Page 75 of Don't Bang a Bandmate

“Yes, you can,” he replies, playfully tapping the keycard against his palm.

“He’s obviously trying to woo me to take his offer. You realize that, right?”

“Oh, no shit.” He snorts. “Doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy it.”

“We’re only in the city for two nights.”

“So?”

Jordan exhales a heavy sigh as she scans the group; everyone’s expressions in various stages of excitement. Hell, even I’m curious what the executive suite at the New York City Botsford Plaza looks like.

“Okay, fine,” she says, bowing to the pressure. “We’ll take it.”

Knox grins. “Excellent.”

We all head toward the elevators, but not a single one of us taps the button for our actual floor. Instead, we follow Knox’s lead. He swipes the key through the reader on the wall, unlocking the path to the 40th floor.

Jordan releases one last heavy sigh, and we ride all the way up to the executive suite.

We all step off the elevator, whistling and humming at the impressive sight. Except Jonah, of course. He’s seen views like this on every single family vacation he’s ever taken in his life. But the rest of us swoon with awe at the sleek furnishings and floor-to-ceiling windows.

The best damn view of NYC I’ve ever seen in my life.

While the others escape into the living area and dining room, Jordan pauses at the kitchenette counter. There’s a bouquet of bright red roses in a vase waiting there, along with a basket of goodies, some from the usual Botsford Plaza welcoming committee, others from… someone else.

She picks up an envelope addressed to her and opens it. As she reads it quietly to herself, her brow grows heavier. I walk over to stand beside her, curious.

“From Mr. Paul Monroe,”she says, clearing her throat before reading aloud.“Enjoy the view, sweetheart. Soon it’ll be yours every day.”She scoffs as she tosses it aside. “Asshole.”

“You deserve to be spoiled for a while, I think,” I say.

She looks at me, a smile briefly touching her lips. “Thanks, Bronson,” she says.

“All right!” Behind her, Knox stands at the windows, his arms stretched out wide. “Let’s fucking party!”

Everyone hollers in agreement, except Jordan.

But I give her a smile, and she softens.

“All right.” Jordan grabs a bottle of something very expensive from the basket and holds it up. “Let’s fucking party,” she repeats.

23

BRONSON

No night in New York City is complete without a trip to The High Note.

It’s not the nicest bar in the city, nor is it tucked into the nicest neighborhood, but it’s fun and laid back — making it right up Criminal Records’ alley. Dim lights. Live music. Good booze.

What more could you ask for?

As we approach the bar just after nine, we’re already plenty tipsy. One-by-one, we hold up our IDs at the door, but the bouncer practically waves us in without much of a glance once he recognizes who we are.

Damn, that feels good.

Feels even better when Jonah slaps his credit card on the bar and tells the rest of us to go nuts.

Let’s fucking party.

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