There’s one shot though where he’s sharp by accident. It was from between songs, head down, hand at the back of his neck. No performance there. No armor. Just a man for the duration of one exhale. I hold the frame under my thumb until the screen goes black.
This is where photographers become thieves. This is where they become saints. I delete it. Not because I’m kind. But because I’m not stupid. This is a marathon, not a mugging.
My phone buzzes again and I blow out a breath knowing who it’s from.
Editor: How’s Seattle?
Me: Loud. Human. Good.
Editor: Try and have some fun.
Me: This is work.
I tuck the phone away and stretch until my back chirps. The beer is empty and fully appreciated. I stand, and decide to take the long way back because the long way shows you what the short way hides.
I push through the backstage exit and step into the cool damp night. The air tastes like relief and leftover electricity. My boots hit pavement as I cross toward the bus row, rolling my shoulders out. Clatter rattles behind me; cases slamming, metal locking, crew shouting shorthand only they understand.
By the time I reach the bus, the temperature has changed. Not in actual degrees, but in energy. It’s thick, loud, and sweaty. It’s fermented ego and spilled tequila and somebody’s perfume heavy enough to chew.
I climb the steps, round the corner and, yep, welcome to the jungle. Music thumps from the lounge area, the bass vibrating through the floor. Laughter spills like broken glass. A woman squeals. Someone shouts for more shots.
Mikey has a bottle of Patron tipped to his mouth with one hand and a girl in his lap with the other, his grin wicked and sharp enough to slice. Another girl straddles the armrest beside him, fingers in his hair like she’s auditioning for a music video. He looks like he was born in chaos and blessed by bad decisions.
Hayden is on the opposite couch, beer in hand, expression politely exhausted. It’s clear he’s the only adult in a room full of permanent adolescence. He gives me a look that silently apologizes for the species.
And Dean…
Dean is where the world tilts, and I hate that I’m reacting at all. He’s in the corner seat, head tipped back, throat exposed, eyes half-lidded. A brunette is tucked into his side, hand splayed across his chest like she owns the acreage there. His arm hangs loose behind her shoulders, casual, like he’s done this a thousand times and feels nothing each time.
He probably doesn’t. And this is the reminder I need. This is who he is. I don’t break for men like him.
She whispers something in his ear. He smiles. It’s lazy, detached, practiced. It’s not intimacy. It’s anesthesia. She’s nothing to him and the poor thing doesn’t even have a clue.
I’m fine. I am absolutely, one-thousand percent, completely fine.
Mikey spots me first. Of course he does. His grin goes feral. “Well look who came to play,” he drawls. “Camera girl, you wanna join the party?”
“No thanks,” I reply smoothly. “I try not to photograph CDC violations unless they pay hazard rates.”
Hayden chokes on his drink as he tries to muffle the laughter escaping from him.
Dean’s eyes fully open, then narrow to angry slits as he stares over at me. He sees me. Really sees me. A flicker of something. Annoyance? Awareness? Something that definitely has edges.
The girl beside him runs her fingers up his chest again like I’m not even here. Good. Doesn’t bother me at all. I turn, grab my laptop from the front bench. My movements are deliberate, steady, bored.
“You leaving already?” Mikey calls. “C’mon, camera girl. Loosen up.”
I don’t take the bait. I don’t look at Dean either. That would give something away, and I am not giving this room one goddamn thing. “Some of us work.” I tuck the laptop under my arm. “Enjoy the replays of your greatest hits.”
“Ouch,” Mikey bellows, grabbing at his chest.
I pause at the door long enough to throw over my shoulder, “And hydrate. You animals look like you’re one shot from organ donation brochures.”
That gets a full laugh from Hayden. Mikey raises the bottle in salute. Dean doesn’t move. But I feel his glare like a hand between my shoulder blades.
I step off the bus into the night air again, spine straight, pulse traitorous. I don’t look back. I don’t have to. I can feel him watching me leave, and the sickest part is, and I hate myself for wondering this, but I don’t know if it’s because he wants me to go, or if he was hoping I wouldn’t.
Chapter Three
