Ch 60 ~ Tap Out

Rachel’s heart pounded feverishly, as the mist swirled through the night air, making the streetlights nearly futile.  She could hear a steady tap of footsteps behind her as she vainly sought to find the entrance to her hotel. 

She hadn’t walked that far away from the group.  It had only been a moment ago that she’d stopped to look in a lighted shop window.  Where was Jon?  And David, Richie, Matt... Anybody??

A hard-soled shoe rhythmically struck the sidewalk, never getting any closer, nor any further away as she wandered fruitlessly among the darkened storefronts.

“Jon?”  There was a tremor in her voice.  She heard it and cleared her throat, trying again, more firmly.  “Jon, is that you?”

In her heart, she knew it wasn’t.  He was wearing tennis shoes tonight.  That sound couldn’t be made by rubber-soled running shoes.  Were any of the guys wearing hard shoes?  She scrambled frantically to remember while her own quiet shoes continued to make time over the cobblestones.

Where was that damned hotel?  Or something that was recognizably lit? 

She turned a corner and found herself in a narrow alley that had no light whatsoever.  There was nothing but dark and fog that enveloped her like a frightening cloak of imprisonment. 

Even worse, the footsteps that had maintained a consistent distance now drew closer, their tap-tap-tapping echoing in Rachel’s head like a hail of gunfire, and her pulse rate jacked up to rival the shot pattern of an AK-47.

Tap…….tap……..tap….tap…tap...tap..tap.tap.taptaptaptap….

In her flustered urgency to escape the terrifying sound that was more menacing than Poe’s telltale heart, Rachel bolted, not realizing that the cobblestone alleyway was going to prove to be her demise rather than her savior.  She hadn’t taken two long strides before one of the cobblestones reached up and caught the tip of her shoe.  With the force and speed she was trying to gain, the impact sent her sprawling onto the bumpy ground.  She had just gotten her bearings enough to properly position her limbs when the invisible feet arrived at the exact spot where she was scrambling to put herself right again. 

She scurried frantically in the sudden silence, but – before she could draw her legs beneath her to gain purchase – something brushed her ankle.

“Eeeek!”  The strangled cry echoed in her ears as a warm hand ensconced her shoulder. 

“Rach!” 

Rachel’s eyes flew open and she flipped her head to the left, realizing as she did so that it was on a nice soft pillow instead of an uneven cobblestone street. 

There.  There was Jon.

“Fuck,” she sighed, taking a deep breath and turning over to seek out the warmth and safety of her man.  She snuggled into his chest, instructing her pulse to resume a normal tempo.

It was a dream.  Just a dream.

“Bad dream?” he asked, stroking a splayed palm down along the length of her spine.

“Mm.  Damn David and his Jack the Ripper escapade.”

The chest she’d rushed to for safety rumbled beneath her cheek with a quiet chuckle and Rachel raised up to scowl at him.  “It’s not funny!  That psycho was stalking me in the streets of London and all I could hear was the rhythm of his feet as he got closer!”

Blue eyes that had been brimming with humor now filled with something that looked suspiciously like…  Guilt.

“What?”

“Um…”  He lit up the already bright morning with his most charming smile, letting Rachel know something was amiss.  He didn’t whip out that charming smile unless he thought he needed to do some major schmoozing.  “Those weren’t Jack the Ripper’s feet, babe.  They were mine.”

Her eyes darted to the end of the bed, where she saw that the feet in question were still tapping to the beat of some unheard melody – that was likely playing in his head.  The same way they always did when he was working on a song.

“Damn you!”  She bumped his shoulder with the heel of her hand.  “Stop writing songs in bed.”

Laughing, he locked up her wrists in his hands and held them close to his body, effectively disabling them.  “One of the hazards of sleeping with a musician, babe.  And I’m not writing, I’m re-writing a song.  Or maybe two.  I’ve got lyrics in my head that I thought were for one song, but now it feels like they’re for two different songs.  Maybe.”

“Hmpf.”  She slowly lifted one eyebrow.  “Let’s go with two and make both of them hits, because you’re gonna need the money to pay for all the furniture I’m going to buy today.  And since you’re obviously anxious to get an early start, it’s going to be a lot of furniture.”

Okay, so it probably wouldn’t be a lot, but it would be good furniture.  They’d planned all along to do some shopping for the “new” Jersey house on this trip, because where better to shop for timelessly classic furniture than London?  Since he was so restless, that just meant they’d have more time to browse the offerings of London in between bouts of tourism.

But wait.  There was that look of guilt again.

“What?” she sighed.  Why did she have the feeling he was about to not go shopping?

“Nothin’,” he claimed innocently.  “I was just thinkin’ that they could probably be hits if I could convince Rich to help me fuck around with ‘em this morning.”

Aha.  She hadn’t been mistaken.  It was nice being able to read the man.  Kind of like having her own personal superpower. 

But she’d still rather he go shopping.

“The only thing Richie is going to be involved with this morning is a royal hangover, I would imagine.”  The guitarist had produced a flask part-way through the tour, his laughter coming easier and easier as the group checked out each of the murder sites.  By the time their tour guide had presented Jack the Ripper’s actual knife, Richie had challenged the man to a swordfight with his – ahem – dick, claiming it was longer than the knife.

Fortunately, Tico had managed to convince his friend to keep his pants zipped, but that didn’t change the fact that Richie had made a nest in the hotel bar once they’d returned to the property.  She couldn’t imagine that he’d sipped coffee until the wee hours of the morning. 

“Probably, but we’ve been known to write hits when we’re hungover, too, so….”

With his mind wrapped up in his music, Rachel knew that even if he did go shopping, he wouldn’t really be there.  That would end up in a typical man-woman squabble because he wasn’t showing any interest, yadda, yadda.  In the end it would be better to go it alone, because she had no desire to spend her day pissed and annoyed. 

But it wouldn’t be right to just offer to let him off the hook.  He should really have to work for it a little. 

She gave his nipple a quick nip and wrapped her arm across his torso, tucking her fingers under his back. 

“You’re going to bail on our outing today, aren’t you?” 

“It wouldn’t be all day,” he started his spiel of justification, looping his arm around her shoulders and squeezing.  “Just a couple hours this morning.   We’re doing the final mix this week on the four new songs for the greatest hits record and I think I wanna make changes to a couple of ‘em.”

So he wasn’t writing new stuff, but rehashing?  What was that old adage?  Your first instinct is usually right?  But what did she know.  She sold real estate and didn’t possess a single creative bone in her body.  He was a song writing legend.

Still…  She couldn’t resist asking, “You’re second guessing what you’ve already written?”

“Maybe.”  He shrugged.  “I’ve been lying here thinking about us and all the good and bad days we’ve had that brought us to where we are now.   That got me thinking about one of the songs Rich and I started back before you left Jersey.  After you left, we finished it, but…  I dunno.  Since you were gone it went a different way than it would’ve if you’d stayed.  With things being back on track with us, I don’t wanna sing it the way I left it.  The story’s changed.”

Yeah.  He was so getting off the shopping hook.  Who wouldn’t let him off the hook to re-write their story?  Nobody but an idiot. 

“I love hearing you do the stuff you’ve written since we’ve been together.  I like it much better than hearing the love songs you sing night after night after night, knowing you wrote them for somebody else.”

His arm tightened around her and Jon dropped a kiss on the top of her head.  “I bet there’s not a song on this last record that wasn’t inspired by a conversation we had, or a conversation Richie and I had about you.”

Unable to resist a pleased smile, she playfully poked him in the side. “That’s very sweet, and I feel very privileged, but there were forty-eleven records before this one that had nothing to do with me.  They all produced a gazillion hits, most of which you sing every night!” 

“All the more reason for you to want me to work on a couple of your songs today.”  Cue the charming smile. 

And she?  She was a mere mortal woman whose panties melted away in the presence of that smile.

“Yes, dear.”  Rachel kissed the lips that made that smile so perfect.  “Whatever you need is fine with me.”

Besides, if she left him here, hers would be the only panties he’d be melting today. 

She liked that. 

She liked it a lot.

Ch 59 ~ Let's Get Ripped

“C’mon David,” Rachel wheedled as the van door closed with the assembled Bon Jovi crew inside.  There was a second van behind them to join the mystery excursion that he still wouldn’t reveal any details about.  “Where are you taking us?”

“Yeah, what’s the big secret plans that you’ve been blabbering on about all day?” Matt interjected. 

David grinned.  He lived for this shit.  Masterminding some off-the-wall plan and executing it to perfection was his version of heroin or crack.  It was addictive as hell, but without the legal ramifications. 

Usually.

“He likes keeping his junior high secrets like some pre-pubescent girl,” Richie offered dryly, to which Dave returned a two-handed Jersey salute.

“You’re just pissed because I haven’t told you what tonight’s activity is, and you like being in on the hype almost as much as I do.”

Which was true.  Sambora was most often his partner in crime when it came to these things, but David hadn’t felt compelled to allow him into the inner circle this time.  Somehow, it was just more appropriate to go this one alone.  In the dark.  With only the eyes of the night watching.

Muahahaha!

“What-the-fuck-ever,” the guitarist grumbled, half-heartedly returning the salute. 

Rachel, who had managed to keep her newbie excitement about the un-publicized exploits of a band on tour so far, was amusing him to no end as she peppered questions like a seasoned reporter.  “Is it a club?  A show?  Dinner? Because if it’s dinner, you’re not ordering for me this time, I’ll just tell you that right now!”

He giggled like a schoolgirl.  She had gamely stuck knife and fork to the baby squid swimming in its own ink at Botin, without uttering a single word of disgust or protest, but she had only managed to choke down about a quarter of it before proclaiming that the salad had filled her up.  He hadn’t bought that bullshit for a second, but she’d still scored some major points in his book for the way she’d handled the whole thing – and scored him another box of rubbers. 

That was why he felt inclined to throw the gal a bone of sorts.

“No, not dinner tonight.  You can rest easy knowing that you have a tentacle-free evening ahead,” he assured her, accompanying that assurance with an evil grin.  “We should be there soon, but I’ll give you a little hint in the meantime.”

“Oh Christ,” Jon muttered.  “Here goes his Riddler routine…”

“Shut your piehole,” David returned mildly, completely unoffended.  He liked riddles, and liked them even better when he was one telling them. 

“Let him give his hint, babe,” Rachel scolded with a gentle elbow to the singer’s ribs.  “As long as I’m not going to be eating pork snouts or octopus toes, it’s all harmless fun, right?”

Richie snorted.  “With Lema?  Not fuckin’ likely.”

“Hey.  Do you want the hint or not?” David interrupted the slandering of his good character – justified or not.  “Because I can just make you wait and wonder….”

“For Chrissake, spill it already,” Tico grumbled, speaking for the first time.  “It’s like chaperoning a playground with you dickheads blabbering your bullshit.”

That amused David even more.  Tico rarely commented on the shenanigans, preferring to just stay out of the way.  If he was interacting, it was going to be a good night.

“Okay, okay…  Father Time back there has spoken, so here’s your hint…”  David cleared his throat for dramatic effect before offering his clue in an equally dramatic voice.  “Jack be nimble…  Jack be quick…”  He looked around the van at the equally expectant and bored facial expressions of his travel-mates, then directed the last bit of the clue directly toward Rachel, who appeared less bored than the others.  “Jack gonna get him a little slit.”

Her face immediately crumpled into a mask of disgust, and tickled his fancy in the process. 

“Ewww!  David, that’s gross and crass!”

“I am not taking my…”  Jon paused, and when he continued David realized he was looking for the right word.  “Girlfriend to a strip club or a whore house.  Not happening.”

“FYI, they’re called brothels in London,” David corrected casually, while he practically bubbled inside with glee.  “Much classier, these English peeps.”

“I don’t give a shit about classy.  Take us back to the hotel!” Jon ordered the driver, completely unamused.

Rachel put her hand on his arm.  “Relax, big boy.  I don’t think he’d seriously take us – me – someplace like that.”

“Ahhhh…”  David grinned widely and gave her an approving wink of his eye.  “I see why you’re keeping this one around, Obi Wan.  She’s smarter than you are.”

“Where the fuck are we going, Bryan?”

There was nothing David enjoyed more than ruffling his friend and boss’s feathers after a show.  Never before a show, though.  Never.  He’d done it once and once had been enough.  On that particular occasion, Jon had been annoyed and vengeful enough to have a slithery guest awaiting David in his hotel bed – the no-legged kind.  Not that he was afraid of a boa constrictor, but the only snake David wanted in his bed was the one in his boxers.

Lesson learned.

“Calm yourself, man,” he soothed with an upheld palm.  “The Tube Steak Station is just ahead.”

The car went eerily silent, and several pairs of eyes drilled into him with a distinct lack of amusement.

Okay, so that particular bit of humor hadn’t gotten the expected and desired explosion from Jon, nor the anticipated raucous laughter from his other cronies.  Even Sambora hadn’t laughed. 

Fucker.

“Pardon the slip of the tongue, oh Great One.  I meant the tube station.  We’re meeting our party outside the Tower Hill station.”

David’s head snapped forward as though the driver had slammed on the brakes, but no one else was jolted.  When he heard Tico’s voice he realized he’d just been bitch-slapped by the drummer.

“The Sherlock Holmes mystery shit is now officially old, Goldilocks.  You’re gettin’ on my nerves.”

“Goldilocks’s” eyes rolled.  Great.  Now the Cubano was annoyed.  He was probably the least fun to annoy, because he had a tendency to be pissier than Jon when in that mood. 

“Hey, cut the man a little slack.  He’s just tryin’ to work up a little fun,” Sambora – yes, Sambora – defended him.  “Don’t be so uptight.”

David gazed at the man with total incredulity.  “Okay, seriously?  What.  The.  Fuck?  You’re on my side?  Since when the hell does that happen??”

The guitarist lifted one lazy shoulder.  “Must be a full moon or something.”

“No, no, no, no.  It must be an eclipse of the moon.  Some unique force of nature that has disrupted the natural yin and yang of our relationship.  This can’t happen I tell you!  You’re the Batman to my Joker.  The cop to my robber.  The Hitler to my Jew!!” 

David knew he was going way, way past the boundary of reasonable nonsense, but sometimes he just had to push the boundaries.  Perhaps one day they would decide he was psychotic – Hell, who was he kidding?  They already thought that.  It was just more costly to commit him than it was to tolerate him.  But still….  There were unspoken rules.

“Okay, you crazy piece of shit!” Richie exclaimed with upraised hands.  “Tell us where the hell we’re going or I’m gonna beat you to a fucking bloody pulp!”

A warm peace settled over David’s soul.  Once again, all was right in his world. 

He smiled fondly at his arch-enemy-slash-friend.  “Since you asked in such an appropriate manner, I’ll be happy to tell you.” 

The van slowed and pulled to the curb.  One would assume the semi-dark sidewalk to be deserted at this time of night, and it was.  Mostly.  The exception was the lone male figure with a flashlight.

“Ah!  There’s our man, now.”  He pointed toward the shadowy figure standing before the Tower Hill Tram, a refreshment stand that had been closed for hours now. 

“Who is he?” 

“That, my dear lady,” he replied to Rachel.  “Is Donald Rumbelow.”

“Okay, I’ll bite,” said Matt, who had stayed almost unbelievably silent during the trip.  “Who the hell is Donald Rumbelow?”

David clapped the bigger man on the shoulder.  “I’m glad you asked, good fellow,” he approved jovially.  “Mr. Rumbelow is a former City of London police sergeant, former curator of the Crime Museum and  Britain’s foremost crime historian.”

“You brought him in case we kill your ass?” Jon asked dryly.  “Because you know it ain’t gonna help you a bit.  I’ve got friends in the waste management business….”

David smirked.  “Hardee har har…  No.  He’s not here to investigate my impending death, you Mafioso wannabe.  Besides all of his other credentials, Mr. Rumbelow is also the single foremost expert on…”  He paused for dramatic effect before whispering, “Jack the Ripper.  He’s here to guide us through ole Jack’s murder sites, and give us all of the grisly details.”

“Seriously?”  Sambora sat straight up in his seat, peering out the window for a split second before reaching for the door handle.  “Well, what the hell are we waiting for?”

Rachel shuddered as Jon followed right behind Richie and then Matt.  “This was creepy enough when I read about it in my tour book, but you realize how exceptionally creepy this is in the middle of the night, right?”

“That’s the whole point, Rach.” David slung an arm around her shoulders and leaned down and whispered in her ear.  “Now let’s go get ‘ripped’, shall we?”

Ch 58 ~ Set To Go

“Hey, handsome.  Whatcha doin’?”

Rachel strolled into the dressing room at the O2, feeling incredibly contented and at home.  It was only the second night at this venue, but Jon’s dressing room had looked just the same in the Netherlands, so she had quickly become used to the black curtains that masked cinderblock walls, the dark, comfy sofa, huge television, fuzzy area rug, heavy coffee table and the dozen other homey touches that made the space “his”.

Clearly immersed in the open laptop, television and a sheet of partially scribbled paper, Jon nonetheless looked up at her with a welcoming grin and put down his black Sharpie marker to extend his hand to her.  Tugging on it, he pulled her down next to him on the sofa, and in for an easy kiss before answering, “Set list.  Did you get your work drama taken care of?”

Even the crisis that had pulled her away from their lunch before she was finished hadn’t put a damper on her mood.  She was in the first part of a month-long tryst with her lover on another continent full of rich history and beautiful places.  Oh, and fabulous sex with the man she loved. 

The interruption was a minor blip on her day’s radar, particularly with the traveling business facilities that Jon had offered her full access to.

“Mm hmm.  I just needed to print and sign some documents so that I could return them.  The only downside is that I’ll have to monitor it, so I may be back here working during the show.   I really appreciate this, by the way.  It’s so convenient that this place is like a mobile Office Depot – any kind of equipment I need, you have.  It’s the perfect corporation!  You should sell stock in Bon Jovi.”

“That might be one way to fund an NFL team,” he mused with a wry grin.

Rachel chuckled.  He was so anxious to have his own NFL team, but the opportunities were few and far between.  Still, he was socking money into his “NFL fund” at every opportunity so that he would be ready when that opportunity did arise.

“But then you couldn’t be Lord and Master over millions of women, honey.  It would just be a pack of sweaty men and they don’t lose common sense and control of their credit cards when it comes to you.  No.  I say you’re better off to just keep shakin’ that money maker.”

His eyes rolled to the ceiling, eliciting a delighted giggle from Rachel, and she ran her fingers across the top of his head.  Tucking her legs beneath her, she nodded toward the paper that lay abandoned on the coffee table.   

“So…what’s on the set list tonight?”

“I dunno yet.  I’m having a little trouble,” he confessed with a grimace, picking up the Sharpie and leaning over the half-finished roadmap for the evening’s show.  “With twelve shows here, I want to mix it up for those people who come more than once.  You got any requests?”

“Ooh!” She was going to get to help pick songs??  How much fun was that??  Maybe she could convince him not to do “Wanted Dead or Alive” and “Livin’ on a Prayer”.  So what if they were their best known songs?  They still got old night after night after night.  “I’d love for you to do ‘In These Arms’.  That’s my favorite,” she supplied enthusiastically.

Now what else did she like?  Something a little out of the ordinary would be good…

“Nah,” he vetoed her choice absently, lost in his own thoughts and unaware that she’d moved on to her second selection.  “Did that last night.”

Oh. 

She silently huffed, but was only momentarily deflated.  That was true.  Maybe she’d try again for tomorrow night.  But for tonight…  Hmm…. 

“Okay, then how about ‘When We Were Beautiful’?  Yanno the first time I heard that I thought it was about us and it seemed like a real downer, but now that I’ve heard it a few times it feels really uplifting to me.  Why don’t you do that one?”

“Mm.”  He tapped the cap of his marker distractedly against the table and shook his head without looking at her.  “Did that last night, too.”

“Ugh!”  Rachel butted the heel of her hand against the back of his head in semi-frustration.  “Stop shooting me down!  You did ‘Prayer’ and ‘Wanted’, too, but I’m betting I’ll have to hear those again tonight.”

Jon snapped his head around to give her his full attention for the first time since he’d picked up the Sharpie.  “Whaddaya mean you bet you ‘have to hear those again tonight’?  Those are classics!  The crowd loves ‘em!  Of course they’re going to be on the set list!”

“Maybe they do love them, but if I have to hear about you riding a steel horse for the next twenty shows, there’s an excellent possibility that I might have an aneurism.”  She stuck her tongue out at him, and made one last stab as he turned back to ponder the partial list of songs.  “Could you at least make sure ‘Have A Nice Day’ is on the list, please?  You didn’t do that one last night – in fact, you haven’t done it a single time since we’ve been in Europe.” 

“Not feelin' it,” he grunted.

Rachel’s eyes rounded like that of a barn owl and disbelievingly blinked at him in much the same manner before inquiring of him sardonically, “Why ask if I have any requests when you know you’re not going to sing anything but exactly what YOU want to sing?”

He tossed the pen onto the table in front of him with a crooked grin and leaned into Rachel, kissing her in that familiar, if not exactly passionate, way that he sometimes did.  “I guess it was just polite conversation, Rach.  Because you’re right.  I ain’t ever gonna do nothin’ but what suits me.  That’s exactly why you should accept my marriage proposal.  You oughtta know if I’m askin’, it’s because I want to, not just to make you happy.”

 Marriage.  All roads led back to this same dead end conversation, but she had moved past debating the issue with him weeks ago.  He asked, she declined and they went on about their day.  Annoying, but functional.

“Lovely offer, but I’ll pass and let you get back to creating your masterpiece of a set list without having to ignore any more input from me. But,” she cautioned as the door opened and Richie sauntered casually into the room.  “Don’t put too many songs on it.  David has some kind of special plans for all of us after the show, so we need to get out of here at a reasonable hour.”  Rachel leaned close and gave him a simple peck on the lips before she stood.  “Please.”   

The first thing Richie did was immediately bend over the partial agenda of songs for the night, speaking as he read.  “Yeah, I was just comin’ in to see if you two lovebirds had heard about Dave’s – “ His head snapped up in mid-sentence and he glared past Rachel at Jon while stabbing his index finger in the same direction.  “You’re doin’ ‘Runaway’ tonight?  Fucker!  You know I hate that song!”  

Rachel slid from between the two men, lest she get caught in some kind of juvenile tussle.  One never knew what could happen around this bunch of goofy men.

“Why?” she questioned Richie, perplexed.  That would’ve probably been one of her top suggestions if it hadn’t already been on the list.  “I love that one!  As soon as I hear those first notes I’m transported back to the first time I heard it on the nightstand clock radio at my grandma’s house.  It’s the beginning of the Bon Jovi fairy tale, for Heaven’s sake!  I can’t believe you don’t like it!”

Jon rolled his eyes.  At the rate he was going this evening, his gaze was going to permanently stick to the ceiling.  “He didn’t write it, so it’s like a stick up his ass when we do it.”

“I see,” Rachel replied noncomittally.  So, no matter how close they were, there was a little jealousy there.  Interesting.  “Kinda like I get a stick up MY ass when I hear the intro to ‘Wanted’.”

“First of all, I do not get a stick up my ass,” Richie protested, to which Jon’s eyes rolled.  Again.  “And second of all, seriously??  How can you not like ‘Wanted’?  Not to be immodest, seeing as I’m the co-writer, but c’mon!  That’s one of the best known rock anthems in history.  They’ll write about it in our obituaries!”  He looked at Jon with incredulity.  “What the fuck’s wrong with your girl, Jonny?”

“She’s tired of hearing about us riding a steel horse – blah, blah, blah.” 

Richie snorted as the back of Rachel’s hand connected with Jon’s shoulder.

“Well, listen sister…  Lemme just clue you in.  You clearly don’t know the common and socially acceptable reaction to that song, so I’m going to educate you.  When ‘Wanted’ is played, you stand to your feet and give it the homage it deserves,” Richie tutored patiently.  “Got it?”

“What I’ve got is confirmation that you’ve lost your mind,” she teased right back.  “And furthermore-“

“You two cut that shit out,” Jon interrupted grumpily.  “I’ve got to get this thing finished and you’re distracting me.  Rich, if there’s not anything else you want, then get the hell out.”

“As a matter of fact there is something else I wanted.  You,” he pointed at Jon, “Don’t run us over with a bunch of extra talking and encore stuff.  David wants to be showered and out of here by midnight.”

“I was just telling him that,” Rachel chimed in.  “And, personally, I’m ready for an early night.  It’s been a long couple of days, so let’s get this show over with, go out and relax.”

“Alright, alright, I don’t need you two yahoos directing my show and lopping it off prematurely just because you want to go play in London, thank you very much,”  Jon said with an amused shake of his head.  “Now, both of you, get outta here so I can finish my job.”

Ch 57 ~ A Dog's Life

“Rach…wake up, baby.”

The words dug through her unconscious state through forty-eleven layers of fuzzy fog.  They roused her just enough to alert her to how utterly awful she felt – queasy, achy and all-over miserable.  Her neck had a crick in it from being bent in a funny position and she rubbed at it sleepily.  Where the hell was she and who had left her here for dead after a truck with at least eighteen wheels had flattened her ass? 

“Rach.”

Her eyelids cracked open enough to realize that Jon’s voice was the one tunneling through that fuzzy fog.  The lights whizzing past by in the darkness told her that they were in a moving vehicle and it was late.  Or early.  She wasn’t sure which.  Then again, she wasn’t really sure which direction was up either.

“Is it morning or night?  Where are we?”  She slowly pushed herself into a more upright position and tried to make sense of the scenery around her, but she couldn’t find any identifiable landmarks to lend her a clue.

“London.  We’re almost to the hotel.  You’ll be in bed in no time, but you gotta wake up enough to walk in, babe.  Matt said he isn’t carrying your dead weight ass.”

Soft chuckles wafted through the van from its other occupants, while Matt defended himself.  “Hey.  I’m a bodyguard, not a moving man.”

Rachel wrinkled her nose at the population in general, unconcerned with their joking shenanigans and bullshit at the moment.  It had ceased being funny about the time she stuck a baby squid in her mouth and tasted its ink.  She owed David Bryan for that one.

“Oh.  London.  Thass right,” her fatigue had her slight slurring the words.  “I knew that.” 

They’d done a show in Madrid last night, then the Netherlands tonight and had flown out as soon as the show was over.   She had barely been able to manage stumbling from the plane to the van when they’d landed, and she had no idea – nor cared right now – whether her luggage had accompanied her.  Then again, she could barely remember her name.  Who the hell ever said traveling was fun?

“Please just shoot me,” she whined, flopping her head onto Jon’s shoulder.  “I’m pretty sure jet lag is one of the circles of hell, and if I have to go through eight more circles I’m going to die.” 

The laughter was louder this time, and she saw that none of them were going to be sympathetic to her plight.  These men had no pity for the travel-weak – even the man who claimed to love her.

“It might not seem like it right now, but you’ll live, honey,” Jon chuckled.  “It’s a little like sea sickness.  Once you get your sea legs, you’ll be fine.”

“To hell with sea legs,” she groaned pitifully as the van pulled beneath a lighted portico.  “Just throw me overboard and save yourself.” 

The wheels stopped moving, and the road noise replaced by screeching – a screeching that she’d become intimately familiar with in a short time.  It was a gaggle of Bon Jovi crazy women waving their arms to get the band’s attention inside the vehicle. 

“Geez.  What time is it?” Rachel grumbled.  “Shouldn’t they be home in bed?”

Jon was gathering his bag and hers but took a glance at his watch and told her, “It’s a little after 1:30 in the morning, local time.” 

“Oh my word.  These people choose to be here when they could be all nice and cozy, sound asleep?” she asked incredulously.  “You’re not worth it.  I can tell them from personal experience, you’re just not worth it!”

“Amen, sister!”

She couldn’t be sure over the roaring laughter, but she thought it was David – or Richie – who echoed her sentiment.  She also didn’t particularly care that her traveling bedhead was going to be snapped by a dozen cellphones and cameras as the car door opened.  Sleep was her primary concern, not a bunch of psycho band stalkers.

Jon stepped out of the car, pulling their two bags out behind him with a smile still on his face.  When he reached back in for Rachel’s hand, he murmured for her ears only, “Not worth it, huh?  Wanna make a bet?  You are sooooo gonna eat those words, my love.”

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

The next time Rachel opened her eyes, it was daylight and she was lying in an exceptionally comfortable bed in a bedroom fit for a Queen.    There were billowy valance drapes made of a rich gold fabric and trimmed with tassels, a chandelier hanging overhead and antique nightstands. 

Was this a hotel or Buckingham Palace? 

She turned toward the other side of the bed and, as the sheet slid over her body, she found out that she was as bare naked as the pillow beside her.  The clock on Jon’s nightstand read 11:07, which explained his absence.   He would have been up and out at least an hour ago, even given the late night they’d had.  She had quickly discovered that he was religious about getting up and maintaining a normal routine, no matter what the time zone.

Rachel had also discovered that her religion – by necessity – centered around a cup.

Coffee.  I need coffee.  And a toothbrush. 

Rolling back over with a lethargic groan, she pushed back the down comforter and dropped her feet to the lushly carpeted floor.   A single glance told her that last night’s clothes, which she didn’t remember removing, were lying in a messy pile next to the bed.   Either Jon had graciously undressed her, or she had been too far gone to remember taking them off.  She was betting on Jon.  Even dead tired, she would’ve folded them. 

Scooping them up, she did that now and dropped them on the settee at the foot of the bed.  A moment to take a quick peek out the window at all the promise London had to offer, and then Rachel padded toward the bathroom.  It only furthered the Buckingham Palace theory when, outside the bathroom door, she found a  walk-in closet that would make any real estate agent’s heart beat a little faster. 

Holy crap.

Stepping inside the storage space that would rival the closet in her New Jersey house for size, she found their luggage parked in the near corner.  Rachel shook her head in awe at the hotel closet and bypassed all of the luggage other than the small carryon that held her toiletries and, more importantly, her toothbrush.  She shrugged it onto her shoulder and went to see what unexpected treasures the bathroom held.

Her morning needs taken care of in the palatial bathroom with its Olympic-sized whirlpool tub and gold-gilded dual sinks, she made her way back to the cavernous closet and grabbed the hotel robe that she’d seen hanging there.  It took only a moment to slip it on and tie the belt in a loose knot, and then she ventured to the bedroom door.  If she wasn’t mistaken…

“Oh my word,” she moaned in ecstasy as soon as she stepped foot into the living area whose décor exactly matched that of the bedroom.  Jon was perched on one of two loveseats that faced one another with a coffee table in between, sipping the beverage that the table had been made for as he scrolled through his phone.  “I don’t know which is more appealing to me – the smell of that coffee or the sight of your beautiful bed head.”

He looked up from his phone with a grin and patted the spot on the cushion next to him.  “Well, well, well… I see that Sleeping Beauty has arisen from her coma,” he teased.

Rachel ignored the empty spot and instead plopped down in his lap, looping her arms around his neck and kissing him.  It took no more than the first touch of his tongue against hers before she was consumed by a voracious sexual hunger that was almost more powerful than her need for caffeine.   

“Mhm,” she groaned as she freed his mouth to nip at his neck. “And finding Prince Charming awaiting me with coffee…  I feel almost human this morning.”

His snort rattled in his throat, tickling her lips.  “I ain’t no Prince Charming, that’s for damn sure, but I do have coffee.  Although, after the way you passed out on me last night, I’m not sure I should give it to you.” 

“Watch it, buddy.  I’m getting a little tired of waking up alone,” she pouted.  “Just once I’d like to turn over and find your bare ass waiting to be molested.”

Jon grabbed the back of her thighs with one hand and rolled her under him, a deliciously wicked glint in his eye as he leered at her from above.  The hand he wasn’t propping himself up with slid under the thick, fluffy fabric of her robe, palming the fullness of her bottom.

“Honey, if you want molesting, all you gotta do is flash me a little of your bare ass.  You would’ve been molested beyond your wildest dreams last night, but you threatened to chew my balls off if I didn’t let you sleep.  You know what that means, right?”

“Mmm.”  She wiggled into the fingers that were dancing from her bottom to someplace a little more…  fun.  “You’re smarter than Dorothea thinks you are?”

Those dancing fingers abandoned the funhouse between her legs to give her a sharp pinch on the ass.  “No, smartass.  It means you’re the only reason you woke up alone.  I’d still be in a post-orgasmic coma if you hadn’t been such a cranky bitch.” 

Rachel slipped her hand under the “Been There. Rocked That.” t-shirt that she’d given him for his birthday, reveling in the softness of the fur below his belly button that she loved so much.  Her other hand crept around his lean waist to snake beneath the waistband of his running shorts, burrowing inside to seek out the perfect backside that she’d been missing this morning. 

“You like me bitchy,” she purred as she nibbled along his stubbled jawline.  “And if you’ll give me a royal ‘welcome to London’ consummation, I promise not to chew anything you don’t want me to.” 

“Chew anything and everything that luscious little mouth can find, babe.  Just leave it attached when you’re done.” 

“Rawr,” she murmured with an easy bite to his Adam’s apple.  Parting her legs, she pushed against his buttocks so that his hips settled between her thighs.  “Now I see why dogs like their chew toys.” 

His hips rolled forward, bringing his hardness into forceful contact with her softness and drawing a soft gasp from her.  “Bitches.  Dogs.  I’m starting to sense a theme here.”

“Oh yeah?”  She gave a reciprocal roll of her hips, grinding a little when she found a particularly pleasant spot. 

Jon withdrew, rising on his knees and gripping her firmly around the waist.  With one forceful twist from his arms, Rachel’s knees were sunk into the sofa cushion, while her hands scrambled to find the armrest for balance.  

“Mhm.”

“Only you could interpret ‘royal consummation’ as doing me doggie on the couch instead of in that regal bed,” she murmured, not really all that upset.  Who would complain about a man who wanted her so intensely that he couldn’t be bothered to waste time going to the bedroom? 

Not her. 

“We’ll do the bed later.  Right now, I wanna do you right here.”

No complaints whatsoever.

Rachel glanced over her shoulder just as he flung those pesky shorts across the room and tugged up the t-shirt, dropping it on the back of the couch.  He was so strikingly handsome in the morning, she thought.  Unshaven, bed head – not quite the photogenic rock star his fans knew and loved.  No, Rachel’s man was just a man and she loved it and him.

One yank of the belt at her waist, dissolved her romantic musings, and Rachel’s arms were being tugged free from the robe so that it could join the shorts.  Before the soft ‘plop’ of terrycloth could be registered, Jon was covering her back with his soft mat of chest hair and sweeping her blonde tresses aside to kiss the back of her neck.

She absolutely loved the feel of his morning stubble against her neck and shoulders, and that was only intensified when one of his hands snuck around and simultaneously plucked at her sensitive nipples. Her head reared back with ecstasy at the exact moment he pushed inside with muted grunt of pleasure, and Rachel groaned her body’s acceptance of him.

There was nothing that compared to this.  To him.  Her.  Them.  In the same way that they’d used their bodies to push away the hurt of their arguments so long ago, now they used those same bodies to push themselves closer together.  Both physically and mentally they became a single, cohesive unit that thrived on the love that ran deep in their veins. 

It was so good to know that she’d go to bed with him tonight, and every night for the next month or so, while seeing a part of the world that she had always wondered about. 

Once again, her romantic musings burst like a bubble as he began to claim her more fervently than before.  The desperation to be fulfilled surrounded them like a cocoon and his hands, his skin, his breath transformed her as surely as the caterpillar morphed into a butterfly. 

“Oh God, Jon,” she panted, fingernails digging deep into the upholstery as he indelibly owned her time and time again.  The kissing of their flesh filled her ears and pushed her higher… harder… further.

Her eyes fluttered with the heaviness of lust, shutting out the outside world.  Shutting out anything beyond the primal coupling that had perspiration beading on her forehead and the back of her neck. 

“Gettin’ close.”  The breathy warning was accompanied by a hiss of imminent explosion.  “Now, baby,” he urged.

Rachel took a deep, cleansing breath and joined him, letting the orgasm roll through her entire body.  The butterfly reveled in its release, stretching itself like never before and making her feel bigger – freer – than she had before, and her chest fluttered with a unique kind of bliss.  It wasn’t the kind of release that had her shouting his name or some obscenity, but a complete and total body release that gave her the relaxation, energy and clarity of a two hour massage.

She slumped against the arm of the sofa with a contented smile and relished the boneless rubberiness that permeated her arms and legs

Life.  Is.  Good.

“Welcome to London, baby,”  Jon chuckled with an affectionate pat to her rump.  “Welcome to London.”

She sighed happily and mused,  “I think I’m gonna like it here.”

Ch 56 ~ Getting Inked

The outside of not just Spain’s, but the world’s oldest restaurant looked a lot like a gentleman’s club, Rachel thought.  Not the trashy kind with pole dancers, but the old-school cigar and brandy snifter type.  Maybe it could even be a cigar shop with its low-profile brown awning and gold-leaf lettering. 

No.  Definitely gentleman’s club.  The cherry floor-to-ceiling wainscoting, along with two plate glass windows, that characterized the ground floor of the restaurant’s four stories was definitely more suited to visions of a library full of genteel men making crazy wagers than a plain old cigar shop.  In fact, it gave Rachel had a flashback of that Eddie Murphy/Dan Akroyd movie – Trading Places.

No wonder the guys like this place.  Not that I’d consider them ‘genteel’, but the crazy wager thing…

Between the hotel and the restaurant alone, David had bet Richie they’d see at least one decrepit flamenco dancer (he won), a horse with a floppy straw hat (he lost) and three hookers (he won).  What they’d been wagering wasn’t clear to her because, also a la Trading Places, they’d merely gone with “the usual” bet.  What that meant, she didn’t think she wanted to know.

David smiled at the pretty blonde as her eyes roved keenly over the face of Botin.  Jon’s woman was undoubtedly beautiful and had, thus far, done quite well with their group of friends/family/co-workers.  She’d shown interest, but not too much, in each of them individually.  She’d respectfully kept her distance when she thought it was warranted.  Her personality was almost a freaking ray of sunshine, but had enough snark-shaped clouds to save her from being nauseatingly sunshiny. 

Yeah, overall, he thought Rachel was a good egg. 

However…  Up until this point, she’d only been with the group a few days at a time.  This month-long stint was going to stand as the real test of how well she could tolerate the Jovi nuts, of which he considered himself to have the biggest set – and second biggest dick, but he still argued the point with Sambora just for fun.

It was time to initiate Ms. Braden good and well into their ranks.  Whether she married the man who signed his paychecks or not, he didn’t care.  If she was riding shotgun in the jet, she must be put through the test of fire that would prove her mettle. 

Or that was his theory, anyway.  As usual, he didn’t much care if anyone else followed his line of logic.  As long as it made sense to him, he considered it…  Well – logical. 

Still, it was more fun with a partner in crime. 

So he graciously held the door for the lady, his blonde curls bobbing as he nodded his acknowledgement of her thanks.  The rest of the troops – Jon, Matt, Tico, Hugh, Obie, Bobby and Richie – followed behind, but just as Richie was about to step across the threshold, David snagged his elbow and muttered under his breath. 

“Usual wager says she lets me order for her and likes it.”

The darker man’s forehead wrinkled.  “What makes you think JB is going to let you order for her?”

“Because I’m me,” David replied with a careless shrug.  “He humors me unless it involves drugs, whores, jail time or bad press.  It’s easier that way and you know it.”

Clearly still skeptical, but unable to pass up the opportunity to win one of their countless wagers, Richie slowly nodded.  “You’re on, man.”

Excellent!

The group was immediately led through the main part of the restaurant and down a steep, narrow staircase that led to the cellar.  Their usual dining spot, because it was out of the way, this particular cellar had always reminded David of a subway tunnel.  With rough-hewn stone as the lower portion of the wall, aged bricks climbed above that and overhead in a tunnel-like arch.  The room was typically geared to seat about forty people, but they’d made arrangements to just have their small group in residence tonight.

“Here you go,” David invited Rachel, pulling out a chair as Jon scowled at him.  Richie gave their fearless leader a pat on the back and a wink.  “Sit next to me.  I’ll give you the skinny on everything from the menu that will keep you from being skinny.”

Her distrusting look was almost enough to wound him to the core.  It might have, if it hadn’t indicated that she was shrewder than a blonde was entitled to be. 

No matter.  He smiled his most ingenuous smile, making certain that his eyes sparkled with nothing but charming innocence, and....

Wait for it...  Wait for it...

Yes!  She sat, albeit mostly because of a prompting nod from her boy toy. 

Again, no matter.  The end result was the same and as long as she was handy, he’d have more luck with his bit of rapscallion subterfuge.    After all, this wasn’t just about amusing himself.  He had a bet to win, and a winning reputation to uphold.  It was one of the single-most things that kept him sane on these worldwide sojourns.

David scooted her in with a little bow as the rest of the behemoths around the table noisily lumbered into their own chairs. 

“Welcome to Botin, my lovely lady,” he welcomed with a sincere smile as he assumed his own seat beside her.  “My name is Dave and I will be your guide for this dining experience that compares to no other.”

An expertly kept brow slid up with renewed skepticism.  “Oh?  And how am I lucky enough to warrant that?”

He had to remember to keep the kiss-ass tone out of his voice.  It gave him away every time. 

“The rest of these yahoos only like their booze and burgers,” he confided with a simple shrug.  “If you want to truly experience this place the way it was meant to be experienced...  Well, you’ll trust me to educate you.”

“Hmm...”  She still wasn’t sure, but apparently didn’t see the harm in letting him ramble.  “Alright then, Dave.  Educate me.”

“Listed by Guinness World Records as the world's oldest restaurant, Botin has been turning out impeccably roasted meats from its original Castilian-style cast iron wood burning oven since 1725.  That’s nearly three centuries.  Its renowned guests have ranged from Hemingway to the painter Goya to countless European royalty to yours truly.”  He waved an open hand at the group seated around the tables.  “It remains very popular with visitors, locals and especially Spanish politicians. Conveniently close to the city's central Plaza Mayor, its four floors are packed with diners every night of the week, and no visit to the Spanish capital would be complete without a delicious meal here, which also makes diners a part of living history.”

Her laughter bounced off the brick, echoing in the cozy tunnel along with the snorts of derision from his male counterparts. 

“I didn’t realize you were a certified tour guide,” Rachel chuckled, her spine relaxing as she leaned back into the seat.  “Or maybe just an incredible bullshitter?”

That elicited guffaws from the other men, but David was unfazed.  “Pshaw!” He tapped his temple with a single finger – the middle one, directed at his buddies-slash-coworkers.  “I have a mind like a steel trap.  I retain more information under these dynamic curls than most people manage to forget in a lifetime.  Therefore, no need to bullshit anyone.”

She turned to silently question Jon with a look, and he lazily lifted one shoulder.  “True story.  We quit playing Trivial Pursuit with him almost as soon as the damn game came out. “

“His head is full of useless shit,” Richie chimed in.  “And his mouth refuses to stop being an outlet for it, the gabby mothafucker.”

“I feel it’s my duty to enlighten the ignorant, no matter how futile the effort,” was David’s defense as the waiter arrived. 

“Good ebening, I am Miguel.  I will be serbing you tonight.” 

As was customary, the Spaniard made a move to present the first menu to the lady of the group, but David had other ideas and put an intervening hand between Rachel and the secret delicacies that the menu held. 

“Thank you, Miguel, my fine man,” he replied to the server’s look of surprise.  “But the lady won’t be needing that.  I’ll be guiding her culinary experience tonight.”

“Step off, Lema,” Jon growled.  “Let her order her own damn food.”

“Now, really.  Why would she want to take pot luck on ordering something when I can guarantee that she gets something that she will never forget?”  David turned to woman in question with an encouraging smile.  “Right, baby?”

Her pretty mouth turned upside down for a split-second frown.  “If you quit calling me baby, I guess I can be adventurous enough to let you order for me.”

“But of course, m’lady,” he immediately acquiesced, briefly scowling at Jon who looked like he was going to intrude.  With an imperceptible shake of his head, David conveyed the message that he didn’t want his toes stepped on.

Jon simply rolled his eyes, accepted his own menu and ordered a bottle of wine from Miguel.

Relieved that his prophecy of Jon allowing him free-reign had been fulfilled, David quickly scanned his own menu to ensure that he’d remembered the offerings correctly.  It took every fiber of his being not to grin in such an evil way that Jack Nicholson as The Joker would look innocent by comparison.  He had remembered everything perfectly. 

“Miguel, my fine man....  The lovely senorita will start with the lechuga y tomate de ensalada.  For an entrée,  she’d like the chipirones en su tinta accompanied by espárragos blancos.  For myself, the filet mignon Botin.”

“Lema... what the fuck?”  Tico’s dark eyebrows were knit with unhappy confusion.  Having a drummer of Cuban descent was currently a pain in David’s ass, because he was the only one who understood what Rachel would be dining on that evening.

But David did his best to play it off with a look of wide-eyed innocence.  “What?  I know I should eat the fish, but I really like the filet.”

After receiving a subtle elbow from Richie, the elder statesman of the band relegated his protest to a quietly growled, “Asshole.”

It was David’s personal opinion that Teek was just jealous of his highly advanced sense of humor.  Most mere mortals were.

“So Rachel, since you’re going to be practically living with us for the next month, why don’t you tell us a little more about yourself?”

Thank God for Hugh.  He took the conversation away from the dinner selections that had been made and the wine that followed shortly thereafter did its job in easing any remaining awkwardness in the room.

When the first courses arrived, Rachel was visibly surprised to see a simple lettuce and tomato salad.  He’d really wanted to order the anchovies with red peppers or the garlic soup with egg for her, but it would ruin the surprise of the piece de resistance.  So he went with something simple.

There are no droids here.  Move along.

Then the glorious, fabulous Miguel arrived with the main courses – filet mignon, sirloin, veal were all passed around to a soundtrack of appreciative murmurs and groans from the men.  The charred bovine delicacies smelled every bit as good as David knew they would taste.

And then Rachel’s meal was presented to her. 

“Okay....” she pondered speculatively, cocking her head and peering at the food on her plate.  “I see...  rice.  Beyond that I have no idea what this is.  Would you care to enlighten me?”

“Where’s your sense of adventure, woman?” David scolded, waving his fork at her.  “Don’t you trust me?”

She didn’t even hesitate. “Not as far as I can throw you.”

The room exploded in an uproar of laughter, and he had a tough time dredging up an offended look through his own impulse to laugh.  This woman was going to have to turn in her blonde card because she was certainly no dummy. 

“Fine,” he mock huffed and pointed to the nearly white serving of food on the small side plate.  “That’s white asparagus in a special mayonnaise sauce, which is far more appetizing than it sounds.  With the rice...  Well, that’s just seafood.”

 The egg-sized fleshy clumps that were currently stewing in a puddle of brownish black liquid could never be readily identified as seafood.  Or food in general, for that matter, despite the side-serving of rice.  It looked good and truly disgusting, as a matter of fact.

“What kind of seafood?  And what is the dark liquid on part of the rice?  Soy sauce?  Do they use soy sauce in Spain?”

“The kind of seafood you eat, so stop analyzing it to death and eat it before it gets cold.  Nothing worse than cold Spanish delicacies.” 

“I’m not eating this...  stuff until you tell me what it is.”

“Seriously? Didn’t you sit right there and listen to me order?  It’s chipirones en su tinta.”

“English, please.”

She was a persistent little cookie.  He would give her that. 

“It’s kind of like calamari,” David finally hedged with a half-truth. 

“Squid?”

“Baby squid in its own ink,” came a deep voice from David’s other side. 

“Dammit, Tico, she wasn’t talking to you!”

Green eyes were as round as saucers as Rachel’s gaze darted between David and her dinner.  “Are you kidding?  You ordered me baby squid in its own ink?”

“Nay nay,” he disputed with a raised palm, trying like hell to figure out a way to get her to still eat the nasty mess.  “I ordered you a Spanish adventure.  Any subsidiary label is a mere technicality.”

“And I thank you for it.”

She what?  She knew what it was and she was thanking him??  That was great for his wager, but it ruined half the damn fun.

“You do?”

“Oh yes.”  The crazy woman beamed, for all the world looking as though he’d given her a dozen roses.  “I’ve read about this and I’ve always wanted to try it, but I’ve never been able to find it.  I’m beyond delighted.”

Sambora’s evil cackle echoed off the ceiling and the walls.  “You just got handed your ass, Lema!”

Okay, so some of his fun had been waylaid.  That was true.  Who the hell would ever think baby squid swimming in ink was on somebody’s bucket list?  But the end result was the same. 

“Doesn’t matter, asshole.  I still win.  She let me order for her and she liked it.  That was the full extent of the wager.”

“Wait.  What?  You bet on me??”

Rachel seemed far more disturbed by a friendly little wager than she was about infantile tentacles on her dinner plate.  Weird. 

Jon replied before David could, saying, “David has a gambling problem.”

“It’s not a problem,” David disputed.  “Merely a hobby to keep things lively.  A way to distinguish one city from another.  That’s all.”

“Okayyyy.”  Rachel’s lips pursed, reminding him a whole lot of his high school librarian.  Mrs. Oglethorpe had always gotten that look when he neglected to maintain the sanctity of the library by not whispering.  “I’m not sure how I feel about being the object of one of your bets.”

“There’s no reason to feel anything.  It wasn’t personal.”

Not really. 

“Whether it was or it wasn’t, you still made me some kind of unwitting pawn for your entertainment.”

“I... Uh...”  For once in his loose-lipped life, he was speechless.  What she said was true, but he didn’t know what he was supposed to do about it.  Did she want him to apologize?  His nuts on a platter? 

“And seeing as though I was made to be an unwitting pawn,” she continued, obviously not expecting him to defend himself.  “I deserve to be compensated, don’t you think?”

“What the...?”  She wanted compensated?  As in cash, furs, jewels or sexual favors?  “Define compensation.”

Her smile was innocently angelic.  Deceptively angelic.  She was no angel.  She was one shrewd she-devil who flapped her figurative gossamer wings to distract you from the fact. 

He liked that in a woman. 

“I want whatever the winner of the bet was to get.”

David snorted.  “No you don’t.”

“Yes I do.”

“No.  Seriously.  You don’t.”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, obviously not believing him.  “Why not?”

David leaned back in his chair and arched one eyebrow at her, informing her dryly.  “I doubt you’ve got any use for a box of rubbers.” 

Ch 55 ~ Tryin' To Get To You

Rachel didn’t know if James intentionally tried to thwart her travel plans or if all the work issues that had cropped up yesterday were legitimate.  There was a last minute problem with the lending company that “no one but Rachel could handle”, a delayed closing, another listing that didn’t appraise for the asking value, and a failed termite inspection had her scrambling to assure the buyers that they didn’t want to walk away from the deal. 

Things only got worse after her first cup of coffee, making the day the closest thing to hell she’d been forced to endure in a long time. 

And, while he said he was sympathetic to her Lake of Fire plight, Jon didn’t much care whether the source of her hell was the imps of real estate entertaining themselves at her expense or a contrary former lover.  When she called to tell him that she still wasn’t onboard the private plane he had idling at the Livermore airstrip…  Well, let’s just say he wasn’t thrilled. 

To quote the man himself, he was “beyond damn well ready” for their month-long European togetherness adventure to commence and was “motherfucking tired” of spending their days and nights in two different time zones. 

And when she was forced to confess that she had no idea when she would be on that plane headed for New Jersey, she was worried that he was going to blow a gasket and swear a blue streak that spanned the entire country that separated them.  Fortunately, there was a long, terse silence before he chose another approach and donned what she silently thought of as his dictator (or maybe “dick”-tator) hat, focusing purely on logistics. 

“We gotta leave here no later than six tomorrow evening – Jersey time – if I’m gonna make it to Spain in time to take care of business before the show,” he stated authoritatively.  “If you’re not here by six, I can’t wait for you.  You’ll just have to catch up when you can.” 

Rachel sighed.  “Jon, I’m sorry, but I can’t just walk away in the middle of this mess.  These clients are my responsibility.”

“I understand work obligations, Rachel,” he informed her succinctly.  “That doesn’t mean I have to like yours any more than you like mine.”

That had hit a nerve, and she worked most of the night to try and get all of the loose ends tied up, but it wasn’t enough.  Things just weren’t coming together the way she needed them to, and it was nearly ten the next morning before she could hand her luggage to a waiting attendant and scurry aboard the plane.  If things went smoothly, she calculated as she buckled herself in, Rachel should land at Teterboro by 5:30.  It wouldn’t give her much leeway, but she would make Jon’s six o’clock deadline and thereby spare herself a long, solitary trip to London.

That was until God intervened with a mighty crash of thunder and a handful of lightning rods. 

Literally. 

Consistent with the struggle she’d had to get out of California, it turned out that Nebraska was experiencing severe thunderstorms at the time they were to pass over, and the pilot regretfully informed her that they would to have to re-route.  He apologized as he told her the southward detour was going to make their arrival time in New Jersey a bit later than anticipated. 

Dammit all to hell!

She had never liked Nebraska.  All that flat, open land covered with nothing but corn and cows was desolate and boring and, as the plane detoured south, Rachel swore that, if she didn’t connect with Jon in New Jersey, that she would never eat another ear of corn again.  As long as she lived.  So help her God.

As the wheels hit the Teterboro tarmac, her watch read 6:30 and Rachel was annoyed beyond all belief.    She was unbuckling her seatbelt and reaching for her carryon bag without much enthusiasm for a solo trans-Atlantic flight when the flight attendant beckoned her.

“They’ve held the other plane for you. Ms. Braden,” she apprised with the smile of an angel.  “You’ll find it on your left when you disembark.”

That was all the motivation needed to scamper down the short flight of stairs and find the group hovering in the doorway of the neighboring jet. 

“Get your ass up here,” Jon ordered from the top of the steps, softening his impatient bark with a smile.  “I ain’t got all day to wait on your slowpoke ass.”

“Hey,” she replied with righteous indignation and handed him her bag before pressing a quick kiss to his lips.  “I got here as soon as I could.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“All hail the queen!”  David proclaimed loudly from the middle of the plane, then shook his head with mock sorrow. “You gotta be royalty, because there’s no way he’d have held this plane for me.”

“You’re just pissed because being a royal dick doesn’t count.”  Richie rose from his seat to greet her and Rachel accepted his brief embrace and the affectionate kiss to the top of her head with a laugh.  She slipped into the seat Jon indicated and grabbed the belt as Richie lamented to his bandmate, “There’s power in the pussy, man.”

Rachel’s fingers froze on the buckle and she felt her mouth go agape.  She wasn’t sure whether to giggle or reprimand the outspoken man.  Jon rolled his eyes and stowed her small bag without pause.  “You’re gonna hafta just learn to roll with the vulgarity of these two yahoos.  I can only protect you from so much.”

“Protect?  From moi?”  David’s voice was high pitched as he feigned insult.  “Hmpf!  I can understand the seedier members of our group, such as Manslut Sambora, but I am of impeccable breeding and manners.”

Richie snorted and crossed one leg over the other as the plane began to taxi.  “Just because you breed with your pecker doesn’t make you of ‘impeccable breeding’, dipshit.” 

Leaning close to Jon, she asked quietly, “Are they always like this?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”  Stowing his phone in his pocket, he pulled her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it with a wink.  “But if you’d known that sooner, you wouldn’t have agreed to come on tour with me.”

After takeoff, the passengers were served dinner accompanied by a plethora and wide variety of wine.  The mood was… Well, to be perfectly corny, it was Jovial.  The joviality lasted a couple of hours into the eight hour flight before things quieted down.  A glance around the cabin told Rachel that most of the passengers were sleeping, covered with light blankets and wearing headphones. 

The unexpected silence provided her and Jon their first opportunity to relax together and just talk. 

“It doesn’t seem like a rock band should be sleeping at nine o’clock.” Rachel set aside the European travel guide she’d been obsessed with since she’d boarded the plane in California and nuzzled into Jon’s shoulder, turning up her face and puckering her lips for a kiss that he appreciatively returned.  “So where’s the party?”

“You should know that’s an exaggerated stereotype, baby.  We have fun, but this is our job, too.  The guys have to be ready to hit the ground running in Madrid, so they’ve all probably taken something to help them sleep and we should do the same.  We’ll land about 11 a.m. local time, so you better get a little shut eye while you can.”

“I can’t go to sleep now, silly.  It’s only six o’clock my time and I slept on the flight to New Jersey.” She wrinkled her nose with derision and gestured to her travel guide.  “Besides, I’m researching London and Paris so I’ll know what I need to see and what I can skip.”

“Trust me, Rach,” he advised with a grin as he retrieved his bag from the storage space above their heads.  “You’ll crash and burn in a couple days if you don’t take care of yourself.  Lots of water, healthy food, working out.  All that stuff’s important if you’re gonna survive one of my tours.”  He counted out two small yellow tablets from a bottle he’d fished out of the side pocket of the bag and handed one to Rachel, swallowing the other himself.  “Put the damned tour book away and unwind with me.”

“What is this?” she questioned, eyeing the little pill with distrust.  “It’s not going to knock me on my ass for days, is it?”

“Nah.  It’s just a little something to help you sleep,” he assured her, pushing his bottle of water into her hand.  “I can’t have you walking around Spain like a zombie – or fucking me like one.  It’s been way too long since I’ve had your hot little body in a compromising position and I want to make sure you enjoy it.”

Enjoying sex seemed like a good enough reason to her, so Rachel swallowed the sleep aid with a single glug of water and returned the bottle to him. 

It had been too long, she thought. 

Rachel looked into Jon’s eyes, but she didn’t see the infamous blue irises that looked back at her.  Her mind had overtaken her eyes with images of hot, steamy sex with the man seated next to her.  He had the most perfectly designed body that God had ever put a blueprint to and he knew how to use it to the advantage of everyone involved – offstage even better than on.   If the female fans in his audiences had any inkling how sexy he was when he stepped out of the shower and did the little dance with his ass…

Well…he could triple the price of tickets and still sell out football stadiums with that one move alone.

“I don’t know if I’m looking more forward to seeing Madrid or just mauling you,” she murmured, noting the way that his pupils had dilated and the sexy smirk that was now parked at the corner of his mouth.

“You probably better stick with the mauling.  We won’t be there long enough to see much.  Airport, bar, hotel, venue – that’ll be your grand tour of Madrid.  But we do have dinner plans with the guys tomorrow night.  You’ll love this little place we go to.”

So no playing tourist in Spain.  Okay.  Fine.  She didn’t mind that.  Exploring his body for undiscovered erogenous zones would suit her just as well.  Beyond Jon’s hard and throbbing dick, it was London and Paris that she really wanted to see.  Madrid was…

“Oh!” she exclaimed softly, reminded of a bit of trivia she had recently discovered.  “Speaking of Madrid, did you know the oldest restaurant in the world is there?  It’s been serving food since 1725.  Can you imagine the stories those walls could tell?” 

His smug smile wet her panties.  “That’s where we’re having dinner tomorrow night – Café Botin or Casa Botin.  Something like that.  I can’t remember exactly, but it’s got a wine cellar that’ll make you scream like you do when I’ve got you bent over something.” 

A vision of being bent over in that wine cellar zipped over her sexually charged brainwaves.  “Oooh!  That excites me!”

“You lookin’ to get bent over something, are ya?”

“No, you moron,” she started to deny it, but ended up semi-confessing.  “Well, yeah.  I could get into being bent over something, but this particular excitement was about going to that restaurant.  I bet Madrid will be amazing.  Can I drink the water?”

Jon’s snort of laughter was enough to rouse Tico across the aisle, and he readjusted his headphones to drown out any other noise coming from their frontman.  “Honey, it’s Spain, not some remote corner of the world.  Yes, you can drink the water.”

“Gimme a break, will ya?” Rachel chastised, gently slapping his thigh.  “How am I supposed to know this stuff?  I’ve never been to Spain.”

Jon leaned across the armrest and cupped her chin. “I won’t take you anywhere that’ll give you amebic dysentery.  Pinky swear.”

“How utterly romantic of you to spare me diarrhea,” she responded dryly.  “No wonder women chase after you in droves.”

“The runs are something I take very seriously.”  He informed her with a somber crinkle of his brow.  “One time in Japan I got some bad sushi and I swear I thought my ass was on fire.  I don’t know how I made it through the show that night.”

“We are actually talking about shit.”  Rachel shook her head sadly and sighed.  “They honeymoon is really over, isn’t it?”

Jon’s eyebrows shot up and he pointed a finger at the end of her nose.  “See!  We really should get married. We’re talking about old married people shit instead of talking about all the low-down, dirty, shameful things I really wanna talk about.”

Rachel stifled a yawn and snuggled closer into his chest, choosing to ignore the marriage rabbit trail he seemed to habitually gravitate toward.  “I’m ready for low-down and dirty.”

“Don’t forget shameful, baby.”

“Mm…”  She loved the heat of his body warming her through their clothes.  “I bet I’m gonna love shameful.  ‘Shameful in Spain with Jon Bon Jovi’.  That has a nice ring to it.”

“Christ,” he moaned around his own yawn. “This is gonna be a long flight if you don’t stop promising me shameful.  My pants can’t get much tighter without splittin’.”

Rachel wasn’t sure if she felt more dozy or more horny, but she silently agreed it would be a long flight and yawned again.  “Don’t give me the visual.  I can’t take it.  You fill out a pair of pants better than anybody I’ve ever seen.”

“And you…”  His hand snaked beneath the hem of her top, settling into the indention of her waist.  “You take ‘em off of me better than anybody I’ve ever seen.”

“Mm…” she purred, the effects of the sleeping pill almost in full force. “That makes me a contender for the world title, since I’m sure you’ve had plenty of women take them off of you.”

“S’true.” He grinned, almost asleep himself. “There’ve been a few, but none of ‘em are any competition for you, Rach.”

“I am a monster in bed, aren’t I?” she contentedly murmured. 

“Godzilla, baby.  Motherfuckin’ Godzilla.”