Chapter 5
5
JORDAN
M y alarm blares nearby. Time to get up.
I bolt upright, having already been awake and staring at the ceiling for the last half-hour.
Grabbing my phone, I turn off the alarm before it wakes up Bronson, too. Fortunately, the guy doesn’t even budge, able to sleep through just about anything.
For a few more minutes, I sit on the bed. Naked. Warm. Parts of me still humming with pleasant post-coital bliss.
Oh, boy.
What have we done?
“Damn,” I whisper.
Then, I get out of bed. I hop in the shower, washing off the mix of sweat and body fluids still present on my skin.
“Damn,” I whisper, the flow of water trickling down my body, reminding me of Bronson’s tongue.
I finish getting ready. I dry off. I choose an outfit and put on some makeup. I brew a batch of coffee in the suite’s coffeemaker, intent on filling my faded golden Botsford Plaza travel mug to the brim — a mug that’s seen better days for sure, but I can’t seem to part with it.
All the while, there’s a man sleeping in my bed.
Bronson Isaacs.
“Goddamn,” I whisper as I stand over him. I sip at my coffee, curious about how he sleeps through... everything . I wasn’t even trying to stay quiet.
“Bronson,” I say.
He doesn’t move. He lies on his stomach with one arm under his head and the other stretched out at his side.
I lean over him to make sure he’s still breathing. “Bronson,” I say again.
Still, nothing.
“Bronson.” I nudge him. “Bronson!”
He startles with a lurch and a snort. “Hrgh?” he asks, glancing around, his eyes barely open.
I smile. “Hi. Good morning.”
A few blinks and Bronson takes another look, my presence no doubt leading to a flood of memories from last night. Or, at least, I hope so.
A girl likes to be memorable.
“Good morning,” he mumbles.
“You know why you’re here, right?” I ask anyway, just to be sure.
A smile touches the corner of his mouth. “Yup,” he says.
“Good. That’s... a good sign. Listen, Bronson, I’ve got a lot of work to do this morning, so?—”
“What time is it?” he asks, propped up on one arm.
“Five forty-five.”
“Oh, fuck off,” he groans as he drops his head down.
“Excuse me?”
“Not you,” he says, pushing up again when he hears my tone. “Not you, I mean. I find the concept of five forty-five offensive.”
“Understandable,” I say, nodding. “And you can totally go back to sleep.”
He drops again.
“But before you do…” I perch on the edge of the bed. “I wanted to, uh... talk to you. About last night.”
He doesn’t respond. Head down. Eyes closed.
“Bronson!”
He lurches awake again. “Yeah.”
“Last night,” I repeat. “Can we talk about it?”
With that, Bronson rolls over onto his back and sits up; eyes wide and ears open.
I sit up tall. “So…” I begin. “It was great!”
“You’re welcome,” he says, yawning.
“Yes. Thank you. I didn’t realize how much I needed… that . So, thank you, Bronson. And I, uh... well, I hope you got what you needed out of it, too. Not that you need sex. I’m sure you’re well-taken care of in that department.”
He nods.
“Anyway, I just wanted to say that,” I say. “And to reiterate that last night was just... sex.”
“Just sex,” he repeats.
“Just a one-time thing,” I say. “I had an itch, and you scratched it.”
He doesn’t reply.
“So... we’re both cool with that, then?” I ask.
“Cool with what?” he asks.
“With last night being a one-time thing.”
“Oh. Right. Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Because — as great as it was — it broke a pretty big rule.”
Bronson holds up a finger. “Don’t bang a bandmate.”
“Yes! Very good. And while I don’t actually play an instrument or know much about music at all, I do still consider myself a vital member of Criminal Records.”
He nods in agreement.
“I think it would be inappropriate for us to continue in this way.”
Another silent nod.
“So…” I take a breath. “We’re both cool with that?”
“Cool with what?” he asks.
“Bronson,” I say, deflating.
He chuckles, clearly messing with me. “Yes, Jordan,” he says. “I’m cool with it.”
I nod and stand up.
“If you are,” he adds.
I hover in place for a second before straightening up. “Yeah,” I say. “I’m totally cool with it.”
“Are you?”
“Uh-huh. Of course. I mean, I’m the one saying it’s inappropriate, so... one can deduce that I’m also very cool with it never happening again,” I say, briefly tumbling over the words as I realize their meaning.
Last night was a one-time thing.
I’m never going to feel this good ever again.
“Anyway,” I say, banishing that thought. “I’m gonna dip out now so you can go back to sleep. Your call time isn’t until nine, so?—”
Bronson tosses off the bedsheet and drops his feet to the floor. “I’ll get up.”
“It’s five forty-nine,” I say, checking my watch.
“That’s fine,” he says, standing tall.
Standing buck naked.
I fix my eyes on his face and nowhere else. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’ll, uh…” He shakes off another yawn. “I’ll go pack up my shit and check out early. Crash on the bus until we leave. Nine, you said?”
“We roll out at ten.”
“Chicago, right?”
“Yeah.”
He extends his arms over his head, a deep morning stretch. “Cool,” he says, the word broken up by a deep grunt that suddenly makes me weak in the knees. And in spirit.
I look down.
“Still sturdy?”
I look up into his smirking eyes. “You’re not going to let me live that down, are you?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“Right.” I turn with a nod. “I’ll be downstairs.”
“Jordan.”
I pause by the door, slowly turning back around.
Bronson drops his smirk, replacing it with the supportive face of my oldest friend. “Are you good?” he asks.
I take a breath — the biggest breath I’ve taken in a long time — and smile. “Yes,” I answer. “I’m good. Thank you.”
He nods and moves to fetch his clothes.
I duck out, quickly and quietly closing the door behind me to hide my shame. No, my conquest. My glory?
Nah, it’s shame.
I had sex with my talent.
I’m not supposed to do that.
But he wasn’t always my “talent.” Once upon a time, he and I shared crayons. There’s history here. And factors. So many factors and...
Shame.
I shake it off, taking steps toward the elevator down the blue and gold hallway.
A door opens ahead of me on the left. I throw on a polite preparatory smile, which instantly drops the moment August Boyd is shoved out into the hall wearing nothing but his socks and boxer shorts.
“Mistress, please!” he says, twisting back as the door slams behind him. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean?—”
He notices me standing here and shuts his mouth. “Hi, Jordan,” he says, clearing his throat.
I blink, my eyes wide with shock. “Hi, August,” I say.
The door flings open.
“I don’t hear you begging!” Chrissy pops her head out, her hair tied up in a messy bun. She’s wearing a royal blue Botsford Plaza robe that’s tied off in front, but not enough to cover the scarlet red negligee she’s sporting underneath.
Her glare shifts from August to me, and she smiles. “Oh. Good morning!”
I say nothing.
“August, you’re dismissed,” she says to him.
“Thank you, Mis—” He stops himself, his eyes flicking in my direction. “Christina.” One step down the hall, and he spins back around. “My room key is in my pants...”
Chrissy simply stares.
“I’ll ask the front desk for a replacement,” he says, lowering his eyes.
“Good boy,” she says.
August rushes off.
Once he’s gone, I look into Chrissy’s smiling eyes.
“Mistress?” I ask.
“So, anyway,” Chrissy says a half-hour later, the two of us enjoying our coffee and pastries down in the hotel restaurant. “Things have gotten a little out of hand.”
“A little?” I ask.
“I can’t help it!” she says, forever smiling. “He’s just so eager. Like a squirrel desperately searching for his nuts.”
“Which happen to be in your purse?” I joke.
She laughs. “Whatever. It’s a fun way to pass the time.” She turns her hand up at my glare. “What? Don’t look at me like that. I’m not beholden to your rules! Neither is he.”
“You work together,” I argue.
“Where else do people find sex partners these days? The internet? I’d rather drown.” She stuffs a corner of her cherry danish into her mouth. “Besides, August knows the score. He knows me and my schedule and my extreme lack of emotional availability. It’s just sex. A little bit of just sex is good for you. Not that you’d know.”
To that, I bite my tongue.
Chrissy notices and deflates. “Shit, I’m sorry,” she says, scolding herself. “That sounded way less harsh in my head.”
“No, it’s okay,” I say. “I need to get laid. You said so yourself.”
“But I didn’t mean it in a bitchy way. And that was totally bitchy.”
“No, it’s like you said back in Nashville. I should schedule in some fun.”
“Have you?” she asks.
“No,” I answer quickly, withholding the truth. “But I will.”
“You will?”
“I am, actually.”
Chrissy raises her brows, intrigued. “Oh, yeah?” she asks.
“In fact, the other girls and I are having lunch with Melanie Rose tomorrow. You want to come with?”
“The romance novelist?”
“Yeah, Harvey knows her. Her brother is his frat brother or something. He called in a favor.”
“Sounds like... fun,” she says, her brows falling back to normal.
I laugh. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” I say, sensing her hesitation.
“No, no. It sounds neat. I’m in.” She sits back in her chair and picks up her coffee. “Need to keep up the silent treatment with August, anyway.”
“Silent treatment?”
“It’s... a long story,” she says.
“Ah.”
“A long, sexy story. Actually, if you wanna know, I can?—”
“No,” I spit, stopping her. “I think I’ll pass on that.”
“You’re sure?”
My phone vibrates on the table, and I nod. “Yes, I’m sure,” I say as I reach for it.
The screen lights up with a name, and I pause, my hand hovering over the phone.
Paul Monroe.
“Uh-oh,” I mutter.
Chrissy tilts her head to read it, then sneers. “What’s he want?”
“I don’t know. He rarely calls me directly.” I gasp. “What if he wants to know what happened to the bug on the tour bus?”
“I doubt he’d come right out and say it like that.”
“So, what’s he want?”
“I don’t know. Answer it and find out.”
I hold the phone in my hand for a moment before answering. “Hello. This is Jordan.”
“Jordan, darling!” Paul Monroe’s grinning voice fills my ear. “Good morning!”
“Good morning, Mr. Monroe,” I say, as Chrissy mouths speakerphone .
I quickly tap it on so she can listen. “How are you, sir?”
“I’m quite well, as a matter of fact,” he says. “Just returned from a wonderfully romantic getaway with my new wife. Lots of fun in the sun.”
“That sounds great,” I say.
“It sure was.”
“How can I help you today, sir?”
He chuckles. “Yes, I know you’re probably quite busy, but an opportunity has crossed my desk and I would very much like to discuss it with you.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“In person,” he adds.
I widen my eyes at Chrissy. She widens hers right back.
“In person?” I repeat.
“I just checked over Criminal Records’ tour itinerary and I saw you’ll be in Chicago this week. Is that right?”
“Yes,” I confirm. “We’re on our way there this morning.”
“Wonderful! I’ll be in the Windy City tomorrow as well. Will you be available for dinner?”
“Tomorrow?” My chest tightens with panic. “Uh, actually, the band has practice in the evening and?—”
“Oh, I’m sure the band can handle that without you for a night.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” I say, my brows furrowing. “You want to have dinner with me?”
“Yes, Jordan.”
“Just me?”
“As much as I’d love to catch up with the rest of them, I’m afraid this matter is confidential. Is seven good for you?”
I look at Chrissy for help, but there’s not much she can do. She turns up her hands and shakes her head, leaving me to make the call.
“Uh, yes,” I say, reluctantly. “Seven works for me, sir.”
“Wonderful. And Jordan...”
“Yes?”
“Confidential,” he repeats before hanging up.
I drop my phone onto the table as if it had a plutonium core.
“Well, that’s ominous,” Chrissy says.
I nod.
What’s Paul Monroe up to now?