Page 7 of Don't Bang a Bandmate

I can’t have sex with Bronson! I mean, sure, I’ve wondered what it would be like. Who hasn’t? There’s plenty of gossip out there from groupies and more of Criminal Records’ myriad admirers.

Those who know say that Bronson Isaacs is great in bed.

He’s eager. Full of stamina.

And he likes to talk dirty.

Hard to imagine. Bronson barely says more than a few words a day. But it’s what I’ve heard. In bed, Bronson says some… interesting things.

I bite my cheek, curious.

I shake my head, resisting the urge to find out.

I glance at my phone, utterly failing.

“No,” I whisper as I approach it.

“Don’t,” I say as I pull it off its charger.

But why not?I ask myself silently.Why shouldn’t I?

Everyone else is breaking the rules.

Why can’t I?

Because I’m supposed to be the example!A voice replies from deep inside, preventing me from opening my contact book.

I’m the adult in the room. I can’t bang a bandmate. It’s one of our oldest rules — rules that I fucking wrote.

Besides, Bronson is probably asleep by now, anyway. Whatever might have happened tonight has already passed, the ship sailing far on a jet black horizon. No going back now.

“Just go to bed,” I say as I set the phone back down on my bedside table.

Beneath it lies my clipboard, the top sheet stuffed to the margins with to-dos and a long list of my daily responsibilities as manager of the hottest rock band in the—aw, fuck it!

I pick up the phone and call Bronson.

He answers within two rings. That’s good. If a third went through, I might have talked myself out of this.

I still can, though.

There’s still time to hang up and go to be?—

“Hey, Bronson,” I say, clearing my throat and banishing the thought. “It’s me. It’s Jordan.”

He says nothing.

“Sorry if I woke you,” I say. “I was just... well, I’m getting ready for bed and stuff and I… I was thinking about what you asked me downstairs. In the bar tonight, I mean. You remember. I’m sure you…” I bite down. “Anyway, I was just curious if that was, like… a one-time offer or?—”

A knock taps my door, making me flinch.

“Hold on,” I say as I walk toward it. “There’s someone at my?—”

I open the door and freeze.

Bronson stands in the hall with his phone pressed against one ear, wearing nothing but a pair of blue slacks from the Botsford Plaza gift shop back in Las Vegas.

No shirt. No shoes.

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