Page 39 of Don't Bang a Bandmate

I walk down the hall to his suite. After a few deep breaths, I knock on the door and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

A few more knocks, and I decide he’s ass-deep in a REM cycle.

Or maybe…

I bound down the hall to the elevator and tap the button that takes me down to the underground parking garage. It’s a fifty-fifty shot, but sometimes Bronson likes to sleep on the tour bus because he finds the beds at Botsford Plazas to be against his liking. It’s not that unusual for me to hop aboard in the early morning hours to get some work done, only to find Bronson snoring in the back, his limbs hanging akimbo out of a bunk.

Personally, I want my coffin to be lined with those incredible Botsford Plaza sheets, but to each their own.

The garage is quiet and empty, but well-lit enough for me to make out the Criminal Records logo at the far end of the lot.

Safe and secure.

I make my way over to the bus with my phone in hand, quickly swiping open my access card as I go. Once I reach thelocked doors of the bus, I lean over and scan the barcode on my phone to the reader by the door.

It chimes green and the doors slide open.

I smile, the familiar sound of Bronson’s deep sleep reaching my ears already.

I step onto the bus and close the doors, which automatically lock behind me. “Bronson?” I ask in the dark.

No reply. Just snores.

I flick on the light above the driver's seat, illuminating the front table while keeping the rest of the bus in the dark. “Bronson?” I say again as I approach the back bunks.

Still, just snores.

There are only four bunks on the bus, far too few for the whole band to sleep at once, but it’s rare for all of us to require that at the same time, anyway. And it’s easy enough sometimes to put your head down on the table or sprawl out on a bench nearby.

I sit down on the bunk across from him and sigh. “Bronson?” I ask, raising my voice above a whisper, hoping to wake him in the nicest way possible. “Bronson?”

Still, he doesn’t stir.

I slide the curtain open, allowing for a bit of light to shine on his face. He’s sleeping on his back, his torso exposed, and I say a silent prayer of gratitude that he kept his pants on.

I tap on his shoulder. “Bronson.”

He twitches, but doesn’t wake up.

“Bronson.Bronson!”

He lurches awake.“Huh?”Glancing around, his heavy eyelids threaten to pull him back down, but my sudden presence keeps him conscious. “Jordan?”

“Hi,” I say. “Sorry to wake you.”

“Is it morning?” he grunts.

“No. It’s late. Or early, depending on your perspective.”

Bronson turns onto his side and balances himself up on one elbow to look at me questionably.

“Sorry,” I say again. “I just... I needed to talk to somebody, and I thought maybe you’d be up to listen. Just for a few minutes?”

He rubs his eyes once, banishing a little of that heavy tiredness, and looks at me again.

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