Ch 8 ~ Happy Together... Not

Rachel’s quick phone call to the office, declaring it a “mental health day”, wasn’t a lie.  While it probably wouldn’t take long to find out what Jon wanted, she would need the rest of the day to recover her mental health after he left.

She wiped her mouth and put her toothbrush away before regarding her reflection in the bathroom mirror.  Her hair was typical morning hair, but a quick brushing had it presentable enough for coffee with a stubble-jawed man. 

Should I get dressed?

“Nah,” she murmured, turning from the mirror and the reflection of her navy pinstriped pajamas.  “These cover as much as any clothes.  Let’s just get this over with.”

As she descended the stairs to do just that, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee met her halfway.  She nudged the thermostat to a higher temperature as she passed by and then followed her nose back into the family room.  There, she discovered that she needn’t have worried about the thermostat.  The sound of popping wood burning in the fireplace drew her eyes, and she saw that Jon had built the fire bigger.

It tugged her heartstrings that he remembered how she loved to sip coffee by the fire on winter mornings.  It was her second favorite way to start the day, she thought as her eyes slid to the man reclined comfortably on one end of the sofa.

My very favorite way to start the day is making love with him. 

As good as he looked on that sofa with both socked feet stretched out over the cushions, it was a little odd to find him sitting anywhere but the leather chair closest to the fireplace.  That was where he’d always taken up residence in this room – unless he wanted to be close to her.  Apparently, he wanted to be close to her for this... whatever this was.  Conversation, she supposed.

A coffee cup rested on the near corner of the sofa table, in front of the one free cushion not covered by his backside or legs.  It silently confirmed that she was expected to sit on the couch with him. 

This isn’t good for me.  Close is a bad idea.

“You do realize those pajamas are sexy as hell, right?  Like... Hugh Hefner slumber party sexy.”

A very bad idea.

“Is this mine?” she asked innocently, choosing not to respond to the...compliment.  She only bent over and lifted the oversized mug before he had time to answer the rhetorical question.  Who else’s would it be since he held the mate to the biggest coffee cup she owned?

His disappointed frown was fleeting as he crossed his ankles.  For a moment she thought he was going to push the topic, but he ended up graciously accepting her diversionary tactic, instead.

“It is.  In fact, I made you a double because I want your full attention.”

She sipped the coffee and her head immediately fell back to savor the decadent pleasure.  Jon made better coffee than anybody she knew.  It was a delightful Tuesday morning treat.  In fact, that was probably the best way to approach this entire thing.  She would treat his visit as a delightful treat instead of mentally envisioning him ripping the stitches out of her healing heart. 

“So do I have it?”

Lost in her own thoughts, she blinked owlishly at him for a moment. 

“Have what?”

“Your full attention, Rachel.”

It’s an unexpected treat.  Smile and keep it light. 

“Yeah!  Of course!  Your coffee in front of a blazing fire?”  She snorted softly.  “I’m not turning my back on either one of those!  You have my attention until they’re both gone.” 

He swung his legs over the edge of the couch and brought himself to a seated position.  With one hand he put his coffee on a coaster while the other patted the cushion, indicating that he wanted her to sit with him. 

She didn’t want to cause unnecessary friction, but she intentionally left one cushion empty between them.  To his credit, he didn’t remark on the subtle slight.  He wordlessly gave a tug to the blanket he must have folded and draped over the couch and settled it over her lap – making her feel a bit like a heel.

It was evidence of yet one more of her personal preferences that he recalled.  Rachel always had a blanket across her lap.

Move on, Rachel. 

She settled in with a tiny nod of thanks.  One more fortifying sip of coffee and she determinedly cut to the chase.  “Alright, Jon… the floor is yours.  What’s up?”

“Tell me why you wouldn’t come last night.”

He was short and to the point, she thought, just the way she liked it, but...

“Seriously?  All this...”  She waved her hand in the air, the gesture intended to encompass both last night and this morning.  “...is because I didn’t go to your concert?  Holy mother of pearl.  Wouldn’t a text message have sufficed?”

“No.  It’s too easy for you to brush me off, as you’ve proven more than once in the last couple of weeks. Just answer the question.” 

Once again, she was struck by how he didn’t verbally jump on her with both feet.  The words could have easily carried angry impatience – that was his native tongue, after all – but they didn’t.  He seemed...  softer somehow. 

That softness made Rachel want to find the words that would make him understand without making this unnecessarily complicated, but she just wasn’t sure she had them.  

You won’t know unless you try.

She sipped the coffee, letting the heavenly flavor sit in her mouth for longer than usual while she frantically searched her brain for some middle ground.  What she ended up with was, “You and I just don’t work.  Every time I see, or even talk to you, it stirs up all sorts of crap that I want and need to leave behind.”

“Rach, we used to love each other!  I respected your decision to leave and didn’t give you a hassle.  How does that make me such an ogre that you can’t drive a coupla miles to see me?  Throw me a bone, for Chrissake!”

The voice was still quiet, but frustration was seeping in around the edges.  He was taking her choices as a sign of rejection, when they were actually acts of sheer self-preservation. 

She sighed quietly. 

You can’t let him think that, Rachel.  It’s not fair.

They had never played games and always spoken what was on their minds.  Sometimes that might have been too harsh, but they had always been upfront with each other.  It was the one thing about their relationship that was still intact and Rachel refused to be the one responsible for destroying it.

She leaned forward, placing her coffee on the table before turning toward him and closely inspecting the familiar blue eyes that were currently clouded with confusion. 

“You have to understand that I truly believe, deep down in my heart, that once you love someone, you love them forever.  Otherwise, you didn’t love them in the first place.”

She slid her hand across the empty cushion that separated them, gently wrapping her fingers around his and squeezing. 

“I loved you when we were together and that means I always will.  No exception.  The problem with that is, when I see you, all those feelings immediately come bubbling to the surface and overwhelm me.  I want to touch you, laugh with you, have my morning coffee with you and...”

Make love to you, fuck you and spend every minute of the rest of my life with you. 

“... all the stuff that goes along with that.  That’s my heart talking.  My head, however, knows that all that good stuff will, eventually, turn into bad stuff.  We inevitably end up hurting each other and, face it, Jon – we’re vicious when we do.”  Her chest hurt just thinking about it.  Rachel shook her head sadly, withdrawing her hand as she did.  “I can’t have that kind of roller coaster ride in my life.”

His expression was nothing short of incredulous.  “So you’re willing to give up all the good stuff because of a couple bumps in the road?  What the hell kind of sense does that make?  That’s not realistic, Rachel.  In fact, it’s fairytale propaganda horseshit.”

Had he really managed to forget how bad those things were?  How they never managed to resolve disagreements, just fell into bed until it all didn’t seem so bad?

“It’s more than a ‘couple bumps in the road’, Jon.”

“Matter of opinion,” he declared with the toss of one hand.  “I mean, are you really happier now than you were when we had each other?”

That was the kicker.  She wasn’t.

But you can be, given the time and space to properly heal!

“I… Well… For right now, I’m just trying to get comfortable with my new reality.  I’m trying to manage the pain until I’ve found a way to put it in its proper place.  Then it will become a small piece in the canvas of my life... and I can move on.”

His jaw twitched with the words he was biting back.  That little feat wasn’t something she was used to seeing from him and it earned him silent kudos – which vanished as soon as he unclenched his jaw and opened his mouth. 

“I don’t know where all this ‘self-help’ pop psychology shit has come from and I’m trying to be patient while you spout cult nonsense at me, but I’d really just like an answer to my actual question.  Are you happier?”

Rachel found herself irritated at his digging.  Who was he to question her coping mechanism?  He wasn’t here while she’d suffered and second guessed every decision she’d made since meeting him. 

She had been congenial and allowed him time to speak his mind.  She even allowed his curiosity to be assuaged by answering questions that were no longer any of his business.  She wouldn’t allow any more. 

Jon Bon Jovi had no right and to mess with her head and her search for tranquility. 

Subject closed.

“Happiness manifests itself in different forms and, for right now, the absence of pain makes me happy.  I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t try and sabotage my efforts.”  The once-cozy blanket was now cloistering and she tossed it aside to rise from the couch.  “You’re welcome to use the guest bathroom if you need to before you leave.  I’m going to take my shower.”

Ch 7 ~ California Dreamin'

A cozy sense of contentment enveloped Rachel as tangibly as any blanket and unlike anything she’d been privileged enough to enjoy in... ages.  For her, the glow of sleep had lost its luster since well before she left New Jersey and that made her reluctant to surrender the current glow that had blessed her with its presence.  Burrowing into the warmth, she reveled in it, her traitorous and sleep-fogged mind attributing the warmth to an imaginary Jon’s body.  She wasn’t alert enough to dispel the illusion that it was him curled around her back. 

The warmth shifted against her ribcage, just below her breasts and she shifted in response, the mattress giving as she did so.  Her forehead furrowed over eyes that remained sealed. 

Oh.  My.  Word.

It wasn’t a dream.  She wasn’t asleep.  Well, she had been, but she wasn’t anymore.  That warmth wasn’t a dream, it was a hot man pressed against her back. 

Sonofabitch.

Rachel kept still, with the exception of the skittering reverberation of her heart against the wall of her chest, and slowly opened her eyes to find the family room fireplace dark and cold.  Her eyes fluttered closed again on a silent groan. 

She didn’t need to see his face to know whose morning hard-on was pressed into her hip.  Their bodies interlocked like puzzle pieces, always perfectly aligned when they slept; if one turned over, the other followed.  They could easily sleep on a twin bed together – it was all the room they ever needed.  Most of their nights, Jon’s shoulder was all the pillow she used.

Just like now.

I hate that I don’t want to throw his arm off and kick him in the nuts.  HATE it.

The reverse was the case, in fact.  She wanted – no, craved – nothing more than to stay here and indulge in the fact that she’d woken up in what felt like a perfect world, just because he was in it. 

“Unhealthy relationships are like drug addiction, Rachel.  You keep looking for that ‘one more hit’ – that unmatchable high that only he can bring you.  But that relationship is just as destructive to you as cocaine, only it will cause a slower, more painful death.”

Alison’s voice was an unwelcome intrusion into the unforeseen nirvana that Rachel found herself in this morning, even if the woman was telling the truth.    

It had been a horrific mistake to let him in the door last night.  She should have known better, and might have, if his phone call hadn’t shot her so full of adrenaline that she’d been unable to get to sleep last night.  After an hour of tossing and turning, she had finally resorted to taking ten milligrams of Ambien just before Jon arrived.   The sedative prescribed to her after her husband, Nick, and their children had been killed had been a last ditch effort to crawl into pleaceful sleep that didn’t include Jon’s voice inviting her to come and see him – over and over and over. 

While changing from her nightshirt into pajamas, she’d sworn that she was going to find out what he wanted and say whatever it took to get him back out the door in record time.   That had been the plan.

Unfortunately, her body wasn’t accustomed to the foreign – and potent – chemicals that fine makers of Ambien packed into those little guys.  She clearly remembered joining Jon in the family room and finding him behind the bar, but everything beyond that was a faint and hazy recollection.  And how had she ended up with his legs knotted with hers like a pretzel?

But the way he makes you feel isn’t hazy at all, is it?  Doing nothing more than sleeping next to you, he makes you feel the way he always did.  Alive and whole.

Tragic, but true.  As long it as it stayed purely physical, she and Jon were the epitome of the perfect relationship.  There was nothing their intertwined bodies couldn’t erase.

For a little while, anyway.

Alison be damned.  Rachel was going to take the hit that Jon was giving her.  She was going to enjoy the rise and fall of his rock hard chest against her back until either he woke up or the boundaries of her bladder reached their limit.

It was inevitable that once they were both conscious, they would have to return the real world.  That included Rachel being a big girl and reaffirming that their worlds didn’t – and couldn’t – include one another.  Whatever Jon’s reason for showing up at her door last night, it didn’t change that simple and painful fact.  She would hear him out and send him on his way as she had planned to do last night. 

Then...  Then she’d tamp down her foolish euphoria and work on recovering the backward steps that his presence had shoved her.

She sighed deeply, jostling his arm in the process.  Wasn’t that the way it always was?  One step forward and two steps back?  Such was the path of a recovering Jon-a-holic.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Jon’s scruffy chin nuzzling her neck and his arm tightening around her waist, holding her firmly next to him.  His sniffly morning voice sent goosebumps dancing up her back when murmuring, “Mmm… don’t move.  I haven’t felt this good waking up in months.”

Make that three steps back and counting. 

It was hard to believe how satisfied Rachel felt, waking in his arms, hearing his voice in her ear, feeling his body next to hers.  Three, five or ten steps... it didn’t matter.  She was willing to trade the impending despair and longing that his departure would bring for just a few more minutes of this borrowed bliss.

She settled back into him, pulling the blanket up around their shoulders to ward off the chill of the house and she wound her fingers between his.  “Remember that when your back is too sore too walk, old man.”

“You obviously aren’t familiar with the ‘not old, just older’ philosophy,” he grumbled, while nibbling her neck and pressing his ever-reliable morning hard on against her.

He wants you, Rachel.  It wouldn’t take any encouragement at all for him to fuck you right here on the couch. 

The thought had her skin prickling with an awareness that almost made her itch.

That’s not ten steps back, it’s ten thousand. 

It was time to take care of business.  Rachel pushed the blanket back and sat up, dropping her feet to the floor and glancing over her shoulder.  No man had a right to look that good after a crappy night’s sleep on a sofa.  It wasn’t fair. 

Turning back to the fireplace, she pushed a hand through the top of her hair and sighed, “When are you going to tell me why you’re here, Jon?”

He blew out his own heavy breath and patted her hip.  “So much for enjoying the moment, huh?”

It was chilly in here, Rachel noted, not willing to turn and face him.  She should get up and start a fire to warm the house.  Almost as an afterthought she told him, “It’s too easy to get lost in enjoying the moment.  I just want to know what last night was all about.”

She stood, rubbing her arms as she moved to the fireplace and put the last two logs on top of last night’s cold ashes.  He groaned quietly as he sat up and she knew, without looking, that he was rubbing his face before skimming his hands through the top of his hair.  She’d seen him do it a hundred times.

“Now that you’re not loaded on sleeping pills, maybe you can stay awake long enough to find out.” 

His remark didn’t carry an air of annoyance, but it put her on the defensive just the same. 

“You know I don’t take that stuff often,” she informed him, darting a quick frown over her shoulder.  He nodded his head agreeably as the first flame sparked to life. 

“I DO know that – so you get a pass for last night.  But this morning I want your undivided attention until I’m finished.  Can you do that?”

If it would get him out of her house and allow her to return to her regularly scheduled Jon-free life...

“I can,” she affirmed, putting the matches back in their box on the mantle. “But first I need to let the office know I’m not coming in.”

He pushed to his feet, scratching his chest as he nodded again.  “You go call work and I’ll make coffee.   And then… we’ll talk.”

“We’ll talk.”

It didn’t sound so much ominous as... draining.  He was going to completely drain her before he left.  She could feel it.

“I’m gonna need coffee for this conversation, aren’t I?”

He laughed softly at her suspicious question.  “You are.  Probably two cups.”

She sighed.  She hadn’t been wrong.  Whatever he had on his mind, it was heavy. 

“Alright, Jon.  I can only assume that whatever brought you here in the middle of the night must be important, so you win.  I’ll hear you out.” 

It was amazing how the worry lines on his forehead could so easily be erased by her assurance that he would be heard.  Of course, while his worry lines were gone, hers had only begun to form. 

This would be different, she told herself.  It didn’t matter if he was a persistent man who wouldn’t take no for an answer.  No matter why he was here, she wasn’t going to allow herself to turn into a handful of putty, subject to his will.  Rachel wouldn’t let her heart and body make decisions that were contrary to what her brain knew was best. 

Call the office so you can get this over with before you lose that resolve.

Intending to use the phone upstairs, she moved toward the door in that direction – only to have him catch her elbow as she passed him by.  She ignored the chills that his touch brought as she looked questioningly up into his eyes. 

“Rach,” he beseeched quietly.  “When we talk later, I want you to remember how this felt.”

Don’t, Rachel.  Don’t let him suck you in.  Keep things as light and impersonal as you can at this stage of the game.

She lifted her eyebrows questioningly, with a bland smile.  “You mean my overfull bladder, which is about to explode?”

“No, smartass.  Waking up together, just … talking.  Remember it, okay?”

                                                                  

Ch 6 ~ Mr. Sandman

It was only a few minutes before Rachel joined him in the family room, but Jon was a restless man by nature.  No matter how short the wait, he always felt compelled to be moving or doing something, and that need was compounded tonight.  Waiting for her, in her house... after all this time apart... 

He grabbed a couple of logs, tossing them on the dwindling fire and watched them turn black and begin to burn.  This would, hopefully, be a long conversation and he wasn’t ruling out the possibility of it ending naked.  A warm room would be beneficial on both counts. 

As the flames grew and enveloped their new fuel, he wandered over to the wet bar, noting with pleasure that his own stash of wine was still intact.  She hadn’t poured it down the drain, anyway.

Or fed it to her lovers.

The scowl that flattened his mouth only intensified when she appeared.   Her choice of attire wasn’t much less distracting than what she was wearing when he showed up.  The Henley-style pajama set accentuated her curves more than the red satin ever hoped to and now, as always, she didn’t seem to realize it. 

At least her legs weren’t bare.  He would take whatever he could get at this point, Jon decided as the cork popped free from the bottle.

“Make yourself right at home, Jon.”

His eyes slanted briefly toward her as she flopped down on one end of the couch and wrapped her arms around her waist.  It was best to ignore her bitchy tone as he set the cork aside and placed one stemmed glass on the bar’s surface.  Nothing was going to be gained by telling her how unattractive she was when she was in snark mode. 

“I smelled tequila on your breath earlier,” he observed instead, mentally acknowledging that pointing out her boozing might not be any better than pointing out the snark.  “Do you want another shot of that, or a glass of wine?”

Pillow-tousled hair danced against her shoulders when she shook her head in refusal.  “Neither.  I took a sleeping pill just before you decided to let yourself into my house.  Time is limited before it kicks in, so let’s cut to the chase.  Why are you here?”

Sleeping pill, huh?  And tequila.

That told Jon he’d been right.  She didn’t have any better an evening than he did. 

The knowledge was of little consolation as he plopped down in the opposite corner of the leather sofa and raked frustrated fingers through his hair. Taking a deep swallow of his wine, he put the glass on the end table and let his head fall onto the back of the couch. 

It was a reasonable question.  One which he wished he’d had enough foresight to develop a hard and fast answer to before he darkened her doorstep. 

Why was he here?

Clean your window for ya, lady?

Oh yeah, that’s why.

He rolled his head to the right, finding that she’d folded her legs so that her bare feet were tucked under her backside.

“Ya know,” he mused carefully, preferring to have answers rather than piss her off.  “It wasn’t all that long ago that you stood in this very house and told me I was the love of your life.   Yet tonight…  You couldn’t be bothered to drive twenty-nine fucking miles to where I was.” 

Twenty-eight point eight, to be exact, but he rounded for simplicity’s sake.  His phone had coughed up that little tidbit when he searched out her address on his phone, and the reality hit him as hard now as it did then. 

Jon sat up, propped his elbows on his knees and regarded her solemnly. 

“A lousy twenty-nine miles, Rachel.”

“So you showed up at my house in the middle of the night to lay a guilt trip on me?” 

Pissing her off needn’t have been a concern, because her question was utterly without malice.  In fact, it was without any emotion whatsoever.  Whether it was the aforementioned sleeping pill doing its thing or a complete disdain for him and the air he breathed, Rachel wasn’t at all engaged in him or this conversation.

Jon inspected her carefully for signs of drowsiness, but couldn’t find any.  She merely appeared to be... for lack of a better term, dead.  At least emotionally. 

Had he done this to her?  Had he underestimated or misunderstood how this breakup was affecting her? 

Focus on the question at hand, Bongiovi. 

“No guilt trip.  I just don’t get how you can flip a switch and turn those feelings off so completely.”

She said nothing for a full minute.  A full sixty seconds.  Jon counted, because what else was there to do when there’s nothing but silence?  That was typically thought of as a short span of time, but when it was happening  between two people who were playing the ‘staring game’ like two kids... it was an eternity.  

Eternity or not, their gazes never wavered from one another.  Jon watched a kaleidoscope of subtle, unidentifiable expressions flutter over her face, but her eyes remained dull and detached.  He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until the hard green irises finally relented into a softer, more forgiving shade and left him free to exhale again. 

That’s my girl. You’re still in there, baby.

It was the first time tonight he’d seen anything that even resembled the woman he knew.  The previously detached and unaffected Rachel now regarded him with eyes that were familiar and alive with feeling.  

“No,” she corrected with the faint trace of a smile. “Just because I’m disciplined enough not to get caught up with you again doesn’t mean I’ve turned off my feelings.”

Jon’s spine lost some of its rigidity and he leaned back to extend his arm toward her, along the back of the couch.  Tentative fingers touched the silky blonde locks that spilled onto the blanket draped there, and he schooled his voice so that his next question was more coaxing than accusing.   

“Then why refuse to see me?  I was practically in your backyard tonight, Rach.” 

The soft leather cushion creaked quietly as she turned toward him, head tilting a bit to the side as she did.  Her eyes fluttered shut for a long moment and had him wondering if the sleeping pill was kicking in.  Before he could extend his forefinger to nudge her, she blew out a long breath as if deep in thought and her eyelids slid open once again.

“I’m trying to find peace, Jon – to be whole again.   You open the wounds that I’m trying so hard to heal.”  She laid her head down on her forearm and sighed.  “I don’t know where my ultimate destination is, but I’m trying to walk the path that allows me to find it.  In the meantime, I’m just trying to find strength until I can recover true happiness.”

Jon wasn’t impressed with that explanation at all.  In fact, it annoyed the hell out of him and he had to hold onto his carefully cultivated non-confrontational tone like a bum would a bologna sandwich.    

“I don’t know what all that psycho-babble bullshit means, so maybe you could explain it to me in English, huh?  Something a simple Jersey boy might understand?”

She blinked heavy eyes and offered him another faint smile.  “It means that seeing you – talking to you, for that matter – takes me back to a place that’s unhealthy for me.  For both of us, really.”

The drugs were definitely having their way with her now, he thought as her eyes closed again. 

Don’t leave me yet, Rach...

He'd just gotten her back.  He wasn't ready to lose her again, even to sleep.  In an effort to forestall the inevitable, Jon reached his arm further, folding their fingers together and stroking his thumb over the back of her hand.

The skin there was just as soft and supple as he remembered.  The memory of how soft the rest of her skin was took his non-confrontation voice to a more intimate tone.

“Seems to me that any two people who still feel something for each other ought to be able to talk from time to time.  Right?  Don’cha think?  Rach?”

His effort to keep her conscious had been in vain, because she was down for the count.  Her eyes were still firmly sealed and all he got was a faintly grunted acknowledgement.

Jon sighed with weary defeat. 

Damn it to hell.

But... he couldn't make himself be truly angry.  She hadn’t kicked him out and he was willing to count that as a win for the time being.  Tomorrow morning would be soon enough to finish sifting through her thoughts and rationale.

An affectionate smile creased his cheeks ever so slightly as he watched her sleep.

Tonight he would simply enjoy her presence.

It pleased him beyond measure to realize the single most important thing about their relationship hadn't changed.  She didn't have to talk to him, soothe his ego or pander to his demands in order to make him happy; all she had to do was be there.  The simple pleasure of listening to her soft breath was an inexplicable salve to his wounded soul.

Sappy much, Bongiovi?

No.  Not really.  At least he never had been before.  Walking in that front door tonight, though...

Don't.  Don't overanalyze shit.  Just enjoy the moment.

Jon got up just long enough to turn out the lights, leaving the warm glow of the fire as the only illumination in the room before he kicked off his shoes and carefully wedged himself between her body and the cushiony back of the sofa.  Mindful not to let her head fall too harshly to one side or another, he finagled their bodies to lie on their right sides, facing the fireplace.   A single groping hand pulled the blanket from the back of the couch to cover their bodies and he buried his nose in her hair, closing his eyes.

Rachel instinctively wiggled closer against his chest and he found the moment to be the most content he’d had since the day she walked out on him. 

Jon smiled into her hair.

In the morning, he’d make her see his side of things and they’d find a way to work it all out.   For now, he would relish in the sound of Rachel’s breathing, the smell of her hair and the feeling of her in his arms.

5 - Key Play

Jon tore open the little zippered compartment on his bag that kept his most important possessions safe when they weren’t on his person.  As traffic on the freeway whizzed by in the opposite direction of Livermore, California, he rooted around for one of those possessions – his iPhone.  Swiping his finger impatiently across the screen and tapping repeatedly, he quickly found what he needed.

“The address is 480 Rembrandt Drive,” he tersely informed the driver, barely awaiting the other man’s acknowledgement as the privacy panel went up.  He was left in a tinted cocoon to slide the phone into his pants pocket and retrieve the rest of his vital belongings from the little compartment.

His watch snapped around his wrist with a heavy click before he delved back in for the scuffed wallet that went immediately into his back pocket.  Jon’s favorite designer sunglasses stayed put, deferring to the darkness outside.  That left only one thing.

The key to Rachel’s house. 

It was probably a pathetic attempt to hold onto the past.  No doubt about it, but when they’d split up, she didn’t ask him to return it and he selfishly hadn’t offered.  That thin little scrap of metal had become his guilty pleasure and Jon often found himself worrying it between his thumb and forefinger like his old Sicilian grandma’s rosary.  

Like he was now.

Jon frowned, scraping the pad of his thumb over the dulled and jagged edges that represented the secret combination to Rachel’s home.  It was one of those subtle head games that people played with themselves, he supposed.  If he had her house key, then they were still connected on some level – despite the fact that she rejected him and walked away. 

Despite the fact that she blew me off tonight, like some bum offering to clean her windshield.

Those jagged edges dug into his flesh as he fisted his hand around the little scrap of metal.

It pissed him off beyond all reason that she had refused to come to tonight’s show – effectively screwing it up for him, the band and the audience, if he were honest – but it was more than that.  Rachel had all but dismissed him, barely deigning to give him the time of day and treating him with all the warmth of a telemarketer.  With her “Please don’t keep doing this,” she’d toppled the playing board on his mind game, sending all the pieces flying and destroying any illusion of connection he’d entertained himself with during the past months.

Heal, she said. 

A mixture of frustrated growl and disbelieving snort gurgled together in the back of his throat as her favorite breakfast place came into view.  He was getting close now.  The hired car wound through the deserted streets with the stealth of a jungle cat stalking its prey.

Heal?  That’s bullshit, Rachel.  Complete and utter bullshit, and I intend to tell you that in no uncertain terms.

His fist tightened again. 

Seeing as she hadn’t been receptive to his attempts at contact so far, he had no reason to believe she was going to throw open the door and welcome him into her house at this hour of the night.  The little piece of metal scorching his palm would now provide a much more practical purpose than being the centerpiece of his little mind game.  It would keep him from having to kick down the door. 

Because he refused to be brushed off by her again. 

His knee bounced with impatient anger as the car rolled silently past the local grocery store and executed two left turns without interruption.  The subdivision she called home was dark and quiet as he approached Rembrandt. 

Heal, he snorted to himself again.  Un-fucking-believable.  I’m not a monster.  Je-sus!

The final turn brought her house into plain view and Jon’s knee stilled.  The granite scowl on his face softened and his fist relaxed around the key as he discerned the shadowy outline of the place where “Superman Tonight” had been born.

The house itself was like Rachel – it commanded your attention.  That wasn’t because it was ostentatious or flashy, though.  In fact, just the opposite was the case.   The classic brick trim was elegant in a subdued sort of way.  The timeless gray paint with its white trim was stylish and sophisticated just like the woman who owned it.    

Anger leaked out of him to be replaced by...  something else. 

Rachel was in there.  Just behind the massive doors that were edged by leaded glass, she was there.  Her face scrubbed free of makeup, her skin lotioned to within an inch of its life and likely asleep in the bed that they’d shared.  With the key clutched in his hand, it felt almost like he was coming home. 

Jon’s shoulder muscles went taut as strung steel with the realization that his girl was closer than she’d been in months. 

Except she’s not your girl, dumbass.

Jon grabbed his bag and accepted the driver’s explanation that payment and gratuity had already been taken care of as he stepped out of the car and closed the door behind him.  He tucked the contact number for the driver in the front pocket of his jeans, slowly ambled up Rachel’s front walk and mounted the front porch. 

Now what? 

He stared at the lock that was waiting to welcome his key, but the next step was almost too much effort to make.  Whereas he’d been spoiling for a fight mere minutes ago, now all the fight in him was gone with a single puff of night air.   It was normal for him to be tired after a show, but what he felt now was a completely different kind of fatigue than the adrenaline crash after a performance.  Deeper.  More bone-weary.

The only thing he wanted was to walk through the door and up the stairs to crawl into bed with the woman he’d been missing for ages. 

The same woman who wouldn’t give you the time of day a couple hours ago.

Jon blew out a fatigued breath, watching it float away in the darkness that was broken only by a few rays of light on the porch from the street lamp down the block.

He couldn’t just walk in the door and crawl into bed, as appealing as that idea was.  She’d probably shoot his ass, thinking he was an unwanted intruder.  And maybe he was, in her mind. 

No point in taking unnecessary chances.

Instead, he pushed the doorbell and listened to the chimes as they rang through the inside of her house.  When there were no answering signs of life to acknowledge its peal, he rang again, holding the button longer.  This time, before it finished chiming, a single light flared to life in the master bedroom upstairs.  It was quickly followed by a second that shone down the staircase.

Jon stepped to the side, pressing closer against the glass panel to the left of the front door, impatiently waiting for her to appear on the landing.  He wasn’t disappointed.  It was only a few seconds before he could see the outline of her silhouette, her hand hovering uncertainly on the railing. 

His heart was pounding before she descended the first step.

She was wearing some kind of satiny pajama top, hair tousled from the pillow she’d obviously had her head nested into, while her legs were bare.  He could easily make out the sleek, smooth outline of her running-toned thighs and calves, but he wasn’t sure if it was because of the light or his memory.  Those legs had been wrapped around his waist enough times to print an indelible image on his mind. 

Jesus.  She still takes my breath away.

Her head cocked gracefully to one side and her chin dipped into her chest as she peered toward the door in an effort to identify her late-night guest.  Her descent was slow, each step being taken with a sure caution as she approached the unknown with squinted eyes. 

Suddenly she stopped. 

Rachel was about halfway down when she recognized him through the leaded glass.  He knew the moment it happened, because she stopped dead in her tracks.  Her spine went stiff and straight at the same instant their eyes locked together.  

Jon had been right.  She wasn’t going to throw open the door and welcome him inside.   

“Open the door, Rachel,” he requested in a voice loud enough to be heard through the thick wood.

He didn’t yell – in fact, he was surprised to find his tone surprisingly calm – nor did he pound on the door in a demand to gain entrance.  Jon simply stood there, holding his breath, and watched a gamut of emotions chase one another across the plane of her face.  Shock, pain, sadness, anger took turns ravaging hard lines around her mouth while she remained firmly rooted to the same spot. 

Move, Rachel.  Open the door and let me in.

She either didn’t hear his mental urgings or chose to ignore them.  Tired of waiting, he held the key aloft so that he was sure she could see it and silently offered her one final opportunity.  Her eyes darted to his hand, acknowledging the key for only a scant millisecond before she fixed her gaze back to his eyes without moving.  The rest of her body was still frozen on the stairs. 

You had your chance, baby.

As he slipped the key in, Jon couldn’t help but wonder what he’d do if she’d changed the locks.   How embarrassing would it be to swoop in like a cocky, arrogant bastard and find himself still locked out in the chilly night? 

Unacceptable.  She didn’t change the locks.

The soft metallic snick of acceptance was music to his music-deafened ears. 

He’d been right.  She didn’t change them.

Pulling the lucky talisman free and dropping it into his pocket, he stepped into the foyer.  Jon’s trusty bag dropped to the hardwood with a soft thud as he closed the door behind him, never taking his eyes from hers. 

Honey, I’m home...

The incessant chirping of the alarm system demanded that it be deactivated or suffer the consequences.  He took the three quick steps toward the panel at the base of the stairs, knowing that a call to the cops was not going to make this visit go any more smoothly.  

His fingers hovered over the numeric pad.  She hadn’t changed the locks, so he assumed she hadn’t changed the access code, but he had to be sure. 

“Is the alarm code the same?”

Her eyes had tracked his every motion, but she still hadn’t moved and wasn’t making any effort to answer him.  The alarm began chirping faster, warning him that he only had a few seconds before the damn thing went off, waking the neighbors and automatically dialing the police. 

“IS THE ALARM CODE THE SAME?” 

His impatient snap penetrated her zombie-esque fog and, while she still didn’t speak, she nodded in the affirmative.   Jon quickly punched in the numbers that he’d committed to memory, successfully deactivating the alarm.

Affixing his gaze back on her, he asked himself again, Now what?

“Wh-what are you doing here?” she quietly stuttered her own question, making his irrelevant. 

Jon drew in a deep breath and blew it out.  His eyes went hard as a bit of his former anger returned and he rethought the purpose to his visit here.  “We’re going to talk.  Go put some clothes on and I’ll meet you in the family room.”

The direct order was apparently what she needed to bring her back to life.  She squinted into his harsh gaze and very nearly growled, “What makes you think you can walk into my home and start telling me what to do?  You have no right –“

With the first sentence, Jon took the stairs that separated them two at a time until he met her eye-to-eye, effectively interrupting her indignation.  He was close enough that the familiar scent of her hair tickled his nostrils and, if he wasn’t mistaken, it mingled with the distinctive smell of tequila. 

Tequila.  She always goes for tequila when she’s hurting.  Maybe I’m not the only one who’s had a rough night.

But beyond her scent, he knew under that red satin-y pajama top, she wore nothing.  Rachel couldn’t stand anything on her legs, even panties, when she slept, and her half-nakedness was distracting as hell.

“I wanna talk to you, but I can’t do it with you wearing that.  So you have two choices,” he continued tightly.  “Either go put something on that will let me concentrate, or...  Well, I’m gonna assume that your nipples are poking through that shirt from desire instead of cold, and I’ll just drag you up to bed.  Your call.”

It was all he could do not to run his fingers under the hem of that night shirt while she stared down at him and deliberated her answer.  Jon searched the depths of her eyes, re-familiarizing himself with the distinctive shade of green and trying to gain some type of clue as to what was going on behind them.  The desire he’d accused her of swirled in there, but it was nearly drowned out by a host of more unflattering emotions that he chose not to pinpoint.

Regardless, they were enough to let him know that he’d never be able to make good on the threat of dragging her upstairs.  He and Rachel needed to talk, not have sex.

It was a relief when her whispered answer finally came.

“I’ll be down in a minute.”

4 - The Show Must Go On

The San Jose show was a complete and total debacle.  Jon hadn’t been able to completely sweep away the blonde cloud hanging over his head, and it resulted in a crap-tastic showing for both him and the band.

The conversation with Rachel had wreaked havoc with his usual pre-show routine.  Dicking with his devout ritual was catastrophic.  That particular routine of serenity, meditation and his own personal brand of voodoo had been carefully cultivated and developed over the years, specifically to help him achieve optimal performance on stage.  It worked.

Unless it was intruded upon.

Rachel’s voice and dismissal re-running in his head like bad episodes of Twilight Zone had obliterated any chance of him finding the ‘happy place’ that was required to deliver his usual level of performance.  AND it irritated the fuck out of him – to the point that he’d even snapped at Richie, daring him to wear that ridiculous stove-pipe hat that he’d worn on stage in Seattle.  The stupid thing looked like Slash’s hat had an illicit love affair with Foghorn Leghorn. 

Richie, being Richie, had told him to fuck himself.

That’s how Jon found himself in a sour and surly mood from the first moment his foot hit the stage. 

The opening sucked, even though it went exactly as choreographed.  He hated standing on that stage before they ever played the first note, waving like a moron.  It felt like the encore and the energy wasn’t the way he wanted to open his show, but they launched into “Blood on Blood” even as he vowed to have it changed.

“We Weren’t Born to Follow” was one of the new ones, thereby meaning a good portion of the crowd wasn’t into the song.  They didn’t know the lyrics, as was typical with the bulk of the American crowds.  Jon felt like he was slogging through mud to the final chord.

Damn Rachel.  This was her fault.  What was her problem, anyway?  Women liked him.

Take the woman who had her camera intently trained on Jon’s every move for “Bad Name”.  He looked into her lens, daring her not to want him.  ALL women wanted him.  He was Jon Bon Jovi, for chrissake.   

”Please don’t call me anymore, Jon.”

“No one can save you... the damage is done...” he belted out, truer words never having passed his lips.

Intentionally avoiding the next “shot through the heart”, because he refused to even indirectly acknowledge that he was, Jon went through the motions of the songs he’d done a million times before as he watched Richie shred through the solo.  Notes were shredded in the same way his gut felt tonight.

The unwanted and uninvited thought materialized out of nowhere, and Jon snapped his head around, making a beeline for his tea mug at the back of the stage.  He snatched it up with a growl that was silent under the beat of Tico’s drums.

Get out of your head, Bongiovi.  These people have paid good money to see your show.  Give it to them!

Looking for an ego-boost, he passed the lyrics off to the crowd, but they did a piss poor job of giving him what he needed.  Their “you give love a bad name” was weak at best, yet he reciprocated with a determined and flirty dance.  He would make this show memorable. 

He shook his ass, wiggled his hips and smiled until he thought his cheeks were going to cramp from the effort.  And still...  the damn crowd was pitiful with those closing lyrics, but what was he going to do?  Jon gritted his teeth and clapped, nodding and trying to smile like they’d done something fabulous.

“Good evenin’, San Jose!”

And so the show went.  There were a dozen times that he could’ve become maudlin and indulged in thoughts of Rachel.  “When We Were Beautiful”, “Bed of Roses”, “Keep the Faith”...  Hell, he wrote the biggest part of “Superman Tonight” on the piano in her house, just a few miles from the stage where he sang it.  But he didn’t.  He refused.  She had no interest in him, he sure as hell wasn’t going to let her screw with his psyche in the middle of a gig.

I’m a fucking professional, baby.  Ain’t gonna happen.

Until he caught sight of the blonde head about three women back during “Something for the Pain” and his tongue tripped over the lyric “forever after ain’t what it’s cracked up to be”.

She came. 

His heart and mind both raced as he focused on the guitar frets in order to keep pace with Richie on the acoustic piece. 

Rachel came.  She changed her mind and got here for part of the show.

He’d done the next verse of the song and changed the melody on “I don’t need a lover, just to get screwed”, drawing particular attention to that last word before he realized it wasn’t her.  The hair was similar, and the height was right, but closer inspection revealed it to be just another nameless fan.

And it got him pissed off all over again.  He fought to keep himself from kicking the mic stand when the mix jacked-up during Richie’s lead vocals.  Even with the monitors in his ears, Jon couldn’t hear him.

This show is the biggest piece of fuck ever!

That was further proven four – thankfully uneventful songs later – when they  hit “Love’s the Only Rule”.  He was doing his damnedest not to think about love in any way, shape or form when the tempo picked back up in the middle of the tune.  His mind was focused on connecting with the crowd and bringing them into his world, making them feel his new song and that long, lost note from John Coltrane.  He put his foot on the edge of a monitor so that he could lean into that front row... and the damn thing tipped over.

Jon never missed a beat or a note, but his mind was swearing up a blue-streak as one more fuck up in the cursed show reared its head.  He was ready to be DONE with this godforsaken concert, and this was as good a place as any to end it – if only they hadn’t been obligated to do an mother fucking encore. 

There was no way he could get by in wrapping a Bon Jovi show without having performed their two biggest hits, “Wanted” and “Prayer”.  So that meant a foul-tempered Jon couldn’t stomp off with a Jersey salute to the fine people of this city like he wanted to, but the main setlist was finished.  End of story.

That gave him a quick minute to duck under the stage and get his shit together for the encore.  It was three more songs.  Surely duct tape and a hail Mary could hold the damn show and his composure together for another three measly songs.

“I fuckin’ HATE San Jose!” he declared, coming out of his quick change room and running directly into Richie.  “And take off that fuckin’ hat!”

Slash-horn Leghorn sat atop the guitarist’s head and mocked Jon with its presence as they prepared to retake the stage.   He hated that stupid hat and Richie did nothing but show balls of steel when he flashed an unrepentant grin, stroking the tip of the longest feather, simply saying, “Nope.  I like it.”

“Hit the fuckin’ stage, then!” Jon shoved his way by the taller man, muttering, “Thorn in My Side is absofuckinglutely appropriate here.”

And it was. 

One of the new songs from the album, Jon didn’t have the lyrics committed as strongly to memory as he did some of their older tunes.  That was unfortunate for him, because something had apparently pulled loose when that monitor went over in the last song. 

Or when they righted it.  I’m damn sure it wasn’t ME.

He certainly wasn’t taking the blame when his magic lyric box showed nothing but a blank, black screen for over half the song and left him stumbling over words like an illegal immigrant reciting the Pledge of Allegiance.

Thorn in My Side.  That’s YOU, Rachel Braden.  You have fucked up my entire show tonight.  I hope you’re happy!

His determination not to give Rachel a second thought had only intensified his thoughts of her during the show.  Every verse tonight had something in it that made him think of her and he’d had to force himself away from them more times than he could count, combating like a prize fighter to keep his stage persona in place. 

As a result, when he descended the stage steps for the last time, his mood was beyond foul. 

Most notably, she had become the thorn in his side and that mother fucker was digging deep.  So deeply, in fact, that by the time he’d showered and changed he was pissed beyond all reason. 

He had been nothing short of good to Rachel.  Sure, they’d had problems as a couple, but they’d parted on good terms, so he thought.  In his book, they’d parted as friends – close, intimate friends.  Why would she feel any differently?  He’d let her go exactly as she asked, giving her all the respect he possessed even when that was the last thing he wanted to do.  After all that....  Well, she could at least have the common courtesy to give him the time of fucking day!  

But no!  The woman he’d agreeably let walk out of his life when he wanted nothing but to hold onto her...  If she couldn’t be bothered to drive a few measly damn miles to see him and be a little sociable...  Well, he and his ego weren’t going to take that laying down.  She might not want to talk to him, but he had plenty to say to her – and he wasn’t leaving the Bay Area without saying it! 

Finding his manager, he coolly informed Paul that he was to go to the airport and accompany the rest of the band to Phoenix.  Right after he found Jon a cab, car and driver or what-the-fuck-ever mode of transportation was available. 

Now. 

Paul’s efforts to reason with him had earned nothing more than an icy, “I’ll catch up later” as the hired car rolled to a stop alongside the two men. 

This was not part of the usual post-show activity.  Jon always climbed into the car and went to the airport or whatever was scheduled before then.  Without fail.  To waver from the routine that he, himself had established set off a major round of warning bells, and Paul was visibly concerned at the unexpectedness of it all.

“But Jon, where are you going?” he asked, fingers curling over the top of the car door and holding it open.  “Are you going to meet us at the hotel?  Do you need security?  You can’t just go wandering off without some kind of agenda.”

Jon’s agenda was none of the other man’s business. 

“I’m the boss.  I can do any fucking thing I want.”  He tossed his bag into the back seat, climbed in behind it and slammed the car door with a sharp pull.  Paul’s fingers barely escaped amputation, and the tinted glass was still vibrating as he barked at the driver, “Livermore.  I’ll have an exact address before we get there.”

3 - Three For The Road

Jon only thought he was antsy in Hawaii, but it turned out that he didn’t know what the hell antsy was.  Hawaii was... nothing more than a mosquito bite that needed scratched.  The next week in Seattle, however, could’ve written one of those five-pound, fancy college thesis papers on the topic of antsy.  It brought a whole new level of restless energy to a man who had been drowning in restless energy since birth.  Needless to say, his disposition left a lot to be desired, and his shitty mood was only exacerbated by the dreary weather.

Jon had to find some way to distract himself.  It was only the first official city and his band members and brothers were threatening to stuff him in a road case if he didn’t channel his inner “Mary-fucking-sunshine” and “get his pubes out of a knot”.

WHY had he chosen this dismal, cloud-infested city for the official kick-off to his latest tour?  He had no idea, but he was ready to have it behind him, which meant the shows should have been a welcome relief, but his tumultuous mind wiped out any positivity they brought.  It seemed like every song he sang had some nagging little lyric that reminded him of her.  A word here, a line there...  annoying as all hell, really. 

When he stomped down the stage stairs after the show, he was sweaty and snarling still.  He flung a towel toward the director’s chair in his quick change room and directed his footsteps through the backstage area intent upon getting the hell out of there and indulging in a big bottle of wine. 

That is, until he heard from behind him a sultry, “Great show, Jon.”

It was the cute, overly attentive rep from one of the radio stations.  Even if she hadn’t been undressing him with her eyes when he turned around, Jon could still pick up the vibe of a woman in heat from a mile away. 

He slid his eyes up and down her body with a detached curiosity.  She was hot in a Morticia Adams kind of way – jet black hair,  blacker eyeliner and a skimpy, albeit equally black, leather dress.  Her friend – the beer rep, if he remembered correctly – was offering up her own come-hither smile and was the opposite of Morticia.  This girl was more the down-home type – jeans and a sweater, both of which were painted on her like a second skin.  It had Jon thinking Rebecca-of-Sunnybrook-Farm looked like she belonged rolling around in a hay stack. 

The corners of Jon’s mouth slid up in a wolfish smile.

Ask for a distraction and ye shall receive.  Times two.

The farmer’s daughter and her leather-clad friend provided just enough entertainment to usher in the next morning’s sunrise, but, once he shooed the pair out the door, Jon was once again left alone with his restlessness.  With nothing on the schedule until tomorrow afternoon’s departure for San Jose, he reverted to what he knew best – working himself to the point of exhaustion.

He made phone call after phone call, driving his personal assistant and tour manager crazy with details of the next half-dozen stops before he resorted to seeking out another physical release.  The extra-long run along Puget Sound wore his ass out, but it didn’t cure his ants-in-the-pants problem.  He was pacing his room that evening and edgily flipping through the CNN app on his phone when Matt texted with last minute dinner plans.  He was grateful for the comradeship of his band and brothers as their day off drew to a close. 

In the end, the raucous evening spent in the company of the ever-outrageous Sambora and Bryan left him no time to think or dwell on unwanted thoughts.  As an added bonus, the vats of wine the group consumed enabled him to collapse into a deep, dreamless sleep without further consideration of a certain blonde woman who lived maddeningly near their next stop in California.

                                                                   ~ ~ ~

The plane flew so low over San Jose’s HP Pavilion that Jon could see the crowd already beginning to form.  His first impulse was to wonder if Rachel might be somewhere in that crowd.  After all, Livermore was only thirty or so miles from San Jose.  Less than an hour’s drive. 

Jon lifted his sunglasses to the top of his head, eyes immediately scouring the sea of fans for a familiar blonde head.  She could be there. 

But why would she, dumbfuck?

Because she felt the same undeniable inner disturbance that he’d been subjected to lately?  Knowing that they were this close and unable to resist the pull?

He snorted loud enough for the flight attendant to slide him a curious look and dropped his sunglasses back on his nose.

Yeah, that’s it.  She finds you completely irresistible.  That’s why she blew off a friendly text message.  That’s why she left you to begin with.  Fuck the NFL, you need to buy stock in Harlequin Romances if you believe that shit.

Shaking his head, he bounced his knee impatiently as the tires bounced against the runway.  Rachel Braden needed to stop haunting his thoughts like a damn ghost.  They’d moved past what they had. She was now nothing other than an acquaintance with whom he shared fond memories. 

He shucked the seatbelt as the plane decelerated to a halt and was waiting by the door while the other band members were gathering their carry-on items and Richie’s voice carried easily through the small aircraft.

“Ya know... you’re about the surliest, most impatient fuck lately.  When’s the last time you got laid?  Do you need me to find you some mercy pussy?  I can probably scrounge up something from my throwaways.”

Jon refrained from mentioning his sexual exploits and threw his guitarist a forceful Jersey salute while stepping through the finally-open door.  “For that wise-ass crack, you can crowd into a car with the rest of the guys.  I’m riding to the venue alone!”

“Thank ya, Jesus!” Richie called after him through the laughter of their flight companions. “I don’t want to be stuck in confined quarters with your moody ass, anyway!  And sing something fun tonight, for God’s sake!”

That was easier said than done.

Once he hit the arena, all the usual preparations began and, while he was determined to keep his thoughts away from Rachel, every song he considered for the night’s set list seemed to only remind him of her all the more. 

“When We Were Beautiful”, “Superman Tonight”, “Love’s The Only Rule” and “Thorn In My Side” all made it to the preliminary list – none of which qualified as fun.  For anybody.   It infuriated him that he couldn’t seem to escape her.

Coupled with Richie’s heckling words that still rattled in his head, Jon’s irritability was barely under control as he plopped down on the leather sofa and sunk into the cushions.  

You’d better find some fuckin’ happy place and go to it, rock star.  You’ve got paying customers waiting to see that stupid ass photogenic smile of yours.

Damn Rachel. 

It seemed as the miles between them lessened, the itch to be near her heightened.  Every blonde head that drifted through backstage did nothing but aggravate that itch.  Nothing was going to satisfy him but Rachel.  After barking at everyone who crossed his path – and making one of the new interns get teary-eyed in the process – he finally admitted it. 

Jon gave the Jersey salute to his pride and called her.

Even if she blew him off, her mere voice would soothe the incessant itch that was severe enough to warrant hives.  Right?

After three rings, Jon’s blood pressure was high enough to burst a blood vessel somewhere in his throbbing temple.  The spray would splatter all over the walls just like those CSI shows that Jesse was always watching.  Forensic specialists would come in and determine that he had high levels of testosterone flowing unchecked when the incident occurred and...

I’ve had just about enough of this schoolboy obsession shit!

She was just a woman for fuck’s sake!  In a few hours, he’d be in a room with 18,000 of them.  Each and every one who would happily abandon their boyfriends, husbands, babies or cats to be his willing concubine for an hour.    He didn’t have to sit around pining for a woman –

He had almost reached the point of no return and was easing the phone away from his ear when her voice finally came over the line.

“Hello, Jon.”

Two simple words in that familiar voice and his mental tirade was all but forgotten.  Hell, it might never have existed in the first place.  How would he know?   Politically correct, diplomatic, smooth talking Jon Bon Jovi couldn’t find a single functioning brain cell. 

His tongue and voice were well on their way to joining those non-functioning brain cells when he forcibly hauled them back with an eloquent, “Hey.”

Jesus, you’re a smooth motherfucker, aren’t you, Bongiovi??

In the throes of temporary mental paralysis, his vast grip on the English language had been reduced to a single familiar word.  It was the way they’d always greeted each other, and the simple greeting had been sufficient for every mood shared between them in the past.  It was second nature to start a conversation with Rachel that way.

Apparently, she didn’t share that notion, because she said nothing else.  In fact, the silence seemed to hang in the air like that thick, woolen military blanket his Marine mother had always wanted to put on his bed in winter.  For a solid ten seconds, it lay between them like an itchy, scratchy, uncomfortable barrier before he finally dredged up a coherent continuation.

“Just thought I’d say hi.  I’m in your neck of the woods, if you didn’t know.” 

She either breathed deeply or sighed.  He wasn’t sure which, and it had him holding his own breath.

“Yeah, I know… it’s been all over the radio for days.  You’ll be happy to know your PR people are doing an excellent job,” she sighed.  It was definitely a sigh this time, but there was an amused little smirk in her voice when she admitted, “I couldn’t escape you if I tried!”

The smile that had begun to form on Jon’s face as she spoke went wide at that little tidbit, reaching all the way to the corners of his eyes.  So the little minx knew he was in town.  AND she’d all but admitted she was thinking about him.  This was going to be easier than he expected. 

“Good to know.”  He caught sight of his cocky grin in the mirror and let that billowing self-confidence color his voice.  She liked his arrogance.  As much as she hated it, she liked it and he was certain that it would work in his favor.  “Yanno, Rach, I was thinkin’… You’ve never been to a show.  Why don’t you come tonight, and we can catch up a little?”

She didn’t immediately tell him no, but she didn’t jump in there with a resounding yes, either.  On the upside, he could practically hear the wheels spinning in her brain.  Jon figured that was a good sign.  It meant she was at least thinking about it. 

But Jon needed her to more than think about it; he needed her to say yes.  More than anyone – including himself – realized, he had missed Rachel and all the normalcy that came from being with her.  She wasn’t part of the “Jon Bon Jovi” world, but she’d been part of his world – the part that still had a gaping hole in it, if he was honest.  Even if she’d agree to fill it for part of an evening...  Well, it was a place to start. 

Come on Rach.  Say yes.  Please.  You know you want to.

His lips had just parted to verbalize the encouragement – with the exception of ‘please’ – when she sighed again.  Unfortunately this sigh wasn’t followed by amusement-tinged words.  Her voice was soft and monotone when she justified the prolonged quietness. 

“I’m trying very hard to come up with a kind way of reminding you of what I said when you called me on my birthday, but I don’t know how to do that without just saying what I’ve already said.  Please don’t call me anymore, Jon.  I can’t have contact with you and still heal.”  Her voice was strained and pained, yet unwaveringly firm.  “Please don’t keep doing this to me.  It’s not fair.”

He jerked back as though she had physically slapped him.  Catching a glimpse of his own stunned features in the mirror, he saw that his expression clearly conveyed the “What the fuck?” that had blasted through his mind. 

Not fair?  What the hell wasn’t fair?  He hadn’t begged or pleaded – or shown any emotion at all beyond casual interest.  His request sounded like the same one he’d issued to dozens of friends over the years.  What the hell was her problem?

It was only about two seconds after she spoke, rather than the two minutes it felt like, when Jon regained his composure and responded.  He masked the hurt and insult she’d dished out with words that were frosted with bitter cold ice. 

“I invited you to a rock concert, Rachel, not my bed.  Take care...”

With that, he disconnected the call and felt the bottom fall out of his world. 

Again.

He didn’t even have it in him to be angry as he let the phone drop carelessly to the dressing table and straightened the collar on his half-buttoned shirt, absently noting the lonely dullness of his face and eyes.  He’d have to fix that before he hit the stage – like he always did. 

Because, at the end of every day, even the people who knew and loved him best didn’t fully realize how utterly alone he felt.  He had never let anybody see that. 

Not even Rachel. 

Jon had come to realize that he’d never completely let her into his inner mind and wondered if she’d ever let him into hers, either.  If he had a chance to do it over again, it would be different – HE would be different – but he couldn’t rewrite the past.  Too many things had gone unspoken between them... and it seemed they were destined to remain that way.

He glanced over at the guitar patiently waiting in its customary stand.   That familiar, scarred guitar had proven to be his only true soul mate. 

His guitar had been an unwavering loyal, faithful friend and was the only one who saw the best and worst of him – good and bad, happy and sad.  It kept all his secrets, offered silent support and therapy during the darkest of times, gave him a way to celebrate the happy occasions.  It had seen him through the birth of his kids and then breakup with Dot, when she took all but their family from him.  It had poured out beautiful new creations on the days when Rachel inspired him and commiserated through the dark days after she left.   It was the only thing he could count on to be there for him.

In spite of the façade he wore onstage and in front of his friends and family, Jon was living a lonely existence, and had for most of his life. 

Once upon a time Rachel had taken him out of that place, but now she was gone.  Hell, not only was she gone... she wouldn’t even talk to him. 

You don’t need anybody else.  You never have.  Now, get your shit together!

Show time neared and that meant it was time to put his game face on.  There would be no more thoughts of Rachel, dammit!   He would flash that mega watt smile, shake his money maker and flirt with the ladies in the pit just like he did every show – nobody in the audience would be the wiser. 

After he earned his paycheck, then he would retreat to another cold, soulless hotel room.  A couple bottles of wine and a sleeping pill would give him enough rest to face the morning and start the rock star cycle all over again.

Alone.