“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.”