Chapter 11
11
JORDAN
T en minutes to seven, I nervously make my way to the hotel restaurant.
In the elevator, I check myself over in the reflective walls, running my hand down my pencil skirt and adjusting the tuck of my blouse.
Just a business dinner, I tell myself.
Nothing to worry about.
When I arrive, the hostess escorts me to a table for two set up on the far side of the room, tucked away in a private corner. At the table, Mr. Paul Monroe sits alone in a jet black suit and tie. He looks up at me with a laid back smile, his perfectly styled salt and pepper hair making him look handsome against the city backdrop behind him.
My gut rumbles with each step.
He rises as we approach, offering me a firm handshake. “It’s so nice to see you again, Jordan!” he says.
“You, too, Mr. Monroe.”
“Please order anything you want. My treat!”
It’s nothing but small talk and business highlights at first. Quick discussions of the latest Gossipa headlines and other noteworthy things. After a while, I wonder if I was just being paranoid before and this business dinner wasn’t so confidential after all.
Then the entrées arrive.
“How’s your tour going?” he asks as he sips his drink; a double shot of whiskey I can smell across the table.
“It’s going really well,” I answer.
Mr. Monroe laughs. “Again, Jordan. This time, with feeling.”
I smile. “No, really! It’s going great. Plenty of curve balls, obviously. But that’s life on the road with Criminal Records.”
He hums as he traces a fingertip along the rim of his glass. “That’s actually what I wanted to discuss with you tonight,” he says.
I chew through a bite of my club sandwich before answering. “Oh?”
“I’ve been keeping a close eye on things lately,” he says. “Closer than usual. And I’ve noticed that the Break the Rules Tour has been more un usual than anything else. Wouldn’t you agree with that?”
“Sure,” I say. “Maybe.”
It is true. It’s not every tour we have other bands following us around, blowing holes in our tires.
“And forgive me if I’m overstepping here,” he says, “but… you look a little tired, Jordan.”
“Oh, I’m always tired,” I joke.
“Which is exactly my point,” he says. “I’ve worked in this business for many years now. I’ve seen incredible talent come and go. The last thing I ever want is for my talent managers to burn themselves out.”
“I’m fine, Mr. Monroe,” I say, waving a hand. “Really. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“But I do. And so should you.” He sits back in his chair. “Where do you see yourself in five years?”
I laugh. “Is this a job interview?”
“Yes, actually.”
I blink. “Huh?”
Mr. Monroe pushes his plate to one side and folds his hands together on the table. “Jordan, what I’m about to tell you must stay between us.”
I bite the corner of my mouth. “Okay.”
“At the end of the year, I’m leaving Midnite Music.”
“You’re retiring?” I ask.
“What? No.”
“Oh.”
He laughs. “I’m still a young man! Well, not as young as you are, of course, but I’m not even thinking about... no. I’m going to work for another company.”
“What company?” I ask, curious.
“Sugar Sound out of New York.”
“Sugar Sound?”
“You know them?”
“Of course. They signed Thunderstrike. And Nadia Danes. And The...”
The Electrics.
“They’re quite successful, yes,” he says. “They’re well on their way up, and I’m being brought in to oversee that process. During the transition, they’ve offered me a chance to build my team. Naturally, I thought of you.”
“Me?”
“Jordan, you are one of the brightest, most talented managers I’ve encountered in quite some time. If I’m being completely honest, I think you — like myself — have gotten everything you can get out of working with Midnite Music. You deserve better. Better hours. More flexibility. Benefits — actual ones.”
“You want to sign Criminal Records with Sugar Sound?” I ask, confused.
Mr. Monroe pauses. “No,” he answers. “I don’t.”
“But...” I shake my head once. “They’re my band.”
“And you’ve done an extraordinary job with them!” he says. “Criminal Records would be nothing without you. Everyone knows that. But...” He exhales with a scoff. “Jordan, sweetheart, what have they done for you lately?”
I say nothing.
“Flouncing out of interviews?” he says. “Turning down music festivals only to demand a slot later? Fist fights in hotel bars? Getting arrested?” He kisses his teeth. “It’s a surprise you’re even still with them at all.”
“They’re my family,” I say, finding my voice.
“I understand this may be difficult for you, but you have to think of yourself here. In five years, do you really still want to be cleaning up their messes?”
I hesitate. “It’s not that bad, Mr. Monroe.”
“It’s not sustainable,” he says. “And — just between you and me — it’s only a matter of time before The Rebels of Rock fall from grace. I’d hate to see you go down with them.”
I swallow hard, tasting bile in the back of my throat.
“You don’t have to decide tonight,” he says, pulling his seventy-dollar steak back toward himself. “But I urge you to think it over before the decision is made for you. Promise me you’ll do that.”
I nod. “I’ll think about it.”
He smiles. “Excellent.”
The rest of dinner is... about as awkward as one would expect, even with Mr. Monroe changing subjects to talk about his recent honeymoon with Harmony’s mother.
Actually, that just makes it even more awkward.
When the check finally arrives, my club sandwich weighs in my stomach like a dull rock.
I deserve better?
Better than Criminal Records?
Better than Knox? And Jonah? And Katrina and Addison?
And Bronson?
Sure, they’re a pain in my ass most days. They have their flaws, but so do I.
I can’t leave them.
Why would I ever leave them?
“Call me,” Monroe says to me down in the hotel lobby as he gives me another one of his firm handshakes. “Sooner. Not later.”
I nod. “I will, sir.”
He grins triumphantly before walking off, crossing the golden lobby toward the exit.
Once he’s gone, I release a heavy sigh.
No, I answer him in my head.
Criminal Records is my band. My family.
The answer is and always will be, no.
I ride the elevator to the fourteenth floor, needing to get back to my suite. Needing to strip off my clothes and wash the ick of this evening off my skin as soon as possible.
The elevator doors open on our floor. I step off and turn left toward?—
I stop mid-step, surprised by the crowd gathered outside my room.
Knox. Jonah. Addison. Katrina. Bronson.
And the others. Harmony. Harvey. August. Chrissy.
The latter gives me an apologetic look.
I clear my throat. “What’s going on, guys?”
They don’t reply, but it’s written all over their faces.
I’m in trouble.
Damn.
So, this is what that feels like.