Heartthrob Hotel Collection, page 42
Her voice sends warm tingles down my spine — just like it always has.
I enter her from behind and hold on to her body, embracing pleasure I can’t possibly call simple or meaningless anymore.
It’s everything.
“I love you, V,” I say back — just like I always will.
* * *
Just a Crush
A Friends-to-Lovers Romance
1
Jonah
I etch a line into my notebook right next to another one just like it. This pen is running out of ink, each mark more faded than the last, and I honestly can’t think of a better metaphor for what’s going on in my head right now.
I’ve got nothing.
I flip the notebook closed and stab the dying pen through the rugged metal loops barely holding the thing together. The constant chatter on the tour bus makes it difficult for inspiration to spark and I ran out of daylight hours ago anyway.
Welcome to Las Vegas.
I read the sign as we pass it on the highway and exhale hard.
Finally.
The tour is officially over. Four months. Fifty shows across North America. Our fourth tour in three years. Needless to say, I’m exhausted.
Soon, I’ll check into my hotel room at the Plaza, I’ll lay my head down on my pillow, and I won’t lift it ever again. Okay, that’s an exaggeration. But I want nothing more than to kick off my shoes, put my guitar firmly in its case, and sleep until next year.
I glance around the bus at my bandmates. Knox sits a few rows ahead of me with one knee lopped over the armrest. His spiky hair pokes out above the seat, intermittently jutting left and right as he chats with his sister, Katrina, across the aisle. She thumbs the loose strings on her violin bow, barely paying attention to him behind the curtain of pure yellow hair cascading down to her navel.
Addison lounges on the seat behind them with her head resting on a rolled-up hoodie. She passively adds to their conversation between page swipes on her Kindle.
A deep snore vibrates beneath the voices from somewhere near the front of the bus. That’d be Bronson.
And then there’s Jordan, our band manager. She hunches over her laptop a few rows behind me, poring over god-knows-what as she chugs that gigantic golden thermos she swiped from a Botsford Plaza gift shop in Seattle. Her eyes flick in my direction from behind her glasses and she tosses me a wave. I bob my head in recognition before shifting forward again.
Criminal Records. Music’s hottest band. The summer’s most-played album. It’s a nice feeling. I won’t lie about that. Overnight success is rarely overnight. Years of practice in my family’s guest house went into getting where we are now. Hours upon hours of work and long, sleepless nights. Days upon days of my billionaire dad casually rolling his eyes at the mere mention of me not following in his footsteps.
He raised me and my three brothers in his image; six-thousand-dollar suits and all. We were all supposed to be the back-up dancers to his powerful diva, inevitably ripping each other apart to get to his position, but it didn’t quite work out that way.
I told him at sixteen that wasn’t going to be me. I wanted to play music. I wanted to write songs and inspire people. I was born to be an artist; ripped jeans and all.
He walked away from the dinner table that night and locked himself in his office to mourn the loss of yet another one of his minions. At this point, only one of us followed his path. Graham, my oldest brother, wore the Botsford name proudly, and he was happy to do it. He liked the job — still does — and I’m happy for him.
Then, there was Hayden. He was the first to defy our father and I took careful notes from that awkward family dinner until the first time he hit a home run at Yankee Stadium.
Shortly after that, my third brother, Ira, joined the Marines. You wouldn’t think a father would have a problem with his son volunteering to serve his country, but then again you don’t know Kingston Botsford like we do.
Mom was ecstatic and supportive. Her father served, her brothers served, and she was proud that one of her boys would carry on that tradition. I’m positive she said a word or two in private to our father about that because he hasn’t objected to Ira wearing the uniform since the night he announced his enlistment.
Ira eventually came home and joined the family payroll as head of security at the Las Vegas branch — which reminds me. I need to call him and confirm which day I’m having dinner with him this week.
I slide the pen from my notebook and scribble a note on the back of my hand.
Ira Dinner. Question mark.
By the time it became my turn to disappoint our father, I knew exactly which vein in his forehead to watch out for.
And now, here I am, on a tour bus with my band’s logo on it, basking in the fruits of our award-winning, best-selling labor.
How do you like me now, Dad?
“Hey, Jonah.”
I glance up to find Jordan leering at me over the rims of her glasses. I bob my head, silently showing acknowledgment.
She smiles. “You’re tired.”
“Your observational skills are quite astute,” I say.
“And while his eyes may rest, his tongue never ceases.”
She gently kicks my ankle on the floor. I shift back far enough to let her slide past to sit in the window seat beside me. I scan the myriad empty seats around me, all far easier for her to get to, and cringe on the inside.
She’s got something she wants to talk about.
“What’s up, Jordan?” I ask.
Jordan plops into the seat and twists to face me. “I just figured I’d touch base with you before we drop you off. Let you know about... well, you know, upcoming meetings and gigs. Things of that nature…”
“Gigs?” I repeat.
“Yeah, you’re a band,” she says. “Generally, it’s my job as manager to get you gigs.”
I exhale. “Our tour just ended.”
She nods. “Right.”
“We literally played our last show a few hours ago.”
“You did. And you nailed it!” She makes a happy fist for emphasis.
“Our fiftieth show in...” I pause to count but my brain stalls. “As many days, I think…”
“What’s your point, Jo?” she asks.
“My point is that maybe you should give us a break,” I say. “Let us have some time off to recharge. Maybe get some freakin’ sleep.”
“See, now, I disagree. Because what we have here is momentum. Good momentum. Momentum makes the record label happy and when the record label is happy, we’re all very happy. If we stop now, we’ll kill the momentum, and that makes people sad.”
“We’ll live.”
“Okay, sure, it’s not exactly life and death, but... you’re kinda my odd man out here, bud. The rest of the band is totally on-board with our current upward thrust of momentum.”
“Then, they’ll live without me.”
Jordan pauses, halting mid-breath as she lowers her voice out of earshot of the others. “Jo...”
“Yes, Jo?” I ask.
“Please don’t quit the band.”
I look at her, feeling the urge to laugh but I’m just too damn tired. “I’m not quitting the band,” I whisper, matching her new volume.
“Because I’ve honestly been getting that vibe from you lately and it’s scaring the shit outta me.”
“I’m not quitting the band.”
“You’re my linchpin,” she says. “If you go, Knox goes. And if Knox goes, little sister Katrina goes. If she goes, there goes Addison, too. That leaves me with Bronson. Don’t get me wrong, he’s great, but one dude and a set of drums ain’t filling venues.”
“I’m not quitting the band,” I repeat. “I just want some time off.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Six months?”
Jordan winces. “I can’t give you six months.”
“Then, how long can you give me?”
She looks up, visibly thinking hard as she mulls it over, though it’s more than a little obvious she’s just stalling before dropping bad news.
Classic Jordan.
“A week,” she finally says.
For fuck’s sake.
“A week?” I ask.
“We have a pre-production meeting on Friday...”
I shake my head. “You’ve gotta be kidding me, Jordan.”
“And a gig on Tuesday.”
“This Tuesday? Two days from now?”
“No, next Tuesday. Nine days from now.” She taps my shoulder. “Little more than a week on that one, eh? You’re welcome.”
I bite my tongue hard. “Where?”
“At the Sin and Sand. They helped launch us in the beginning. Keeping a good relationship there is important.”
Can’t argue with that. “And a meeting on Friday? For what?”
Her hands turn up. “For the new album.”
“What new album?”
“Our new album.”
“We don’t have a new album.”
“Yes, that’s why it’s a pre-production meeting,” she says. “To plan the next album. All you have to do is show up with everything you’ve been working on and we’ll go from there. Easy peasy. I ran it by Fiona during the show tonight and she said we’re welcome to take over the guest house for the meeting, as usual.”
I sigh. Thanks, Mom.
“Well, I’ll save us all the trouble,” I say. “I’m not working on anything.”
Jordan furrows her brow. “Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Then, what have you been scribbling in your notebook literally this entire tour?” she asks.
I tighten my grip on it. “Nothing that’s ready enough for a production meeting.”
“So, you have nothing?” she asks.
“Nothing but a headache at the moment.”
Jordan sighs. “Well, you have five days between now and then. You and Knox need to come up with something.”
Before I can object, Jordan rises out of her seat. I close my mouth and slouch back, giving her enough space to slide out into the aisle again.
Five days? Five days?!
So much for my plan to get some sleep.
“Jonah.”
I glare up at her. She grins.
“Just... you know... find your muse,” she says. “Tap into the tree of music and let it flow.”
I scoff. “You make it sound so easy.”
“Eh, I tried. That’s all I’m asking from you, too.”
“Fine.” I nod. “I will try, Jordan.”
She makes that happy fist again. “Excellent!”
“No guarantees,” I say as she spins around and retreats to her seat at the back of the bus.
I slink my head back and pull my beanie down a bit to cover my eyes.
Find my muse.
What a crock.
I absolutely adore Jordan but she’s not the creative type. She’s business-minded and damn good at her job — always has been ever since she self-appointed herself our manager way back when we were in high school — but she’s always been a bit whimsical as to what actually goes into making music.
It ain’t muses and tapping trees, that’s for sure.
I wasn’t lying to her. I don’t have anything in this notebook. I’ve spent this entire summer spitting out everything that popped into my head, but I’ve come up with nothing.
I haven’t written a new song from start-to-finish in eight months if you don’t count the yearly song I churn out and dedicate to my mother for her birthday, but there’s no pressure there. She’s loved every note I’ve ever played since the day I first slammed a mixing spoon against a saucepan.
But a new track?
The long-awaited follow-up to the summer’s most over-played album?
And all eyes are on me?
Now that’s pressure.
The bus comes to a slow stop.
“Jonah, your palace awaits!” Jordan announces, making the others chuckle around the bus.
I slide my beanie back up and squint at the bright, flashing lights of Las Vegas as I crane my neck to look outside. The Botsford Plaza Hotel towers in the sky above our heads, a shining capital B at the very top.
“Yay,” I say, pulling myself up to stand.
“I’ll make sure the trailer drops the equipment off at your house in the morning,” Jordan adds from her seat near the back.
I grab my duffel from the seat behind me. “Thanks,” I say.
“See you Friday, bud.”
I nod. “Friday,” I repeat through my teeth.
Knox shoots a hand up into the air as I walk toward the front, equal parts stopping me and offering an end-of-tour high-five. “Wanna hang this week?” he asks.
I slap it as hard as possible, but he doesn’t even cringe. “Sure,” I say. “Just text me.”
Addison throws her hand up as well, but I don’t hit her nearly as hard (she’s very protective of her strum hand). “Bye, Jo,” she says.
“Bye, Addy.”
Katrina whacks my rear with her bow as I pass her. I hiss like a cat. Not quite sure why we do this, but it has become a ritual regardless, including Knox’s protective brotherly glare.
I stop near the front and pat our driver on the back, the hardest working man in the band if you want my opinion. “Thanks, Mac,” I tell him.
“See you next time, Botsford,” he grunts.
I smile and look at Bronson in the seat behind him. His head lies sprawled back along the headrest, mouth agape and snoring loudly.
“Hey, Bronson,” I say. Nothing. “Bronson. Bronson. Yo, Bronson.”
The others laugh as I tap his forehead but he’s out.
“Eh, I’ll catch you later, man,” I say, giving the rest of the bus a final wave. “Goodnight, guys.”
“Bye, Jonah!”
I step off the bus with my duffel slouched over one shoulder. The door closes behind me and I turn my head up as my eyes climb the thirty stories to the top of the tower once again.
Home sweet home.
I walk inside with my hood up and my head down. It’s the middle of the night but that doesn’t mean I won’t be recognized. Especially in a building with my name on it.
Fortunately, the place seems mostly deserted. There are only a few people scattered throughout the golden lobby, lounging in chairs or stumbling out of the bar or restaurant, either too tired or too wasted to notice I’m even here.
I pass right by the empty front desk and curl around it toward the bar on the far side instead.
Please let it still be open.
I wince as I notice the chairs stacked up on top of the tables, but the rope isn’t up yet. I continue forward, catching sight of the man in jeans and a tight, white t-shirt doing all the chair stacking.
“Hey, Doc,” I greet.
He spins around and I lower my hood. “Jonah!” he greets me with a grin as he props the last chair on top of the table.
I drop my duffel to the floor and hop onto a stool at the bar. “Did I miss last call?” I ask.
He checks his watch as he wanders behind the counter. “Two minutes to spare but I’d serve you either way. What’ll you have?”
“Just a beer is fine. Whatever you’ve got handy. Thank you.”
“Easy clean-up. Thank you,” he says.
I chuckle as he pops a cap off and sets the bottle down in front of me.
“You just get in?” he asks.
“Yeah. We played our last show in LA tonight, then I grabbed a burger with Hayden, and now I’m here.”
“Oh, yeah? How’s he doing?”
I take a quick sip. “He’s... happy.”
Doc’s nose turns up. “Weird.”
“That’s what I thought, too.”
“Good for him.”
“What’s been going on back here?” I ask, filling my belly with my ice-cold drink. “Have I missed anything exciting?”
Doc grabs a dishtowel and runs it along the bar. “Not really. Been a boring time overall with all the Botsford boys out of the house.”
“Graham and Jen still in Canada?” I ask.
“And Ira moved off-site with Towel Girl. It’s been real quiet lately.”
“Well...” I take a drink, “I might not be around for too long either. Got another gig in a week.”
He squints. “But your tour just ended.”
“Yeah, apparently not.”
“And you have another gig already?”
“According to Jordan, forward momentum is more important than sleeping,” I say.
“Burnout’s a bitch, though,” he says.
I nod, feeling it. “Yes, it is.”
“You should tell that manager of yours that. Or better yet, I’ll tell her. I am your family physician. A note from me would go a long way.”
I laugh. “I might take you up on that.”
“Just lemme know.”
I pour the last of my beer down my throat and set it down, along with a few crumpled dollars from my pocket. “I’m gonna go to bed. Still need to check into my room.”
Doc swipes the empty bottle and cash off the bar. “Take care, man.”
“You, too.”
I grab my duffel and make my way toward the lobby. It’s even emptier now than it was before. Busy traffic passes by the front windows outside, lighting up the Las Vegas Strip behind me as I walk toward the front desk.
As I get closer to the counter, a voice touches my ears. She’s a little off-key — okay, a lot off-key — but it’s the lyrics more than anything that catches my attention.
“Down down baby, all the way
Down down baby, whadya say?”
I wrote that.
She’s singing one of my songs.
I stop in front of the desk and pause, craning my neck forward to find its source somewhere behind it.
A young woman sits cross-legged on the floor with her back to me. She holds a dust cloth in her hand and a bottle of cleaner in the other, gently wiping off the wooden shelves as she quietly belts out the familiar song.
“The lights are low
and the time is right.”
I smile to myself and fold my arms on the counter. Based on the shoulder-length red hair, I already know this is Marla, the night desk girl. She doesn’t talk much, at least not to me, so hearing her sing is little... mesmerizing.
