Twenty-Three

 

Crew Calls and Union Rules

 

Sunlight spilled across the rumpled sheets, warm and unforgiving. Jon blinked against it, eyes gritty, body registering soreness in layers: shoulders first, then his back, then thighs. Muscles well-used—and for damn good reason.

Last night came back in fragments. Steam curling off the shower. Ari’s mouth on him. The way she laughed when he tried to form a coherent sentence and failed. How the water had turned cold long before she dragged him back to bed like she wasn’t close to finished.

She hadn’t been. Neither had he.

His hand drifted automatically to the other side of the bed. Cool sheets. Empty space. He wasn’t surprised.

Of course she was gone.

A note waited on the pillow, ripped hotel stationery, handwriting sharp and familiar. Crash through and through.

Thanks for the orgasms. My crew needs me. Went ahead to the arena.
And, yes, I took Cliff with me.

See you later.
xoxox

Jon let out a low groan, part laugh, part disbelief. She was already up? After that night?

He’d lost count somewhere between the third orgasm and the double order of cheese fries she swore she needed to “refuel.” They hadn’t shut their eyes until after three, and now she was upright, dressed, probably bossing Cliff and the rest of the crew around like nothing had happened.

Meanwhile, he could barely roll over.

Scrubbing a hand down his face, he squinted at the digital clock.

11:45.

Matt would be pounding on the door any minute.

“Oof.” He groaned as he pushed upright, wincing when fresh aches made themselves known. Muscles he didn’t even know could hurt… did.

A shower. A hot one. That’d fix it. He hoped.

Snatching the towel off the floor, he shuffled toward the bathroom. His reflection in the mirror caught him on the way, and he paused just long enough to catalog the damage.

Hair: sex-tousled.
Mouth: still a little swollen.
Chest: dotted with faint love bites, a breadcrumb trail of her persistence.

He huffed a laugh. “Jesus.”

The water blasted hot right away, steam curling upward like it had last night, when the shower was less about cleaning up and more about… well. His hand braced against the tile as the spray pounded into his shoulders, glorious and punishing at once. Eyes closed, jaw slack, he let the film reel play. Ari biting back a laugh when he tried to speak. Her smile when he lifted her into his arms.

Yeah. He wasn’t done with her. Not by a long shot.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, shaking his head as he reached for the shampoo, a grin tugging despite the ache in his bones.

He washed quickly and killed the water, steam chasing him out onto the mat. Towel slung low on his hips, he wiped the mirror clear with a swipe and rubbed at his face. No time to shave. The stubble would have to ride.

Back in the bedroom, he tugged on his jeans with a grunt, found his crumpled T-shirt at the foot of the bed, and shook it out before pulling it over his head.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from Matt.

Three knocks. You’ve been warned.

Jon rolled his eyes. “Smartass.”

Right on cue, three heavy raps hit the door.

“Let’s go, old man,” Matt’s voice carried through, smug. “Your wife’s got four hours on you.”

Jon grabbed his bag, swung the door open, and grunted a single word.

“Asshole.”

Matt smirked, eyes flicking over him like a scoreboard. “I see someone forgot his happy pills this morning.”

Jon just shook his head, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him, twitching upward. His brother wasn’t wrong.

♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱

 

Ariana sat cross-legged in the middle of the arena floor, her back pressed against one of the production road cases, the cool metal grounding her in the cavernous space. Without the seats in place, the arena felt impossibly vast, an empty shell waiting to be filled. Every sound echoed — footsteps, shouted orders, the clang of rigging against steel — bouncing off the walls until it all blurred into the familiar hum of a show being built. Her show.

Her laptop glowed in front of her, cursor blinking, but her eyes weren’t on the screen. She couldn’t help watching her crew instead. Kennedy stood in his usual command stance, barking orders at a handful of stagehands with sharp gestures toward the far side of the stage. Stan was crouched nearby, tape measure pulled taut as if he were settling a score with gravity itself. Lefty sat hunched behind the lighting desk, already cycling through cues, bathing the empty stage in shifting washes of color, hunting perfection in every flicker.

It made her chest ache, this sight. The steady rhythm of it. The trust. The machine she had built, piece by piece, running because they believed in her.

She glanced at the corner of her laptop. 1:00 P.M. Had she really been here for five hours?

Jon had still been tangled in the sheets when she’d slipped out — his face softened in sleep, the faintest crease still etched in his brow. She hadn’t wanted to leave. God, she hadn’t. If her bladder hadn’t dragged her upright for the tenth time, she might still be curled into his warmth, letting herself forget what the day demanded. But sleep wasn’t coming, not with the restlessness in her chest. She’d sent Cliff a quick text, told him she’d be ready in ten, and walked out the door before she could second-guess herself.

Her fingers returned to the keyboard now, moving automatically, typing out production notes for the month’s remaining shows. Two nights at Madison Square Garden — a dream venue even after all these years — and then D.C.’s Verizon Center. Big, union-heavy stops. High stakes. She needed every detail ironed out.

The crackle of her radio broke through her thoughts.

“Boss, catering says lunch is up in fifteen. You want the usual, or you feelin’ human today?” Kennedy’s voice, dry as always.

Ariana smiled despite herself and pressed the button clipped to her shirt. “Anything with grease dripping down my fingers and fries. And remind everyone, crew meeting’s at two sharp. I don’t care if they’re still chewing.”

“Copy that. Threat received. I’ll rattle the cages.”

The line clicked off, and she chuckled softly. This — this rhythm of small rituals and quick exchanges — was as much home as any house with a white picket fence could be.

Closing her laptop, she rose, stretching out her legs with a groan that betrayed just how long she’d been sitting. The arena spread out before her, a canvas half-painted, and she felt that flicker of pride again: the quiet certainty that, for all the chaos, they were right where they needed to be.

Then came the familiar nudge.

She stilled, hand drifting instinctively to her belly.

Really? Again?

A sigh slipped out. Another trip to the bathroom. Pregnancy didn’t care how many shows you had to run.

Tucking the laptop under one arm and clipping her radio back to her belt, she started toward the hallway that led to the backstage restrooms. The faint scent of lunch — grilled meat, something fried — was already drifting on the air.

By the time she returned, the crew had gathered as if pulled by an invisible string. Chairs loosely arranged in a half-circle, two dozen familiar faces scattered across them — some perched, some leaning, others still clutching coffee cups or cookies. But all present. All waiting.

She stepped into the center, pulse steady, voice sure.

“Alright, settle in. This won’t take long. MSG is in two days, D.C. right after. That means we’re heading into union-heavy territory, and I don’t want to hear a single complaint about dock assignments or who gets to plug in what.”

The ripple of laughter warmed her, but she didn’t let it linger. These were veterans, people she’d stolen, poached, or begged into her orbit, and they knew she could keep them sharp.

“I’ll push revised call times to your phones tonight. D.C. moved us up by an hour, and MSG is tighter than usual on dock flow. I’m working directly with them. Kennedy will be running point on ALL staging once we’re on the ground. No exceptions.”

“I’ll try to be charming,” Kennedy muttered from the side. “But don’t push it.”

“Missing gear tags, clearance issues — I need to know tonight,” Ariana continued, scanning their faces. “Don’t assume someone else caught it.”

The arena door creaked open then, and heads turned. The band filtered in, Jon at the rear, sunglasses shielding eyes that screamed he’d only been awake half an hour.

“No soundcheck tonight,” he said, lifting a hand before ducking out of sight.

“Someone had a rough night,” Kennedy smirked.

“You heard him,” Ari countered smoothly, shifting her stance. “Triple checks on everything.”

A chuckle rolled through the crew, but the moment dissolved back into focus.

“Before I end this, any questions, comments, threats?”

“Still not enough lemon bars,” Stan drawled, hand raised lazily.

She shook her head. “Take it up with catering. Let’s get back to work.”

Radios snapped back on, chairs scraped, and just like that, her crew dissolved into motion again, the tide pulling them back to their stations. She lingered for a heartbeat, watching the pieces of her empire fall into place, before catching Kennedy’s nod and slipping into the hallway.