Ch 73 ~ Road Warrior

Tour life sucked.

And that was the nicest thing Rachel could say about it.

There wasn’t a single day that had gone by in the past week that she hadn’t longed for the blissful days they’d spent together fucking and frolicking in the house on Navesink River Road.  Hell, she even longed for the times they hadn’t been frolic-ally fucking.

She’d gladly host a thousand Fourth of July barbecues with family and friends.  She’d be thrilled beyond measure to host his parents for months on end in the new house.   She would boat with the kids until she turned green at the gills and had to ingest an entire bottle of Dramamine.  Each and every one of those things, she had genuinely enjoyed and wished to be doing any one of them now.

Instead she was in travel hell.

Rachel flung a zip-loc back full of toiletries onto the bathroom counter, where it landed amongst the other half a dozen bags that were supposed to keep her organized while she traveled.  They had always been her saving grace, but when she’d traveled before, there had always been time to do more than throw her stuff in them and move onto the next city.  Saratoga, Cleveland, Calgary, Edmonton, Winnipeg and now…  Where the hell were they anyway?  Still in Canada.  That much she knew.  Toronto, maybe?

So much for being prepared.

Apparently, she had been delusional in thinking that living in a London hotel suite for a couple of weeks qualified her to travel with this band of gypsies.  Traveling, was…  She had a whole list of adjectives built up at this point, but it was mostly exhausting.  At the third hotel in four nights, she’d given up trying to unpack.   Now that they were on the sixth hotel room in eight days, she’d come to the conclusion that living out of a suitcase completely sucked,, which was why she was currently venting her frustrations on plastic bags.

And they weren’t even halfway through this leg of the tour.  

Even the shows, which should’ve been a bright spot in the travel Underworld, were excruciating.  Summertime heat combined with humidity levels that belonged in the jungles of South America made each and every show seem twice as long as the two and a half hours Jon was customarily on stage.  She dragged around like some kind of exhausted zombie, not knowing if she was coming or going. And it was starting to take a toll on her typically sunshiny demeanor.

Not A toll.  Multiple tolls.  More than the New Jersey Turnpike and the Garden State fucking Parkway combined.

Between her foul mood and Jon’s foul mood, courtesy of the calf injury he sustained during the first New Meadowlands show and the accompanying rehab while he was still trying to get through the shows…  Well, to put it bluntly, their sex life even sucked.

To be fair, he was trying to be patient with Rachel’s floundering attempts to adapt to life on the road, but she could sense he wished she’d just suck it up and deal already.   The more stressed he became over his physical situation – including his struggle with the high notes as of late – the shorter his patience grew.  Only an hour ago he’d snapped at her, barking that he had all he could handle trying to get healthy and she’d have to deal with her PMS on her own.

She’d flipped him the bird, annoyed at the PMS remark, and griped that the only people getting the best from him were the fans each night when he took the stage “playing rock star”.

His reply?  “I hope you get your shit together before we have dinner with Richie tonight.  I’m tired of making excuses for your candy ass bitchiness.”

How could she be expected to do something as Herculean as containing her “candy ass bitchiness” when she couldn’t even find her fucking hairspray??

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

Why did he willingly chose this lifestyle?  He couldn’t possibly need the money, and he hated virtually everything about touring except those few hours on stage, yet he continued with the insanity of it all.  . 

For the first time, Rachel wondered if she was insane, thinking she could keep up with him.

                                                                ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Meanwhile, in the living room of their suite, Jon and Richie were enjoying a pre-dinner cocktail while listening to the sounds of Rachel’s frustration coming from the bathroom.  The rustle of bags and the zing of zippers could be heard along with a repetitive chorus of “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” and the slamming of the bathroom door as Jon’s lady love stomped from there to the bedroom and swore some more.

“Sounds like your girl needs a drink, Jonny.”

“She needs more than that,” Jon groaned, feeling a headache looming behind his eyes.  It was definitely gonna be an Advil kind of evening.  “I guarantee that whatever the fuck she’s looking for is probably in plain sight.  Mark my words, though, in the next two minutes she’ll ask if I have the missing nail file, bra, tampon or whatever.  You name it, and she’ll accuse me of having it.”

Richie retrieved another couple of beers from the refrigerator, handed one off to Jon and opened one for himself.  “Trouble in paradise, my man?”

“Nah, not really,” he sighed, yet he didn’t hesitate to gratefully accept the beer and flip the tab.  “She’s just acclimating to the traveling circus lifestyle, but it’s no wonder she can’t find her shit.  I swear, she’s got more luggage than you do.  I dunno know why you two can’t get by with a single bag and simplify my life.”

“Because we have incredible fashion sense,” his guitarist retorted with a cheery lift of his can.  “Something you’d know nothing about, Jonny Bravo.  How many days you been wearin’ those jeans now?”

Only a couple, but before Jon could verbalize his response, an agitated Rachel appeared in the doorway, eyes wild with frustration.  “Did you use all my hairspray, Jon?  I can’t find it anywhere!!”

“It’s in my bag,” he reminded her in quiet tone, unsurprised that his prophesy to Richie has been fulfilled.  It was his way of life now.

“Why is it in YOUR bag?” she asked incredulously, as though she didn’t remember stuffing it in there personally, because all of her damn zip-loc bags were crammed to the gills with the rest of her woman shit.

“Because you didn’t have room in yours and you asked me to carry it for you.  Remember, honey?”

“Why don’t you ever unpack?  It would be so much simpler than digging through suitcases every day!  How do you live like this??!!??!!”

And…. she was off again. 

Jon closed his eyes and sighed, wondering if it was always going to be this way.  If so, he was going to need to buy stock in his favorite wine.

“I get that you’re frustrated, but you know what?  If you didn’t have four suitcases and two garment bags you wouldn’t be so fuckin’ frustrated.  You’re gonna have to learn to pack lighter if you’re gonna keep traveling with me.”

Rachel’s eyes rolled to the ceiling, and Jon’s fingers curled more tightly around his beer can.  “Says the man with forty-eleven trucks filled to the gills with his crap.”

“If I had a forty-twelfth one for your hair shit, you still wouldn’t be happy because you can’t unpack the fuckin’ thing every day,” he observed blandly.

“Fuck you, and worry about your own hair,” she tossed off, and he somehow knew she was arguing because it gave her some semblance of control in a world where she felt like she had none.  It was why he didn’t even flinch when she flung out, “And from the look of those gray roots, you should get on that, like, yesterday.”

“Children, Children,” Richie interrupted, rising from the sofa and stepping between them as though he thought they would come to blows.  “Don’t make me send you to bed without your dinner.”

“Wouldn’t be the only thing I’ve gone to bed without in the last week,” she muttered, fixing Jon with a pointed look.

The way she’d been lately, he’d probably get his dick ripped off if he got it close enough.

Sambora, because he knew it to be in his best interest to steer completely away from all-topics sexual with Jon’s woman, took a stride closer to Rachel and put a light hand on her shoulder.  “Rachel, Your hair looks great even without the hairspray.  Let’s make tracks and get a big, stiff drink in you before dinner.”

She ran her fingers through the unsprayed hair, clearly still frustrated, but she grabbed her purse and headed toward the door anyway, eyeing Jon as she walked by.  “Might as well.  God knows that’ll be the only big, stiff thing in me tonight.”

Jesus Christ…

Jon sucked in a deep breath and prayed for patience like he hadn’t prayed since Catholic school.  God must’ve known he was in dire need tonight, because a sick blanket of humor settled over Jon.  It was either laugh or he was going to put his hands around her throat and choke the living shit out of her. 

Chalk one up for the nuns.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Jon replied with a chuckled attempt at levity as he parked his empty beer can on the table and stood.  “Don’t be dissing the size of my dick.  It may not be as big as Sambora’s, but it can stiff you all night long.”

The loud snort found its way over her shoulder and back to him, along with her sarcastic, “I’ve been stiffed, alright…”

Yea though I walk through the valley of evil…..