and Wannabe, we agreed to the group interview after the concert. Christian sent the location to our group chat.
I write for a bit before I scroll up through the vulgar combinations of emojis, seeing it’s on the limited access floor with the gym, pool, and whatever else the chick at the desk said.
Playing rebel, I head down without bothering Colt to explore. It’s the best I’ll get for a while. I step off the elevator and into an open space with couches and lounge chairs, sitting areas scattered. Doorways surrounding the common area lead to the different amenities, and glass separates the gym. Off to one side, the documentary crew has left their equipment to set up in preparation for tonight.
I might have dodged solo interviews, but we’ve filmed two group ones. Remi always has instruments in the background, today no exception. I catch the neck of the acoustic and use the hotel’s piano in the corner to tune it before dropping onto an oversized couch.
My eyes are closed while I play, just following the notes. I haven’t been at it long when I hear a, “Uh, Adams.”
I internally sigh and then look at Remi. She’s near the set where her other two crew, Glory and Nate, are starting to assemble lights.
“I just wanted you to know we’re here,” she says.
Despite the audience, I stay. Her gaze flits to me more than once, and I feel the craving building inside her. The next time she looks, I’m waiting. I hook my head, and she doesn’t hesitate to grab her camera. She settles on the side of the L-shaped couch.
I continue wandering through whatever feels right while she films without audio. It slowly starts to morph until it sounds familiar. I’m unsure what it even is at first, but then I shift down on the fretboard. As soon as I change keys, muscle memory kicks in.
Remi moves off to the side, and when I glance over, she’s lowered her camera.
Sad eyes stay on me while I play an unfinished song. A song I’ve played for her before. I squeak the strings at the end and set the guitar on a cushion between us.
“You get what you want?” I ask.
She nods. “It was perfect.”
I nod back, standing, walking away before I say what I’m thinking—she was.
* * *
Over the next three days, Felix, Dev, and I spend more time in the common area than on our own floor. The place has been a ghost town. Perfect for us to slap on our metaphorical scuba tanks and dive down into the creative depths.
“Colt Breaks” included. He checks, so we comply.
We will leave on Friday for San Diego, benefit on Saturday, and by the time we finish packing up Thursday, I truly believe we can pull off an album by tour’s end. I’ll work on an idea swimming in my head while Dev’s in Arizona. I won’t be surprised if he has something of his own when he gets back. The guy’s best ideas have come from him raw-dogging a flight. Just him and his thoughts.
And it might shock people to their cores, but the piano in the corner will call to Felix. He’s classically trained. If we write lyrics first, he can rework a melody a dozen different ways until they sync. So long as no one watches. He’s a bashful little thing.
While they go to dinner with Christian, all of them needing a few hours out of the hotel, Colton and I go to the gym. He hooks up his phone to the speakers and blares what I’ve dubbed his high-schooler weightlifting playlist.
My lips twitch as he turns around, and he flips me off. We go hard on the weights for about half an hour before he shoves me toward the treadmills. He hops on the one to my right and immediately sets it higher than mine. So, I kick it up because it’s what we do.
We’d end up at a dead sprint if the door didn’t open. The mirror in front of us shows Remi walking in behind us. She and I haven’t spoken directly since I played for her before our last show. It seems we’ve fallen into a wordless truce around one another. Not that I’ve seen much of anyone outside the main dickheads, but when she has popped up, she films me, and I let her.
Like now. Our eyes meet in the reflection, and spotting the camera in her hand, I nod. Her mouth perks up instantly. “I only need a few minutes.”
Colton and I settle on a sustainable speed until she finishes. My eyes flick to her in the mirror within seconds, but then everyone’s attention shifts to the door. I scoff as Wannabe waltzes in, dressed for a workout. He flashes a surprised grin—the surprise part utter bullshit—toward Remi.
“I was curious where you’d wandered off to,” he says.
She forces a small smile. “I wanted to take advantage before everyone leaves tomorrow.”
With the short notice, we’re not bringing the crew. I prefer it. For obvious reasons.
Xander lowers the volume on our music, and Colton serves me side-eye for it.
“The plan still to play catch-up the next few days?” he asks her, walking toward us.
She nods. “I fell behind on reviewing footage, and Heath and I have a call.”
The second Xander steps on the treadmill beside me, I’m out. I slap mine off and cross toward the fridge of waters. The same competitive look appears on Colt’s face as earlier, spotting new competition.
“Are you staying in Austin for Thanksgiving or going home?” Xander asks.
Our gazes catch for a second across the room as I open the glass door for a bottle, but I look away, unscrewing the lid.
“No, I’m staying here,” she says.
“What about Christmas?” He pants but not enough to shut him up. “My mom’s already bugging me about my plans. I told her it depends on if we’re doing like last year with your dad coming to our place.”
I almost choke on the water, jerking the bottle away and locking onto Remi.
Straight panic floods her eyes. No fucking clue what pours from mine when they meet, but nothing makes sense. “Your dad?”
The words aren’t even audible, but her face pales at them. She rips her head toward Xander. “I don’t know,” she rushes out. “I’ll see you later.”
Remi almost runs out of the room, avoiding looking at me as she pushes out the door. I blink after her for a moment, fight through the dissonance ricocheting through me. And then I’m setting down my water, already moving, doing what I said I’d never do again. I’m going after her.
“Remi,” I call once out the door. She ignores me, walking fast to the elevator, but I chase her down. “Remi.” I beat her to the button, planting myself between it and her. “What the fuck?”
“I…” Her head shakes, tiny, quick movements, while she stares up at me.
My focus lifts over her head toward the gym before I tug her by the hand through the doorway to the movie theater and around the corner. I let her go behind the back row of luxury chairs. The dim lighting’s enough to see her, chest rising and falling faster.
I walk to the wall, jaw clenching. My pulse races, mind a goddamn mess. She wraps her arms around her middle on my way back, and I duck in close to her.
“Your dad’s alive?” I ask, voice low but steeped in disbelief. “Why the fuck would you lie about that?”
“No.” She takes a half-step toward me but stops, brows knitting together. “I didn’t lie, Foster. I swear.”
“Then what, Remi? Because right now, I have no idea if anything you’ve ever said was true.”
“It was.”
“Make me believe it then. Tell me why Xander claims to have met your dad.”
Her hands fall to her sides, fists tight, gaze imploring me.
“Tell me,” I repeat.
She closes her eyes. “I can’t do this now. I’m sorry.”
Then she turns to leave. But I can’t let her. I can’t fucking stop. I can’t keep it buried anymore, everything swirling in the air around us, hot and stifling.
“I know your mom’s dead, Remi.”
She freezes, and I step in front of her again, waiting until she looks up at me. Light reflects off the tears welling in her eyes as they bounce between mine. I stare down into them.
“When you stopped answering, I went after you. I tracked down your stepdad’s house,” I tell her. “I know you ran off with that guy. Your mom’s ex. Your friend.” I swallow past the bite, and now I’m imploring her. “I need to understand, Remi. I saw the SD card in your camera bag, but … why is Xander talking about your dad spending Christmas with you?”
Her chest rises slowly, inhale shaky, and she lowers her gaze. “My dad died when I was eleven. Xander was talking about Roman.”
I stare at her, silence encasing us while I struggle with her words. The past rearranges between us, certainties vanish, and doubts reemerge.
“Remi,” I say, fucking lost. But she looks it too, sad eyes, panicked eyes, the broken girl. It all feels wrong again. Like when I stood in the house that wasn’t her home.
“I need the truth—from you.” I step closer. Of all the why s I’ve wanted to ask, this wasn’t one. I didn’t need to ask because I knew. But now, I need to really know. “Why did you disappear on me?”
She blinks up at me, right before changing everything. “Because he killed her.”