Chapter 2
2
JORDAN
Three Nights Later in Kansas City
F ourteen shows down. Ten to go.
Not quite the home stretch just yet, but we’re almost there.
Laughter draws my attention away from my clipboard and planner. I gaze across the hotel bar at Criminal Records, the nation’s most popular rock band.
At the moment, they’re engaged in a fierce game of billiards. Girls versus boys with Addison, Harmony, and Katrina, taking on Knox, Jonah, and Bronson. Not sure how they’re managing that with those numbers, but they’re all so tipsy I doubt they even care who’s winning at all.
I smile, happy to see them happy.
Then, I go back to my work.
One show down means another one is up next. I go through my planner, making sure everything that needed to be accomplished in Kansas City has been checked off. The Midwest route is easy, thankfully. Until we reach Chicago, that is. That’s when things get tricky.
I eye the next few days. Tomorrow morning, we hit the road to Chicago. Then, I’ve scheduled an afternoon practice — which won’t be fun, unfortunately. Since The Electrics know about our new song-in-progress, Strawberry Daiquiris, I imagine they will want to scrap the whole thing and start over. Can’t say I blame them, though. It’s not nice to be spied on.
The next day, we have lunch with romance author Melanie Rose. The ladies do, anyway. The men are free to do whatever for the afternoon — as long as they don’t miss practice later.
The day after, it’s show day! That’s prep and sound check and everything that goes with that.
Then we?—
Someone sits down in my booth.
I look up as Bronson slides into the seat and plants his back against the wall. “Hey, Bronson,” I say.
He bobs his head; a silent hello. I’ve always appreciated Bronson’s quiet nature. Makes for good company sometimes.
Speaking of silence...
I glance around the bar, suddenly aware that the others have dispersed. “Where did everybody go?” I ask, then scoff. “No. Don’t tell me. I can guess.” I go back to my planner spread out on the table. “The couples started making naughty glances at one another before escaping upstairs while Katrina blushed. Is that close?”
Bronson shrugs a yes, the hood of his sweater flopping slightly on his shoulder.
“I figured,” I say. I tilt back, giving my arms and shoulders a stretch. “Well, I’m happy they’re happy.”
I skim my clipboard, confirming today’s page is completed before sliding it free and folding it up to dispose of later.
“Do you want to go upstairs?” Bronson asks after a minute.
“Ugh,” I grunt, exhaling hard. “I’d love to! In fact, I want nothing more than to go upstairs, empty the mini-fridge, and draw myself a long, luxurious bath. And I don’t even like baths. Unfortunately, however, I still have to complete next week’s schedule and set up a call with the venue to meet their coordinator.” I groan. “There’s also?—”
“Jordan.”
I look up, surprised by the sudden punch of his voice.
Bronson looks at me across the table. “Do you want to go upstairs, with me?”
I go blank. For several seconds, my mind is an empty void of confused exhaustion.
“What?” I ask.
Bronson shifts in his seat, taking his back off the wall and facing me, his thick hands folded on the table. “Do you want to go upstairs?” he asks again.
“With you?”
“Yes.”
“You mean, like... share an elevator?”
“No.”
I squint. “You wanna watch a movie or something?”
His lips twitch. “No.”
“Then...” I lean forward, trying to read his expression; a mixture of amusement and… flirtation?
Is Bronson flirting with me?
“You want me to go upstairs with you for...”
I stop there, letting him fill in the blank.
“Sex,” he says, the word so simple. So obvious.
I lurch back, swiftly bashing myself against the seat. “Sex?” I repeat.
He nods.
“You… want to have sex with me?” I ask.
“I’m asking if you want to go upstairs and have sex, yes.”
I stare at him. “Bronson, are you drunk?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Very.”
“Then, why?” I ask, taking a breath as I realize I’ve stopped breathing. “Why would you ask me if I wanted to…”
He smiles, his brown eyes soft and friendly. “Because you look like you could use a break.”
“I don’t. I’m good. I’m...” I stutter as I pat my planner. “I’m doing just fine over here.”
He peeks at it. “Are you sure?”
“Very.”
Bronson stares at me for a moment, his hooded eyes seemingly unbothered by the rejection. “All right,” he says.
He slides out of the booth.
“Thank you, though,” I say, my voice a little too high. “Really, I’m flattered. I appreciate the offer, Bronson. I really do.”
He nods.
“But, also...” I say, my moral compass spinning wildly. “I’m not sure that would be appropriate. Since I’m your manager and all. Best to keep our relationship — our friendship — friendly and professional.”
Bronson nods.
“We’re friends,” I say. “We shouldn’t do anything that’ll change that.”
He doesn’t argue. He simply bows his head, his eyes still so friendly, and smiles. “Goodnight, Jordan,” he says.
I swallow hard. “G-g-goodnight, Bronson.”
He turns and walks out of the bar.
I sit back in my seat, my breath still gripped in my chest.
What just happened?
Seriously, what the fuck just happened?
I pace back and forth in front of my bed. I came upstairs to go to sleep an hour ago, but I can’t even bring myself to turn off the lights.
Bronson Isaacs.
Drummer of Criminal Records.
My oldest friend in the world.
My whole life, he’s just been... Bronson.
Now, he’s a guy who just asked if I wanted to go upstairs and have sex.
You look like you could use a break.
Bronson is a man of few words. The strong, silent type, as some people say. He’s more of a listener than a talker. A people-watcher. As such, he notices things; things that others often miss.
Do I need to take a break?
Chrissy said as much back in Kansas City. And no, I still haven’t deleted anything from my to-do list like she told me to yet. There’s too much to do! And there’s too much that could go wrong if I don’t do it myself.
My heart rate spikes. It… doesn’t feel good.
Yeah, they’re probably right. Maybe I am working myself too hard.
I need to take a break.
I need to crack open the mini-fridge or run myself a hot bath or...
Or…
I picture Bronson and his friendly brown eyes. His little smile.
I could have some fun.
“No,” I whisper to myself. “No, no. That’s...”
Wrong.
Stupid.
Deeply wrong and profoundly stupid.
I can’t have sex with Bronson! I mean, sure, I’ve wondered what it would be like. Who hasn’t? There’s plenty of gossip out there from groupies and more of Criminal Records’ myriad admirers.
Those who know say that Bronson Isaacs is great in bed.
He’s eager. Full of stamina.
And he likes to talk dirty.
Hard to imagine. Bronson barely says more than a few words a day. But it’s what I’ve heard. In bed, Bronson says some… interesting things.
I bite my cheek, curious.
I shake my head, resisting the urge to find out.
I glance at my phone, utterly failing.
“No,” I whisper as I approach it.
“Don’t,” I say as I pull it off its charger.
But why not? I ask myself silently. Why shouldn’t I?
Everyone else is breaking the rules.
Why can’t I?
Because I’m supposed to be the example! A voice replies from deep inside, preventing me from opening my contact book.
I’m the adult in the room. I can’t bang a bandmate. It’s one of our oldest rules — rules that I fucking wrote.
Besides, Bronson is probably asleep by now, anyway. Whatever might have happened tonight has already passed, the ship sailing far on a jet black horizon. No going back now.
“Just go to bed,” I say as I set the phone back down on my bedside table.
Beneath it lies my clipboard, the top sheet stuffed to the margins with to-dos and a long list of my daily responsibilities as manager of the hottest rock band in the— aw, fuck it!
I pick up the phone and call Bronson.
He answers within two rings. That’s good. If a third went through, I might have talked myself out of this.
I still can, though.
There’s still time to hang up and go to be ? —
“Hey, Bronson,” I say, clearing my throat and banishing the thought. “It’s me. It’s Jordan.”
He says nothing.
“Sorry if I woke you,” I say. “I was just... well, I’m getting ready for bed and stuff and I… I was thinking about what you asked me downstairs. In the bar tonight, I mean. You remember. I’m sure you…” I bite down. “Anyway, I was just curious if that was, like… a one-time offer or?—”
A knock taps my door, making me flinch.
“Hold on,” I say as I walk toward it. “There’s someone at my?—”
I open the door and freeze.
Bronson stands in the hall with his phone pressed against one ear, wearing nothing but a pair of blue slacks from the Botsford Plaza gift shop back in Las Vegas.
No shirt. No shoes.
Just Bronson.
“Hi,” I squeak.
He steps forward. Reaching out, he touches a hand to my cheek as he swiftly closes the short gap between us and?—
The shock of the kiss shakes me to the core. If it weren’t for his arm suddenly hooked around my back, I’d surely topple right over. I’m not sure why I’m so surprised. Sex usually includes a fair amount of physical contact.
But Bronson. This is Bronson.
He breaks the kiss and opens his eyes. He silently stares, one hand still soft on my cheek, the other firmly pressed into the small of my back.
“Hi,” I say again.
“Hi,” he says.
He kisses me again.
And I kiss him back.