Chapter 13
13
JORDAN
I can’t sleep.
Despite the constant stress and mental load my job entails, I rarely ever have trouble sleeping. Perhaps it’s some awesome genetic ability, or maybe my body simply shuts down from exhaustion the moment my head touches a soft pillow. But getting enough sleep following a stressful day hasn’t been much of a problem for me.
However, tonight is different.
After the band left, I instantly undressed, put on my pajamas, and crawled into my bed. Sure, there are always things on my list, but I flippantly decided that those matters could be dealt with over my morning coffee after a good night’s rest.
But every time I close my eyes, I see their faces.
Knox's judgmental glare. Addison’s disappointment. Katrina’s confusion. Jonah doesn’t seem to have a harsh opinion about the matter, thankfully.
And then there’s Bronson. Tall and stoic. Silent.
And let’s not forget Paul Monroe’s dastardly smirk.
After a few hours of rolling about and kicking off my blankets, I push myself out of bed, the need to talk to somebody weighing heavy on me.
My first thought, as always, is Chrissy, but with the way she was looking at August earlier tonight, she probably won’t be available until morning.
Addison would be my next choice. But again, she’s unavailable, off at a beach house party with Harvey and his college buddies.
There’s always Bronson.
I nearly stop myself from putting on my jeans three times. Sure, there’s always Bronson. Bronson is a great listener, after all. But it’s after midnight already, and he’s no doubt snoring so loudly he won’t even hear me knock.
I glance one more time at my bed and decide it’s worth a try.
I walk down the hall to his suite. After a few deep breaths, I knock on the door and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
A few more knocks, and I decide he’s ass-deep in a REM cycle.
Or maybe…
I bound down the hall to the elevator and tap the button that takes me down to the underground parking garage. It’s a fifty-fifty shot, but sometimes Bronson likes to sleep on the tour bus because he finds the beds at Botsford Plazas to be against his liking. It’s not that unusual for me to hop aboard in the early morning hours to get some work done, only to find Bronson snoring in the back, his limbs hanging akimbo out of a bunk.
Personally, I want my coffin to be lined with those incredible Botsford Plaza sheets, but to each their own.
The garage is quiet and empty, but well-lit enough for me to make out the Criminal Records logo at the far end of the lot.
Safe and secure.
I make my way over to the bus with my phone in hand, quickly swiping open my access card as I go. Once I reach the locked doors of the bus, I lean over and scan the barcode on my phone to the reader by the door.
It chimes green and the doors slide open.
I smile, the familiar sound of Bronson’s deep sleep reaching my ears already.
I step onto the bus and close the doors, which automatically lock behind me. “Bronson?” I ask in the dark.
No reply. Just snores.
I flick on the light above the driver's seat, illuminating the front table while keeping the rest of the bus in the dark. “Bronson?” I say again as I approach the back bunks.
Still, just snores.
There are only four bunks on the bus, far too few for the whole band to sleep at once, but it’s rare for all of us to require that at the same time, anyway. And it’s easy enough sometimes to put your head down on the table or sprawl out on a bench nearby.
I sit down on the bunk across from him and sigh. “Bronson?” I ask, raising my voice above a whisper, hoping to wake him in the nicest way possible. “Bronson?”
Still, he doesn’t stir.
I slide the curtain open, allowing for a bit of light to shine on his face. He’s sleeping on his back, his torso exposed, and I say a silent prayer of gratitude that he kept his pants on.
I tap on his shoulder. “Bronson.”
He twitches, but doesn’t wake up.
“Bronson. Bronson!”
He lurches awake. “Huh?” Glancing around, his heavy eyelids threaten to pull him back down, but my sudden presence keeps him conscious. “Jordan?”
“Hi,” I say. “Sorry to wake you.”
“Is it morning?” he grunts.
“No. It’s late. Or early, depending on your perspective.”
Bronson turns onto his side and balances himself up on one elbow to look at me questionably.
“Sorry,” I say again. “I just... I needed to talk to somebody, and I thought maybe you’d be up to listen. Just for a few minutes?”
He rubs his eyes once, banishing a little of that heavy tiredness, and looks at me again.
“Thank you,” I say. “Earlier tonight, you told Knox to back off, and I forgot to thank you, so... thank you. I really appreciate you doing that.”
He nods.
“I probably didn’t deserve it, though,” I add, sitting back. “I lied to you guys about where I was going. By omission, but technically still a lie. And you can hate me for that. I definitely deserve it.”
“I don’t hate you.”
“Oh. Well, good. That’s good.” I catch myself looking at his bare chest, and stop myself. “Still, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“You were just doing your job.”
“Right. Yeah. That’s what I keep telling myself, too. It’s just that... I know everything Monroe said was manipulative and all part of some dumb scheme to ruin us, but... I don’t know. It felt good. It feels good to be acknowledged. He said I’ve done an extraordinary job and that Criminal Records would be nothing without me.”
“He’s right.”
I look down. “Who knows for sure?” I exhale hard, somehow feeling even worse for saying these thoughts out loud. “Am I stupid for feeling good about this?”
“No.”
“Well, I feel stupid.”
“You’re not.” Bronson stares hard at me, fully awake now. “You’ve never been stupid, Jordan.”
“I don’t know if I’d say never,” I joke. “Bangs before prom was a dumb choice.”
Bronson smiles. I feel it in the tips of my toes and the center of my palms, and I instantly look away before the sensation spreads elsewhere.
“Anyway,” I say as I stand up. “Sorry again, and… thanks for listening. I’ll let you get some sleep. Goodnight, Bronson.”
I walk down the center aisle toward the exit.
“Jordan.”
As I turn back around, Bronson climbs out of his bunk and takes several steps toward me, his bare feet tapping along the floor.
“What?” I ask.
He looks at me for a moment, his jaw clenched in thought. “I’m sorry,” he says. “We don’t acknowledge what you do for us enough.”
I smile, blush tingling my cheeks. “It’s okay,” I say.
“No, it’s not. You shouldn’t have to go to a prick like Monroe to get that kind of thing. He never should have been the one to say it first.”
My blush deepens. “Thank you, Bronson.”
He nods.
“Get some sleep,” I say. “Secure the door behind me?”
Another nod.
I step off the bus into the parking garage. Still quiet and empty at this hour, though, I hear the rumble of an engine somewhere on the far side.
“Jordan?”
Bronson steps down from the bus, his shirt halfway over his head, and stops a foot away from me. He pulls it the rest of the way down and pauses for a moment, his hands coming to rest lightly on his hips.
“Yeah?” I ask.
Bronson takes another moment, then says, “Do you want to stay with me tonight?”
I snort. “God, no. No offense to the fine people at the tour bus company who put this thing together, but you and I have vastly different opinions when it comes to comfortable sleeping arrangements.”
“Jordan.” He says my name in that way that makes the hair on my arms tingle wildly. “Do you want to stay with me tonight?” he asks again, emphasizing each word to make sure I hear them this time.
“Oh,” I say, looking down as the heat in my face reaches unbearable levels. “I don’t know about that, Bronson. I mean, we agreed that last time was the only time.”
“I remember.”
“I’m not sure that’s a door we should open again.”
Bronson studies me for a moment, his brows pinching. “Are you sure?” he asks.
Yes.
Yes.
The word is on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t bring it to the surface. I look at Bronson, a guy who’s been my friend for as long as I can remember. A guy who punched a kid in the nose because he stole my book at recess. A guy who spent an entire school day wearing dirty gym shorts so I could wear his jeans when my period started early. A guy who danced with me at prom when my date ditched me to go get drunk with his friends on the football field.
A guy who asked me to be in his band, even though I couldn’t even read music.
In my silence, Bronson steps closer. He reaches out with one hand, his strong fingers gently taking hold of my cheek. A rush of heat fires down my neck, swiftly curling around my chest to grip my racing heart.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
“Bronson,” I whisper, one last push against temptation before he leans down and kisses me.
It’s a soft kiss, warm and friendly. I’d almost call it chaste if I thought Bronson Isaacs was even capable of that.
I touch his wrist. I will myself to keep standing as I close my eyes and kiss him back. He shifts closer, his firm chest flush against mine as his hand falls from my cheek, his arms wrapping around my waist to keep me close. My senses ignite with memories of our first night together. I curl my arms around his neck, my body eager to experience him again. The comfort of his embrace. The pleasure of his cock. The hours of aching satisfaction and relaxation that came after.
With a sudden flex, Bronson lifts me. I gasp against his lips, but I know I’m safe as he walks us back to the bus.
I cling to him as we step on; the doors locking behind us.