Page 100 of Don't Bang a Bandmate

Somewhere between the midnight blue stage lights and the thumping bass, I stand still. I take a deep breath. As I let it out, a smile touches my lips and… it was all worth it. The travel.The last-minute changes. The stress of just getting them to the show on time is over and I lose what little control I have of the situation. I’ve done my part. It’s in their hands now.

What will happen, will happen.

Tonight, in Philadelphia, that moment of calm and contentment lingers a little longer than usual.

As the band plays, I stand offstage, watching and listening. Usually, I’m on the move again by now, settling things with the venue and making sure the post-show meet and greet arrangements are still a-go. But tonight, I settle into the pause.

I listen to the music.

I watch the show.

I watch Bronson.

I never have to worry about him not bringing his A-game. I’ve heard countless stories from other managers about problem drummers, but that’s never been my reality with Criminal Records. Bronson is... the best there is. In all the ways one man can be.

I watch him bang on his drums; the tight, little muscles of his forearms dancing as if they, too, have caught the rhythm. There’s a layer of sweat on his brow. Little wet beads drip from his nose to his shoes. His arms do this as his feet do that and I, once again, marvel at the skill of professional musicians.

Like… I can walk and balance a book on my head easily. Butthis?

I’ll stick to spreadsheets and phone calls.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Each strike of Bronson’s drum sends pulses across my skin. Blood pounds through my veins, awakening a few thoughts and feelings that… I really shouldn’t be having.

I’m definitely dropping a pen tonight.

And every night for the rest of my life.

No, Jordan.

That’s not how this works.

I chew on my cheek as the song ends, and Bronson quickly launches them into another, a fan-favorite Harmony-era track calledHoller at the Back.The crowd goes wild for it.

Meanwhile, I sink deeper into my thoughts.

I’ve spent so much time telling myself we can’t be together. But have I ever really considered... why not? I’m his manager, sure. But why else?

What exactly makes us so incompatible?

He’s a slob. I’m not. But I wouldn’t call that a deal-breaker necessarily.

I’m by-the-book. He’s a little more loose-y goose-y than I’d like, but, again, he’s always where he needs to be, when he needs to be there.

He’s quiet.

And thoughtful.

And loyal. And...

Jordan, stop,I tell myself.

None of that matters.

He doesn’t feel the same way.

I take another deep breath, this time holding it in until my lungs scream.

---