Page 65 of Don't Bang a Bandmate

Our little broken rule.

When we arrive at the campsite, Mac drives further in to get as far away from the other campers as possible. We park in the perfect clearing, somewhere with enough trees for privacy while also providing a good view of the star-filled sky. Then we all stuff our arms full of whatever pillows and blankets we have on the bus and make our way outside.

Before I take a step toward the exit, a firm hand grips my arm. I instantly pause, casually finding a reason to stay back while the others rush off excitedly.

Once we’re alone, Bronson shifts closer. I wait with tension, knowing that any of them could hop back on the bus at any moment and witness… whatever is about to happen.

Clearing my throat, I act natural. “What’s up, Bronson?” I ask.

He holds out a keycard. A hotel room keycard.

“What’s that for?” I ask.

“Consider it my signal,” he says, his eyes light, full of humor and fun and sweet promises.

“Oh.” I pocket the card as a half-dozen shoes stomp across the roof above. “I’m sure I’ll make use of it.”

“Tonight,” he says. “I have a surprise for you.”

I frown. “I hate surprises.”

“You’ll like this one.”

A shudder involuntarily. “All right.”

Bronson steps back, the secrets in his eyes gone in a blink. “Star bus!” he shouts.

I chuckle as he rushes off the bus to join the others, prompting several echoes of“Star bus!”as he goes.

I take a moment to myself, enjoying the quiet comfort of the empty bus; a place full of work and fun and, recently, extremely smutty trysts.

I prepare myself for yet another night of work and fun and...surprises.

But deep in my stomach, there’s a subtle shift of unease. Everything is changing. Everythinghaschanged. And will continue to change.

I’m not a huge fan of change. It’s about as appealing to me as surprises are. But this time… I don’t know.

Maybe change is a good thing.

Pushing it aside, I smile and whisper“Star bus”before hurrying to join the others on the roof.

I lookboth ways down the empty hallway then slide the keycard through the lock.

A deep breath, and I open the door. “Bronson?” I ask as I step inside.

His suite is nearly identical to mine, opening into a large room with forest green walls and a queen-sized bed with bright white linens. There is no Botsford Plaza Hotel in Toronto, but this place is similar enough in style and luxury.

The lights are off, except for a singular lamp sitting by the bed, casting the rest of the space in shadow. The bathroom door is closed, but a slither of light pools out from the bottom.

“Bronson?”

A moment later, the bathroom door slides open. He’s changed out of his clothing from earlier and now wears a pair of grey sweatpants and a white tank that shows off his perfectly toned drummer arms.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” I say. “I came up as soon as I could. Chrissy and I had some details to work out with Mac before the drive tomorrow.”

“New York City,” he says, his voice tinged with excitement.

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