Brandon says goodbye to a half-dozen friends as we stand on the sidewalk outside an upscale Manhattan restaurant. He had called me earlier to invite me to meet them for a very early dinner. I could tell he enjoyed treating his old Julliard friends to a nice meal on his dime, courtesy of his now being a highly paid rock star. Having someone at a nearby table recognize him and ask for an autograph was icing on the cake.

Someone asked Brandon if he would be staying on with the band now, and he just shrugged. That’s a topic the band hasn’t brought up at this point, and Brandon is reluctant to push them on the issue. Jordan Maris, the original keyboard player, won’t be in rehab forever, and his wealth and fame helped him avoid any charges in the overdose death of the prostitute he was with when the shit hit the fan. Jordan’s not exactly a beloved figure in his native England these days, though, so his possible return to Harem is a sticky subject.

Brandon and I walk arm-in-arm toward Madison Square Garden. The concert doesn’t start until eight, but there’s an early sound check. We arrive and head toward the back entrance, but already a couple dozen fans are waiting for a glimpse of Harem.

“Brandon!” one young girl shouts, running towards us with a friend in tow. This is all still new to Brandon, and he politely takes the time to sign autographs and pose for pictures with everyone. Although he’s got the hot rocker look like the other band members, he’s almost too nice to be a rock star. But the fans seem to have already accepted him as part of Harem.

I’ve certainly accepted him as part of my own harem. I watch him interact with fans and my heart bursts with pride. I have such a warm love for Brandon, probably since I’m the girl who took his virginity. Then again, if I think of any of the other four members of the band, I get that same feeling. Jason, Ian, Zilla, Nick… every one of them.

I’m truly in love with five men at the same time. It’s mind-blowing.

As Brandon and I walk out into the nearly empty arena, I see the other band members are already there, as is Griff, their portly, bearded manager. I break into a huge grin at the sign of them.

“Now that the stragglers have arrived,” Griff says, “I need everyone to join me backstage in your green room for an end-of-tour meeting. I have some important matters to discuss before you start the soundcheck and all your silly pre-show rituals.”

The band laughs, knowing that each of them has a peculiar way of preparing for a show. Jason meditates with incense, Ian spends nearly an hour playing guitar by himself, Zilla floats in his portable sensory-deprivation tank, Brandon listens to jazz, and Nick watches cartoons.

Once we’re all in the green room, Griff gets down to business. “So we have reached the merciful end of what could easily have been Harem’s farewell tour. Thanks to some quick thinking on my part, and the sterling image rehabilitation efforts of Ms. Lambert here, you scallywags still have a recording contract and a future as rock stars.”

Then Griff adds the cherry on top: “And we seem to have ourselves a number one record.”

Everyone explodes with cheers. I’m stunned more than anyone, because the record he’s referring to is my song, Little Miracle. The band wrote it for me (and about me) while we were in Fiji, busy trying to come up with a solution to the publicity firestorm set off by Jordan’s scandal. They’ve been playing it at the shows, and it was so well-received that Crisis Records insisted they record it during our four-night Los Angeles gig. The song was released three weeks ago and we knew it was rising fast in the charts, but number one?

“Unfortunately…” Griff says loudly, then pauses. When the commotion dies down a little, he continues. “Unfortunately, this presents a problem. We no longer have the luxury of taking time off before recording our next album. Crisis wants it as soon as possible, so they can capitalize on the popularity of Little Miracle.”

“Meaning…?” Jason asks, likely already knowing the answer.

“Meaning no vacation until that album is in the can,” Griff replies, to groans all around. “Sorry, boys, but trust me: A number-one record is a good problem to have, especially when it’s the first you’ve had in five years. I’ve taken the liberty of booking a full month at SoCal Sound, and we’ll be flying to Los Angeles immediately after tonight’s show.”

I look around the room and see the happy faces have all turned sour. Nobody seems thrilled with this turn of events.

“No,” Ian says.

“No what?” asks Griff.

“No, we won’t do it. Los Angeles is not a healthy environment for us right now. LA has too many distractions, too much nightlife, too many people. Too much everything. That’s a recipe for disaster—and for a lousy album. We need a working vacation, where we can relax and write songs, then record them. We need to go somewhere where we can focus.”

“And where exactly would you suggest we do this?” Griff is obviously perturbed.

“Wolfshire,” Ian says. “I’ll host everyone. You have Hendrich Recorders bring down their mobile studio and park that huge console truck in the driveway. We’ll write and record there while we decompress from this tour.”

“That’s not a recording studio,” Griff says. “The sound will be shite.”

“Bollocks,” Zilla pipes up. “The Stones' Exile on Main St. and Radiohead's OK Computer were recorded in homes in the English countryside. Many others, too. Hell, Led Zeppelin recorded half their songs at Headley Grange. Ian’s right, Wolfshire is perfect.”

“Fuck yes, it is,” says Jason, suddenly excited. “I don’t fucking want to go to Los Angeles right now. We all need peace and quiet, not constant buzzing.”

Griff looks from man to man. When he gets to Brandon, he says, “What do you think about this idea, Yank?” Nobody likes his nickname for Tulsa-born Brandon, but Griff thinks it’s funny and persists on using it.

Brandon seems confused and hesitates while everyone stares at him, awaiting a response. “Am I going to be involved in the new album?”

“Yes!” the other four band members shout simultaneously.

Brandon flinches, then breaks into a big smile. “In that case, what the fuck is Wolfshire?”

Everyone laughs except me, because I’ve been wondering the same thing.

“Wolfshire Court is Ian’s country manor,” Griff says, “less than an hour south of London.”

“It’s a 17th-century estate on two hundred acres,” Ian says proudly. “More bedrooms than I can count, and a guest house with a built-in gym. Lavish gardens, a rose maze with a swimming pool, koi pond, the works.”

That sure sounds like nirvana to me.

I bite my lip, wondering if I’ll ever see it, considering my agreed-upon time with Harem is over at the end of tonight’s show.

Nothing lasts forever, right? I’m sure all the guys are going to want to see me from time to time. Still, one long-distance relationship is bad enough, much less five.

I was so not prepared for this.

My heart breaks at the idea that we may soon be resuming our former lives and going our separate ways. It leaves a physical ache in the middle of my chest.

I tell myself that maybe it’s for the best. I do have a career to resume, I guess, though I’m not nearly as enthusiastic about it as I once was.

* * *

The soundcheck is brief, since the band has already performed here the previous two nights. Everyone seems upbeat, excited to finish the tour on a good note after things threatened to go sour when news broke about Jordan Maris’s little dead-hooker stunt and his affair with the duchess. Griff seems particularly happy as we watch the band go through a half-dozen partial songs.

They finish the last song and the final notes are still echoing around the cavernous arena when I hear a sound coming from behind me, from the end of the floor opposite the stage.

It’s a slow clap, just like in the movies.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

I turn to see a lone figure approaching down the center aisle, continuing to applaud sarcastically.

“Bravo! Bravo!”

The man comes out of the shadows and I recognize him at once.

It’s Jordan, Harem’s original keyboardist.

Griff stiffens at my side. “Well, fuck all.”

Jordan looks pretty much like I remember from the Harem poster on my college dorm room wall. For someone fresh out of rehab, he seems relatively healthy. He’s wearing faded black jeans and black boots, and a gray shirt, unbuttoned halfway down his chest and with the sleeves rolled up. His arms are heavily tattooed, and he’s wearing multiple silver bracelets on both wrists, and several necklaces draped around his neck.

He’s definitely rock-star sexy, but there’s something different about him compared to the Harem members I know and love. When he approaches Griff and me and stops with a grin, I see what it is: Jordan has a dark aspect to him, something behind those deep brown eyes that looks unstable.

“Griff, how the fuck are you?” He looks like he can’t decide whether to hug Griff or punch him, but he settles for a handshake which is obviously not enjoyed by either party. “I hear things are going well.”

“No thanks to you,” Griff says brusquely. Although I’ve heard Griff talk about Jordan disparagingly, I’m surprised by his face-to-face bluntness.

“Yeah, well—” he grins at me and brushes back his long, thick brown hair “—shit happens, especially in Amsterdam.” Turning back to Griff, he adds, “Sorry about that. I’m better now, in case you’re at all concerned about my well-being.”

By now the other guys have made their way from the stage and converge on Jordan simultaneously, with only Brandon lagging. There are hugs all around, but I know my guys and I can tell they’re surprised and hesitant about this unexpected reunion. Whether there’s any real enthusiasm left for Jordan, time will tell. He’s been in more scandals than the other members combined and may well have used up all his goodwill at this point.

Brandon makes his way forward, extends a hand and says, “Jordan, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Jordan responds with a quick, “Yeah, thanks for keeping my seat warm, mate.”

When I see the look in Brandon’s eyes, I just want to kill this newcomer. Then I remember that Brandon and I are the real newcomers here.

There are a few minutes of small talk, and I’m glad to see the other original Harem members also seem to be bothered by Jordan’s sudden appearance. There are a lot of glances back and forth, including some my way. Brandon comes up behind me and takes my elbow, leading me away from the others.

I glance over at Griff and see him shake his head, a look of fury burning in his eyes. Then he marches off.

“Well, this is an interesting development,” Brandon says when we’re out of earshot.

I bite my lower lip. “Yeah,” is all I can manage.

He sees my pained expression and wraps me up in a big hug. I’m always surprised by how muscular he is, how rock-hard his chest feels, because Brandon is such a sweet guy.

“Come on,” he says, “let’s you and me hang out in my dressing room until showtime.”

I fake a smile as we walk together past the tons of equipment and stage gear, over miles of cable and power lines, toward the dressing rooms.

On one level, Jordan’s return should be a happy time, a reunion of the original members of Harem, who’ve been together since they were kids. These guys have been friends for years.

But this isn’t the same band Jordan last played with. These men have changed.

Something has to give, and I hope it’s not Brandon and me.