PLAYLIST

“You’re Somebody Else”—flora cash

“meant to be”—bbno$

“Dazed & Confused”—Ruel

“Bad Liar”—Selena Gomez

“Hesitate”—Golden Vessel

“Haunt You”—Social House

“The Archer”—Taylor Swift

“IDK You Yet—Alexander 23

“My Oasis—Sam Smith

“I Fall Apart”—Post Malone

“I Think I’m OKAY”—MGK

“The Quiet Things That No One Ever Knows”—Brand New

“Sign of the Times”—Harry Styles

“Good Things Fall Apart”—ILLENIUM

“Fade Into You”—Mazzy Star

Find the entire playlist on Spotify

CONTENT NOTE

Before Now contains topics that may be upsetting for some readers. Please read with care.

On page: sexually explicit content, vulgar language, domestic violence, death of loved one, threats of rape and sexual assault, mental illness, drug and alcohol use, addiction, abuse of power

Off page: child abuse, cheating (not between MCs), physical assault

Dedication

For those who bend when they want you to break.

1

REMI

The shrill screams from outside the venue cut off when the heavy metal door slams behind me. I force a deep breath, regaining my cool after shoving through the group of women camped outside the back exit to the arena.

I glance over my shoulder at the guard who followed me inside, leaving the other to deal with the fans. He’s in an all-black T-shirt with Security sprawled on the back in white with the Czech translation above it. His eyes sweep over me before he juts his chin in the opposite direction.

As I turn, he dodges around me and starts down the long, narrow hallway. I shadow behind him, rechecking my phone. The video has been pulled up and ready to go the other twelve times I’ve looked since leaving the hotel, but I need something to focus on. A distraction from the nerves that accompany the soft thump of bass, growing louder with every passing second.

Once we turn a corner, a few people are rushing around the corridor, some carrying flashlights and others with cables and gear.

This is my first time backstage during a concert. I always imagined it would be busier, though I guess people are already where they need to be by now—keeping the show going with lights and sound.

I’m watching a tech fast-change batteries in a radio when we stop in front of another guy with an earpiece. The guard at my side lifts the shoulder closest to me. “She’s for the band.”

I glare up at him for making it sound like I’m for the band, but he just smirks and shrugs.

“My English,” he says in his thick accent, “it’s not always perfect.”

He stalks back in the direction we came, and the man he left me with chuckles.

“He’s a dick,” my new keeper says, a bit of a southern drawl sneaking through. His attention follows the other guy a little longer before it drops to me. “You’re the documentary director meeting Christian?”

I nod, and his lips turn up at the corners.

“This should be interesting.” Then he hooks his head for me to follow him.

He keeps a much more leisurely pace than the previous guy, seeming perfectly at home roaming the venue. If he’s private security, which I’m guessing he is with the Texan accent and plain black Henley, he’s likely strutted plenty of unfamiliar hallways.

When we hit a door at the end, he pulls it open for me and unleashes the full volume of the concert. The music pulses in my chest, a rush of cooler air hitting me as I step into the dimly lit area. With most of the light spilling off the side of the stage, my eyes fight to adjust. The rafters towering above us are barely visible, and the only other clear marker is a red Exit sign shining on the far side.

“Here,” the guard says, clicking on a flashlight.

He takes the lead again and crosses toward the sign. The stream of light hits us on our way past a metal set of stairs that lead onto the stage. I squint against the brightness until I make out the band. And all those nerves kick it up a notch at the sight of them, real and in front of me.

Of Men and Wolves weren’t complete unknowns when they left for the European leg of their tour, but over the past few months, they’ve gone from up-and-coming to arrived. They have four songs on the charts; their music is all over social media and a constant on the radio, and they’ve added six more stops on the last leg of the tour once they return to the States.

Now the documentary.

I stop by the bottom step, curious for a preview of them live. A friend had tickets to a show in NYC last year, but I was working a wedding that weekend in Jersey. I still heard their song “Echo” that night at the reception. Like a majority of the weddings I filmed that summer, the couple picked it for their first dance. It was an interesting trend, considering the song’s about a guy watching a girl he’s never met, imagining falling in love with her.

Semi-romantic if you only listen to half the words, I suppose.

The band’s playing the second verse of it now, and the lyrics that were burned into my brain pour through the arena, wrapping around the crowd of ten thousand.

I never asked to fall for a smile and those innocent eyes.

Had to find out the hard way the ghost of love never fades.

You left me chasing your echo while he holds you through the night.

You let him take away the pain, even though I wrote you a lullaby.

A whistle drags my attention away from the stage and to the guard. His shoulder is propping open the door under the sign, his head tipped to the side while he waits for me.

I’m about to catch up with him when I glance onstage one more time. The bassist has backed closer to the speakers, giving me a straight shot of the singer. He has his red and black guitar slung across his chest, a hand on the microphone stand. Only instead of starting the final chorus of the song, he’s looking offstage in my direction. Like right at me.

He lets go of the mic and pushes the dark, shaggy hair off his forehead. His brow draws in just as a tech bumps into me. Another pushes by me on the other side, flying up the steps. Realizing how in the way I am, I rush after the guard and offer an apologetic smile.

“Easily distracted,” I tell him.

He snorts, letting me pass him into the hallway. “Right.”

“I thought they would be finished by now.”

“There was a sound issue after the opening band. They only have one song left.”

We stop at an open dressing room with sparse furniture and photos hung all over the walls.

“Christian’s finishing up a call.” He glances at the yellow velvet couch set alongside the far wall. “You want to hang here for a bit or chance being swarmed by the band when they come offstage?”

“Here,” I answer fast. “I mean, this is fine.”

The guard ushers me inside and leans in to grab the knob. “Stay here so I don’t have to track you down. Cool?”

My eyes close at the same time as the door, and I let out a long breath. I collapse onto the center cushion and pull one of the throw pillows into my lap. Then I stare at a water spot on the ceiling, questioning whether Heath is completely out of his mind for sending me alone or only partially.

Originally, the director-turned-film-studies professor was supposed to be leading the charge on the documentary. Heath Erickson used to work on everything from music videos to indie horror flicks, and even though he “gave it up” for a house in the suburbs, he still can’t say no when a label calls.

My job as his TA quickly shifted from grading freshmen’s silent films to tagging along for music video shoots. He fired me at the end of the semester, only to rehire me as an intern for the next one, and then again for a summer program. The man found ways to keep me as his assistant without costing him a dime until I finished my degree last year.

Now he cuts me checks himself. The pay is shit, and he knows it. He also knows he could quit paying me altogether and I’d still show up every time. It’s about the connections and experience, not the almost nonexistent cash flow.

For money, I waitress and freelance as a videographer for an event planner on weekends. It affords the rent on my tiny apartment in Tribeca. Nothing glamorous, but if I need to drop everything for a last second flight or reshoots, at least I’m not giving up much. Unlike Heath, leaving behind a wife and two kids—with a third on the way.

That woman has put up with a lot of his shit over the years. Red eyes across the country, missed birthdays and anniversaries, models throwing themselves at him, hoping for their big break. She finally hit her limit this time. Not that I blame her. She’s nearly six months pregnant, and her husband announced he was signing on to tour the country with a rock band for the next four. He’s lucky she only threatened to throw him out.

So, even though the record execs begged my boss to direct a documentary to release alongside Of Men and Wolves’ next album, it’s me on a yellow velvet couch with clammy palms. Feeling like I haven’t spent the past few years meeting managers and herding musicians around a set.

Sitting becomes too much, so I walk around, searching the frames on the walls for a picture or signatures of artists or performers I recognize. I half-smile, seeing a few, and as I’m reaching for one to get a better look, a pair of voices stop outside the room. A few seconds later, the door flies open. The guy stops short when he sees me. His eyes travel down and pause on my legs.

“Well, fuck, I wasn’t expecting those when I walked in.” He starts striding toward me in his black silk dress shirt, unbuttoned one more than necessary at the top. “Please tell me you dress like this every day, because we need those legs on tour.”

I let out an unimpressed, “Excuse me?”

The guard’s standing outside with his back against the wall, and he turns enough so that the side of his face appears in the doorway. “Fucking professional, Christian. She’ll slap you with a harassment lawsuit before even meeting the band.”

Christian. The band’s manager. I’ve seen pictures of him, though in person he has a younger face, his dirty blond hair longer. He has half of it pulled back, and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

Despite still scanning me over, he stops a respectable distance away. “My humblest apologies,” he says, a smug grin appearing as his eyes finally make it to my face and stay there. “I thought I was meeting a dude with a goatee until about five minutes ago.”

He has far more tension in his voice toward the end, but the annoyance is warranted if they only told him now that I was taking over the project. They signed off on me directing two weeks ago after Heath offered to consult from the safety of suburbia.

“Remi Sinner.” I slide my palm into his waiting one, but he more strokes the back of my hand with his thumb than shakes it. “The band sounded great,” I add, pulling my hand away.

“They always do.” Christian studies me for a beat before he claps. “So…” He pauses and holds his arms out to the sides. “Impress me, baby. Tell me how this is all going to go down.”

The second he brings up filming, a portion of the nerves dissolve. I reach in my bag for my phone to show him what I shot and edited together last week for a visual.

“The label’s vision was very on with the current documentaries a lot of musicians have been filming and releasing on streaming services. A camera crew follows the band around, and they give prompted confessionals. Nothing wrong with it, but I propose going in a different direction.”

I hit play on the video of the kids at the skate park and hold my phone out for Christian. He slips it out of my fingers, flipping the screen. A few seconds with nothing but the sounds from the speakers pass as he watches, and I can’t read his reaction.

“We’ll shoot with handheld cams,” I explain to him, “including from the band’s points of view when we can. It will be candid and raw—them showing a genuine depiction of their journey. Honestly, the overproduced, safe, and scripted side of singers and artists has been done to death. People want something real. They’re losing interest in the commercialized bullshit constantly shoved down their throats.”

“Amen,” the guard says from the hallway.

“Hand cams and unfiltered,” Christian mutters. He glances up, squinting, and then checks the video again. “This is how you’re gonna make my guys look like they’re worth the money the label’s pouring into this?”

“Well, I’m sure they’ll do that themselves. I’ll just be there to capture it.”

After a beat, he breaks into another grin, looking all the way up this time. “You keep talking like that, and you won’t only have me hard, but I might fall in love with you, Remi Sinner.”

The guard meets my skeptical gaze, followed by his eyes dramatically rolling. Borderline inappropriate must be the norm with Christian, then. Not shocking when it comes to music managers.

“You’ve won me over,” he says, already checking his phone when he hands over mine. “The guys have a few questions before they sign off on the whole thing. Mostly they want to know how in their faces you and a film crew plan on being.”

“Before they sign off?” I ask.

When the label’s producer called last week, she made it sound like the deal was done. Mac Records just wanted to fly me to Prague to meet the band and answer any questions they might have about filming.

Christian lowers his phone, noticing my confusion. “We would never agree to someone coming on the road like this without meeting them first. You won’t be some roadie on tour they dodge while walking to the stage. You’ll be in their shit twenty-four-seven—witnessing God knows what between the bus and hotels. Don’t take it personally, doll, but they could very well tell you to fuck off in a few minutes.”

My cheeks heat as I realize this isn’t the “chill little meet and greet” I was promised. It’s a fucking interview.

“Let me guess, they told you this was in the bag?” Christian looks like a man who just regained control of his kingdom, giving me a wink. “No worries, beautiful. I can’t imagine anyone telling you no.”

Then he adjusts his posture. In a split second, he shifts from frat boy to intimidating and in charge, rolling down his sleeves and fastening the buttons at one of the cuffs as he walks away.

The guard straightens and tips his head to the side, waiting for me to follow Christian out of the room. “Honestly,” he says, once I reach the hallway, “that went better than I thought it would.”

“Yay for me,” I deadpan on my way by him.

The band’s dressing room is only a few down from the one they stashed me in. Christian grabs the knob, pausing before he turns it. “Let me brace them for the switch-up, and then let her in.”

“Aye aye, Commander Douche,” the guard says.

“Real fucking mature, Colton.” Christian slips inside.

The door bounces rather than latching behind him, leaving an inch-wide gap. My eyes stay locked on it, muffled voices leaking through but the words unclear. All of my anxiety exists in that tiny space until Colton clears his throat. When I look up, he props his shoulder against the wall.

“You’re an anomaly, you know?” He crosses his arms, and before I can ask how, he tells me, “You’re walking into the lions’ den without planning to lose your clothes.”

I narrow my eyes at him, but the comment takes some of the edge off. And with the half-smile he gives, I think he meant for it to.

He nods for me to go in, and I blow out a breath.

“Thanks for the pep talk, Colton.”

He smirks, pushing the door open for me. With my first step, Christian spins around, and two more sets of eyes shift to me. Felix Mills and Dev Ferris look up, the drummer and bassist with their legs spread wide on the couch.

I pause, awkwardly half in and half out, until a hand presses to my back. Colton nudges me forward, and as he pulls the door shut, he whispers, “Give ’em hell, lioness.”

The latch clicks behind me.

“Perfect timing, Sinner.” Christian saunters over, his grin as wolfish as the first time I saw it.

He hooks me around the waist, drawing me into the center of the room. The bassist and drummer slouch deeper into the cushions, neither making a move to meet me part way for introductions like Christian had. Suits shake hands, and it’s a dead giveaway what side of the line you land on, art or business.

Off to the side of them is a table covered in knocked-over beer and liquor bottles and whatever else their rider required. The opposite wall has a few bags on the floor with clothes strewed around them, a guitar case, and a pair of drumsticks tossed into the mix. It smells like booze and sweat, an intoxicating scent I’m familiar with from dressing rooms at video shoots.

Christian rests his hand on my shoulder once we stop. “I was just telling the guys about our little surprise.”

Felix already has his lips curled up. “Quite the fucking surprise.”

His black hair is pushed back and still damp from sweat. He lifts his hips as he readjusts on the cushion. From the rundown their agent gave me, he’s the wild one of the group. Whenever they have downtime, he finds creative ways to blow off steam, legal or not.

Beside him, Dev chuckles, a sheen across his forehead, the lighter blond of his tips stuck to his glistening skin. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s like the tour gods realized we had way too much dick around lately.”

“Who says I don’t have a dick?” I ask, tipping my head to the side.

My mouth perks when his eyebrows shoot up, and Felix snorts out a surprised laugh. Dev leans forward, ready to fire something back until Christian cuts him off with an exasperated sigh.

“Do not say whatever you’re about to.”

Dev holds up his hands in mock surrender, feigning innocence.

“And Colton thought I’d be the problem,” the manager mumbles beside me.

Dev slumps back then, whispering something to Felix that makes them both chuckle, and Christian’s still shaking his head when he rotates toward me.

“Now, with those incredible first impressions out of the way, we’ll let you do what you came here for.” He winks, backing away. “Floor’s yours, gorgeous.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes as he drops into a chair, angled near the couch.

Whoever decided I should talk to these guys after a show had no idea what they were doing. They’re still keyed up from performing, and I’m between them and whatever they usually do to come down from the high. The musicians on set are similar after a long day, not quite the same as a sold-out concert, but it still leaves their adrenaline pumping.

It’s why I avoid musicians’ dressing rooms immediately following a shoot. The number of times I’ve gotten an eyeful of ass is almost impressive.

“Like I already mentioned to Christian,” I start, “I want to go a different direction than what the label was talking to Heath about. Most of the filming would be more low-key than you’re probably used to. We’d rely on hand cams or spy glasses.”

“Spy glasses?” Felix gives me a look. “What are we, fucking assassins now?”

“That’s just what they’re called,” I tell him, “but they’d give a really cool perspective. Like you are the lens⁠—”

The door off to the side of them jerks open, and when I look over, my gaze hits a bare torso, the skin tan and stretched tight over muscle. As my attention drops lower to the word tattooed just above the low-slung jeans, a maroon T-shirt pulls down over it. My eyes jerk the rest of the way up to his face, and the same eyes from the stage are locked on me.

Adams North.

The lead singer and guitarist for Of Men and Wolves is shoving his hands through his wet hair, straight out of a shower, but he stops moving. The same expression touches his face from before, his lips parting slightly. The room warms from the steam pouring out from behind him, and one of the guys gives him a “Hey, man.”

His throat bobs in a swallow before he blinks, and then he glances at the rest of the room like he wasn’t expecting them to be there. A split second later, he’s back to me, something about him making me more nervous than the others.

I flash a smile, and Adams gives me a quick once-over. His gaze crawls up me, and by the time he reaches my face again, he looks bored, almost dismissive, as he nods on his way past me.

Well, then.

“Feel better?” Dev asks, sliding to the end of the couch to make room.

Adams nods once and settles between his bandmates.

“Adams, this is Remi Sinner,” Christian says. Adams’s jaw clenches at the introduction, his attention already on his phone, so Christian continues, “She was just telling us her plans for the doc since the label pulled a fast one on us.”

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