The security guard shrugs and nods toward Felix. “Have you seen this dude lately? Between him and Dev, it’s more dangerous to not let them loose. I’ll be with them, and Anton and Henry are dressing as mimes.”

Ideas already swirl for POVs and an overhead shot. The schedule might not allow for any other chances to show the band out in the wild, so to speak. At least not until the break in Texas. It’s not guaranteed all three of them will spend those two weeks together. Dev’s mentioned more than once he plans to visit his grandmother, and I imagine they’ll want to write.

“I’m bringing my camera.”

Colton chuckles. “Sure, lioness. Bring your work along, but you’re required to chill and keep me company.”

“And take shots,” Felix adds. “You and me are taking shots, Cam Girl.” He glances out the window to the parking lot. “Rest of the party’s here.”

Figuring he’s talking about Dev and Foster, I ask, “What are they going as?”

Before either answer, Dev climbs the stairs. He’s wearing a black onesie—barely zipped because, of course, we need the obliques on display—with chicken feet. Then he flips up the hood to show me the red spiked ridge down the center.

He grins, holding up a beak. “I’m a cock.”

I snort as he passes for the curtain.

“As for Adams, he’s going as what he always does,” Colton says.

I’m about to ask, but then Foster boards the bus, and I can’t breathe. A deep V cuts down the middle of his black shirt with laces undone at the bottom, fitted ripped jeans, and a play sword hanging off a belt slung low on his hips. I don’t need to see the black eye mask to know.

“A pirate,” I breathe out while looking at a memory.

“A fucking pirate,” the others echo.

Foster and I stare at each other for a beat too long before he swallows, turns around, and walks straight off the bus.

* * *

Turns out, a frat in Utah is not too bad of a place for three rock stars to blend in for Halloween. In no time at all, Felix and Dev—or Cowboy and Chicken, since I refuse to call Dev Cock all night—are fully integrated into the frat party with no one even batting an eye.

The names are a Colton—Vampire—demand. Rather than chance someone overhearing all of the band’s real ones and blowing their cover, everyone’s going by their costumes for the night.

I’m walking through the crowd recording neck-down on the bodies because Colton’s right. I never stop. But why waste a chance to catch these three merely existing? They can be a cowboy or a chicken or a pirate without the weight of who they are pressing down.