61 ~ This Is Love...

Typically Rachel didn’t like to shop.  In fact, she had been known to say that she despised shopping with a deep and abiding passion.  Today, however, she couldn’t say that, because Harrod’s was a completely different kind of shopping experience.  There was none of the crushing madness she associated with shopping, no long lines at the counter, no flimsy bags weighted down and tearing on the way to the car.  

If a shopping mall could be compared to a day-spa, Harrod’s would qualify.  In fact, the entire experience had been so intoxicatingly unique that the outrageous total didn’t begin to dim her enchantment.

Her only regret was that she’d declined help with the bags.  As she struggled to get her Mandarin Oriental keycard into the suite door, she was bemoaning her streak of independence, but all of that fell to the wayside when the door was finally wrangled open.

Never would she have believed that the classically English living area of their hotel suite could be more inviting than it had been to her that first morning.  But with Jon singing and strumming a guitar, and Richie sitting across from him doing the same…?

“…When times get tough we’re still worth the fight, this is lo-” 

Jon glanced up and the moment he spied Rachel, his concentration-crinkled forehead melted away to be replaced by smile-crinkled eyes.  “Hey, baby!  Looks like you bought out Harrod’s.”

Heaven itself couldn’t be any more inviting than this. 

“I had to break in my black American Express,” she popped off with a grin, dropping the multitude of parcels to the floor and crossing to give Jon a warm, but fairly chaste, kiss.  They did have company, after all. 

“Glad to hear you’re popping the cherry on your new credit card,” he snorted with a pat on her backside

“Yeah, baby!” Richie interjected.  “If ya do it right, everybody loves a good cherry poppin’.”  His eyebrows wiggled beneath his ballcap’s bill.  “Did you do it right, Rach?” 

As much as she would’ve loved to remain maturely above the subject matter, she couldn’t help but laugh at the darker of the two men.  “Do you know how astounding it is that you two of you write lyrical masterpieces that the whole world sings, and yet you’re delighted by something as crass as ‘cherry popping’?”

“Doesn’t sound like you did it right to me.”  He looked to Jon and shook his head sadly.  “What a waste of cherry.” 

“You’re an asshole,” his friend observed disinterestedly and continued to strum a seemingly random chord progression.

“And you’re a lovesick asshole,” Richie retorted without hesitation.  “She could come in here with a meat cleaver and lop off your finger and you’d still be all up in this new luuuuuv song of yours.”

“Probably.  As long it was just a pinky finger.  On my right hand.”

“Wait,” Rachel interrupted their repartee with a wave of her hand as she commandeered the seat cushion on Jon’s left.  “Love song?”

“I don’t know that I’d really call it a love song,” Jon denied.

Richie snorted.  “It has Cinderella and Prince Charming in it, for fuck’s sake.  What the hell else ya gonna call it?  Death metal?  Although...” he pondered with a thoughtful finger tapping against his jaw.  “Love hasn’t brought me anything but pain so far, so I’m thinkin’ maybe that’s not too far from right.”

Brilliant blue eyes narrowed at the guitarist and Jon flipped him a hand gesture that Rachel had seen more times than she could count since she’d been on tour with these guys.  “Shut your pie hole, Sambora.”

“Yeah, Sambora,” Rachel echoed.  “Shut your pie hole and let me hear the song.  I’ll tell you whether it’s love or death.”

Richie dipped his chin and raised his eyebrows at her authoritativeness, then snapped off a quick salute before settling his guitar on his lap.  “Ma’am!  Yes, ma’am!” 

Jon’s crooked grin and endearing wink warmed her as he counted off the beginning.  His voice was quiet but clear as he delivered the melodic lyrics and Richie backed him with flawless harmony.  

These days what’s left of me ain’t no Prince Charming

And my Cinderella feels like she stayed at the dance too long

We ain’t got much but what we got is all that matters

We’re pickin’ up the pieces, tryin’ to put ‘em back where they belong

“Oooh!  I love that line!” she enthused over the beginning of the chorus.  How perfect was that?  Whether it was a love song or wasn’t a love song, she already thought of it as their song. 

Oh-ohh, it’s gonna be alright

This ain’t love, this is life

When times get tough we’re still worth the fight

This ain’t love, this is life

The road here’s paved with the brokenhearted

We gotta finish what we started

Oh -ohh, better hold on tight

This ain’t love, this is life

These days it seems like there’s three sides to every story

There’s yours, mine, lately there’s the cold hard truth

Who cares who’s wrong or right when we turn out the lights?

We’ll find forgiveness when we’re in each other’s arms tonight

It ain’t pretty but somehow we always make it through

By the second chorus, happiness and gratitude filled Rachel’s every pore.  She was happy that she’d reached this place with Jon.  She was grateful that the dark despair she’d lived with so long after the accident that took Nick and their family was gone – and replaced by a fond remembrance of their happier times. 

Life is good.  Very good.

This song was one of a handful that truly struck something in her, and the tune was as engaging as the lyrics.   In fact...  Well it was nearly perfect. 

She smiled delightedly into the two expectant faces.  “Tommy and Gina are still holdin’ on, huh?  It sounds like ‘Living on a Prayer’, the sequel.  Who isn’t going to love that??”

Jon crooked his left eyebrow at her.  “You?  Because you said all the right words, but you’ve got that tone in your voice.”

“Tone?  What tone?  I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah you do.  It’s the same tone you use when you tell me what I’m wearing is fine even though you hate it.”

She rolled her eyes.  “I never hate what you’re wearing.”

“Uh huh.  Not even when I wear my ratty Patriots sweatshirt out?”

Rachel shuddered.  That sweatshirt should be in the rag pile with its torn neckline, gaping holes and mystery food stains.  “Okay, you’re right.  I hate that shirt, but I don’t hate the song even a little.  The only thing I was thinking...”

“A-ha.  Here it is.”

She stuck her tongue out at him.  “The only thing I thought was that it is love as much as it is life.”

“Told ya, asshole,” Richie chortled before turning in Rachel’s direction to explain.  “I tried to tell him it was depressing as hell that way, taking the love out of the love song.  It should be ‘this is love, this is life’, not ‘this ain’t love’.”

“Oooh!  I like that!”

“Would you two rather write this thing without me?” Jon asked dryly.

“Oh, honey, of course not.” 

When Rachel leaned over to take Jon’s face in her hands and kiss him, Richie slapped his knees.  Standing, he picked up his guitar and lifted his hand in a wave.  “I’m pretty sure you two won’t let me watch the makeup sex, so I’m outta here.  Catch ya later, man.”

Jon set his own guitar aside, chuckling, as the door to the suite clicked shut behind his friend.  Turning to Rachel, he draped his arm over her and slumped into the sofa and...  was silent. 

“Jon?  You’re not really annoyed with me, are you?”

“Nah,” he assured her with a gentle smile.  “I was actually thinking about this morning, and how much I appreciate you being so understanding.  A lot of women would’ve thrown a fit and pouted all day if I’d cancelled plans for our first day off.”

“And then they wouldn’t be your woman.”

“You got that right,” he laughed.  “So, since I bailed on you this morning, how about I show you London now?  You up for it?”

“Am I up for it?”  Rachel nuzzled happily into his shoulder.  “Baby, I’ve been waiting all my life for some handsome stud to tour me through London.”

“And yet you got me instead,” he teased with a grin.

“You’re such a dumbass.”  She smacked a kiss against his cheek and pushed herself upright.  “Let me just grab my tour book and then we can go.”

“You and that damned tour book,” he groaned, head falling back onto the sofa.  “You’ve had your face buried in it ever since we got here.”

“And you’ve had your face buried in me ever since we got here.  What’s your point?”

“That you’re a friggin’ information freak.”

“Hey, at least my little hobby gives us useful information.”  She pointed a smug finger at him.  “For instance,  did you know the Bank of England has been around since 1694 and was the first privately owned national bank in ANY country?”

“Uh, no.  But thank you for the history lesson, Rach.   I don’t know how I’ve managed to get through life without that little tidbit,” he deadpanned.  “And for the record, my face buried in you is a lot more fun for both of us.”

Rachel rose to gather her things and rolled her eyes at the perpetually horny man she was in love with.   “If it were up to you, we’d never leave the hotel room.”

“You say that as though it’s a bad thing.”

“Jon...”

“Tell ya what,” he interrupted her.  “Let’s have a quickie before we go out.  When I have my face buried between your legs, we’ll see how big a shit you give about the UK’s banking system.”

The visual of reading her tour book while he was trying to distract her struck Rachel as humorous, and she giggled.  “Is that a challenge, Bongiovi?”

He leapt to his feet with a lecherous grin and grabbed her hand, dragging her along to the bedroom.  “Nah, baby, it’s more like a test of wills.  One I will win...”