Chapter 32
32
JORDAN
I t’s a quiet few days in Philadelphia.
After those New York City all-nighters, everyone is exhausted. Except Christian. While he urges the group to spend the nights out with him, the others decline, opting for a few nights of rest and relaxation instead.
“Never thought I’d see the day,” Christian says to them, tutting his tongue judgmentally.
But that does little to change their minds. And I’m not about to argue with a few days of quiet. I’ve got a lot of calls to return, anyway. Show night will be here again before we know it, and we’ll be right back to the same busy routine.
But as busy as our routine is, there comes a moment at every show where the world sort of just... stops .
It’s normally halfway through the main set. The band has played the first few tracks; usually the anthem-like ones to woo and excite the crowd. Then, they bring it down for a few songs. A ballad. A spotlight on Katrina and her keyboard or Jonah and his acoustic.
Somewhere between the midnight blue stage lights and the thumping bass, I stand still. I take a deep breath. As I let it out, a smile touches my lips and… it was all worth it. The travel. The last-minute changes. The stress of just getting them to the show on time is over and I lose what little control I have of the situation. I’ve done my part. It’s in their hands now.
What will happen, will happen.
Tonight, in Philadelphia, that moment of calm and contentment lingers a little longer than usual.
As the band plays, I stand offstage, watching and listening. Usually, I’m on the move again by now, settling things with the venue and making sure the post-show meet and greet arrangements are still a-go. But tonight, I settle into the pause.
I listen to the music.
I watch the show.
I watch Bronson.
I never have to worry about him not bringing his A-game. I’ve heard countless stories from other managers about problem drummers, but that’s never been my reality with Criminal Records. Bronson is... the best there is. In all the ways one man can be.
I watch him bang on his drums; the tight, little muscles of his forearms dancing as if they, too, have caught the rhythm. There’s a layer of sweat on his brow. Little wet beads drip from his nose to his shoes. His arms do this as his feet do that and I, once again, marvel at the skill of professional musicians.
Like… I can walk and balance a book on my head easily. But this?
I’ll stick to spreadsheets and phone calls.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Each strike of Bronson’s drum sends pulses across my skin. Blood pounds through my veins, awakening a few thoughts and feelings that… I really shouldn’t be having.
I’m definitely dropping a pen tonight.
And every night for the rest of my life.
No, Jordan.
That’s not how this works.
I chew on my cheek as the song ends, and Bronson quickly launches them into another, a fan-favorite Harmony-era track called Holler at the Back. The crowd goes wild for it.
Meanwhile, I sink deeper into my thoughts.
I’ve spent so much time telling myself we can’t be together. But have I ever really considered... why not? I’m his manager, sure. But why else?
What exactly makes us so incompatible?
He’s a slob. I’m not. But I wouldn’t call that a deal-breaker necessarily.
I’m by-the-book. He’s a little more loose-y goose-y than I’d like, but, again, he’s always where he needs to be, when he needs to be there.
He’s quiet.
And thoughtful.
And loyal. And...
Jordan, stop, I tell myself.
None of that matters.
He doesn’t feel the same way.
I take another deep breath, this time holding it in until my lungs scream.
“Woo-hoo! Go, Criminal Records! Go!”
I jolt in surprise as Christian Myers cheers beside me. He smiles at me as he claps, and I laugh, offering a round of applause as well.
“Fuck,” Christian says, speaking loud enough for me to hear. “I missed this.”
“Being on the road?” I ask.
“On the road,” he repeats. “On the bus. Backstage. The hotels. The fans.” He soaks it in for a moment, then sighs. “Man, I really fucked things up.”
“You’ll bounce back, Christian.”
He looks at me. “You think so?”
“Of course. You’re Christian Myers . Without you, there wouldn’t have been Cobraville.”
He smirks. “You know, when I used to say that, people called me an arrogant prick.”
“It’s true.” I wave a hand. “Not the arrogant prick part, I mean.” He laughs, softening my stance. “I just mean to say that, with the right choices, you’ll be selling out arenas again in no time.”
Christian eyes me curiously, his smile still lingering. “With the right choices,” he repeats.
“Tall order, I know.”
“No, no. It’s... well, not my strongest suit, but what are humans if not constant works in progress?”
I nod in agreement. “That’s how I see it.”
“Thanks,” he says. “You’re a good manager, Jordan.”
You’re a good friend, Jordan.
“I try to be,” I say, shrugging.
“No, you’re...” He blinks as if he’s seeing me for the first time. “You’re really great.”
I look away. “Thank you.”
“Pretty, too.”
My stomach twists. For a moment, I do nothing, wondering if I should pretend like I didn’t hear it at all. But I look at him beside me, standing a full head taller than me. Handsome. Smiling.
“Thank you,” I say again.
“You know...” He breaks eye contact for a second, his eyes flashing as the stage lights shift. “I almost asked you out before.”
“Before?”
“Yeah, before. During our tour, way back when.”
I snort. “No, you didn’t.”
“I did! Granted, I remember little of that tour,” he says. “I spent most of those weeks at the bottom of a bottle or at the tip of a needle, but I remember you.” He tilts his head, looking me over. “You run a tight ship, Jordan Peck.”
I chuckle nervously. “I just do my job.”
“No, it’s more than that. You take care of your people. That’s admirable. Don’t get me wrong, I adore Chrissy. She was there for me when no one else was, that’s for damn sure. But I’m curious. If I had someone like you looking out for me back then, would my life have turned out differently?”
“You’re not Dade Connery, Christian.”
He feigns a wound. “Ouch.”
“I mean,” I say as he laughs, “you’re not an aging rockstar trying to recapture your former glory. You’re what? Thirty-five?”
“Thirty-three,” he says, wounded again.
“There’s still plenty of time.”
“Maybe there is.” He looks me over again. “If I make the right choices.”
“Exactly.”
The crowd cheers for the start of another song, pulling my gaze back toward the stage. I applaud with them, admiring my chosen family for a second before the heat of Christian’s gaze becomes too much.
I look at him to find him still staring at me, his eyes so soft and wonderful. Christian tilts his head slightly, making my stomach quiver as he leans closer.
“What are you doing?” I ask, leaning away.
Christian smiles. “Making the right choice.”
Frozen in the wings, I do nothing as Christian Myers kisses me.