Page 123 of Don't Bang a Bandmate

Jordan walks away from us.

She walks with a guard in front of her... and Christian Myers by her side.

“Wait, Jordan!” Knox shouts after her.“Jordan!”

A few feet away from our cell, something slips free from her bag and clatters to the concrete floor.

“Oh!” Jordan pauses. “Dropped my pen.”

Christian bends down to retrieve it. “Clumsy girl,” he teases as he offers it back to her with a smug smirk.

“Yeah.” Jordan glances at me, her eye contact sharp. “That’s me.”

My mouth sags.

Oh.

Ohhh.

While Knox and Jonah continue to shout after her, I return to my cold bench by the wall. I sit down, letting the last few minutes play rapid-fire in my head again. Memories blend with every other memory I have of me and Jordan. As friends. As bandmates. As lovers.

Laugher builds in my belly.

Knox glares at me over his shoulder. “What’s so funny, Bronson?” he asks.

I laugh a little more, then sigh. “It’s all going to be okay, guys.”

As the two of them stare questionably at me, the door to the cell block grinds open once again. The same guard returns, this time with Stella Walsh, the Botsford family lawyer. Her stiletto heels practically stab the floor as she bounds toward our cell, her graying blonde hair held back in a tight bun.

Uh-oh.

When she stops beyond the bars, Knox and Jonah take an instinctive step back. Her eyes narrow and her jaw fixes into a hard line as she looks at each of us, her ire digging into the little crow’s feet around her eyes.

“Again?!”she says, her voice booming through the cell block.

We all recoil and mutter together, “Sorry, Stella.”

My laughter is gone, but my smile remains.

Go get him, Jordan.

39

JORDAN

“Welcome home,” Christian says.

I give him a brief smile before turning back to the windows. Our taxi drifts through New York City, winding through traffic at a snail’s pace while my gut churns at a hundred miles per hour. My nerves shake with each breath, but I’ve kept it together this long.

Just a little further now.

When the Sugar Sound building comes into view, I take a breath and hold it fast. A familiar face stands on the sidewalk outside, her mouth twisting into a sinister grin as she spots our taxi.

Priscilla.

Chrissy’s evil twin and The Electric’s manager.

She steps forward to greet us as our taxi comes to a stop. Her long black hair hangs loosely at her sides, blending in with the black leather jacket she wears over a tight yellow dress that makes her appear like an honorary Shock Girl. Perhaps she is by now.

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