Page 77 of Don't Bang a Bandmate

“It’s New York,” he argues. “No one owns New York.”

“They might,” Addison says.

Jonah turns forward, putting his back to them. “Just ignore them,” he says.

I nod in agreement, happy for the free drink.

“And don’t forget,” Jordan says, “we’re working with them now.”

“Whatever,” Knox says with a sigh. He raises his glass to Logan, offering an equal bow before tossing it back. “We’ll play nice.”

Across the bar, Logan smirks.

“Well,” Addison says, shrugging it off, “I’m not gonna let that ruin a perfectly good evening.” She opens her hand to Harvey. “I wanna dance and you’re gonna dance with me.”

Harvey drops his hand onto hers. “Oh, I guess I will,” he jokes as the two of them hop up.

“Us, too!” Harmony says, fiercely grabbing Knox’s arm and hoisting him up. “I love this song.”

Knox throws on a pout, but his eyes screamyesas he leaves with her.

Without a word, Chrissy curls her fingers around August’s lapel and drags him reluctantly toward the dance floor.

Jonah nudges my arm, his brow furrowed. “Hey, you think those two are...you know...” He makes a fumbling gesture with his hands.

I shrug noncommittally.

“Jonah?” Katrina says, her voice small across the table. “Would you like to dance?”

Jonah smiles at her. “Yes, Ms. Benton,” he says, setting his empty glass down. “I would be delighted.”

She grins, her cheeks bright and pink from drink, and the two of them leave as well, swallowed up in the New York City crowd.

And then there were two.

Jordan makes an amused sound as she glances around the empty table. “It’s like senior prom all over again,” she jokes.

I nod.

Then… I silently extended my hand to her.

She looks at it for a long moment, thoughts and questions moving across her eyes. A memory, too, perhaps. I did the same for her before at the aforementioned prom.

Jordan smiles softly and takes my hand.

The lights shift above us. Spotlights turn toward the stage, the music’s volume dimming slowly as a man in full punk gear and a pink mohawk jumps up onto the empty stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen of New York City,” he announces into the microphone to waves of shouts and applause. “Put your beautiful hands together for tonight’s special guest. Coming at you tonight from our nation’s capital… the one, the only,Christian Myers!”

Jordan’s jaw drops. Her head whips toward the stage, along with everyone else who heard that name.

Everyone knows Christian Myers, the former lead singer of rock and roll’s former number one band, Cobraville.

Jordan’s hand slips out of mine as Christian takes the stage. The last time we saw him, he was... well, a complete wreck would be an understatement. He was far too thin, his face gaunt and aged far beyond his actual thirty-something years. His hair was long and unkempt. He lived life on the edge, never too far away from a vice of some kind — a fact that almost killed him and outright destroyed one of the biggest bands in modern music history.

Christian now stands tall on the stage in a pair of jeans that fit him well and a black T-shirt that just sayswhoops.His blond hair is trimmed and perfect, the multicolored spotlights filling it with color. He’s put on some healthy weight, his cheekbones no longer protruding out like a skeleton.

He’s clean. Sober.

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