Mr. Jordan, Mr. Jordan, Mr. Jordan.
Joey lets the name roll through his head as he looks around the lobby. He sits in a comfy armchair, his leg crossed over his knee, tapping out the rhythm to his last hit song on his denim-clad calf with his fingers. His mother would be appalled if she knew he wore jeans to a business meeting, but it’s a recording session and he wants to be comfortable. Besides, these jeans are decked out with rivets and leather trim all along the outer seams, and two lines of burnished buttons edge down either front pocket, framing his crotch. They’re hip and naughty, and custom fitted, hugging his legs and ass like a second skin.
They also set him back a couple hundred bucks. So it isn’t like he went down to Walmart and bought them off the rack.
Mr. Jordan, not Key,
