Page 9 of Perfect Storm

We’ve gotten close to the band, especially after Jordan and Alessa got together and we all record at the same studio. We’ve toured together a few times, too. I’m not sure for how much longer. They’re becoming a headliner in their own right, and don’t need to be a support act.

I click into the news story and curse.

“What?” Elsa looks up from her own laptop.

“Riley.”

Her nose scrunches. “What has she done now?” She unfolds herself from the chair and comes to stand behind the sofa, reading over my shoulder. “Is she serious?”

“Looks like,” I say.

It isn’t a very reputable site but they’re reporting a tell-all interview about the inner workings of Red Alert and how it all fell apart. Which it hasn’t. She’s just no longer a part of it.

“Didn’tshecheat on Nash?”

I nod. I hate any talk of cheating. Our wires were crossed three years ago. Elsa still got hurt seeing me with another woman. I rub the back of my head, trying not to let the discomfort show. Her hand comes down and squeezes my shoulder. She doesn’t say anything, continuing to read the story, but it’s enough to reassure me.

“What a bitch,” she says, straightening up. “Why can’t she just leave it alone?”

“She feels hard done by,” I point out. “It was her band, too. She was there from the start.”

“But it’s her own fault she got kicked out.”

“She left of her own free will.”

“Then the press will kickherass,” she shakes her head. “Silly girl.”

I smile at how she can go from calling her a bitch to a silly girl.

“Do you think Jordan knows?”

I shrug. Half the time Jordan is off in la la land, but I guess it will affect Alessa, so maybe he does.

“You should call him.”

I frown. Yeah, he’s one of my best friends, but we don’t go running to each other at the slightest hiccup.

If he needs to talk, he’ll find us. That’s just the way we work. Unless we’re doing something fucking stupid, then the whole band gangs up on you. Most of the time, it’s Jordan doing something stupid.

“He’ll find out soon, if he hasn’t already. He doesn’t need me calling him.”

“You men,” she says, going back to her table. “He might need your support. I’ll call Alessa,” she adds.

“Leave it, for now. It’s a band thing.”

She pouts but goes back to her work. Elsa gets what I mean. She comes to all our parties and gigs, and I always let her know of any shows or press we’re doing, but stuff like this, especially when it’s not our band, we’re best steering clear of.

Closing the laptop on that negativity, I stand and stretch, feeling like going for a swim. There is a gym and pool in the basement of the apartment building. I ask Elsa to join but she’s busy, so I leave her to it, reluctantly.

I grab my gear and am about to leave when my phone rings. I glance at the screen, it’s Adam.

“Yo,” I greet him.

“Have you got a card off Jordan?”

“Like a birthday card?” I ask.

“It’s not your birthday, is it?”

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