It takes a second for my arm to lower back down to my side. Remi looks up, and I have to look away before those eyes land on me.

“Basic mic pack. I think I got it,” I tell her.

She takes a step back then and roughly swallows. My eyes wander up to find she’s plastered on what I know is a fake smile. “Perfect. If you just want to finish hooking it up, then we can get this over with.”

I nod, but my jaw tightens. “Yeah … about that.” My fingers undo the microphone, and I snake it back down my shirt.

Remi shakes her head, the fake shit sliding right off her face until she’s almost glaring at me. “What are you doing?”

“I realized I have somewhere else to be.” I toss the pack next to the glasses.

“Oh really?” she says, the annoyance palpable in her tone. “And where might that be?”

“Anywhere but here.” I give her a quick smirk and wink before I stroll off toward the elevator.

“And the interview?” she hollers after me.

I hit the button and swing my head toward her. She has her arms crossed, a hip popped out to the side in a sassy little display of the fire beneath the cool exterior.

“We have nearly four months together,” I remind her. The elevator opens, so I walk in, turning around at the back to face her again. “I’m sure I’ll have time eventually.”

She drops her arms, frustrated, our eyes staying locked while the doors close between us.

It’s the last time I’ll be able to get away from her for the next few months.

Fuck if I’m not going to take advantage.

Sure, it’s a dick move. I know it. But that’s what I was missing the first time around with her—the armor. Since she’s the reason I forged it in the first place, it’s only fair she gets the shiniest, most dickish parts.

7

FOSTER

Before…

The tip of my pen taps on the paper, leaving little dots and lines. Evidence I’m trying and failing to perfect these lyrics. The ones I’ve been working on the entire trip.

An entire month of scribbling shit words only to cross them out. The last few pages of my notebook have seen more ink than a tattoo artist.

Flinging the pen to the floor, I fall backward on the pillow. I’m prepared to stare at the ceiling for a while. Truly brood over my failed artistic endeavors.

I only get a few minutes, though, before my phone buzzes. I swipe it off the mattress and crack a smile.

SaintR has signed in.

I roll out of bed and grab my jacket off the floor. Pocketing my phone, I snag the black-rimmed glasses off the desk on my way out.