3 - War Crimes and Beer

I have no discipline sticking to a schedule.  I post when the mood strikes, so here's the next installment.  Oh, and someone told me that anonymous commenting wasn't working.  I fixed that so that you may continue to remain anonymous if you so choose!  :)  Hope you enjoy...
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“You know,” he continued a little awkwardly once the words were out there.  “So you don’t miss the whole thing trying to get home.”

Petey stared blankly at him, hand frozen over the collar of her jacket and strangely uncertain as to what she should do.  Yes, she’d like to see the game.  It was supposed to be a good matchup.  Her gaze flicked to the screen, registering that the score was ten to seven, Patriots at the half.  The score certainly supported that notion. 

But after watching his repulsion turn to some type of creepy lust over the space of fifteen minutes, she wondered if sticking around was wise.  The man was hot, no doubt about it.  She’d known that before taking the first step across town, but she sure as hell didn’t expect him to ogle her ass and offer her a beer after turning his nose up at her ‘fashion-sense’.

“You’re reciting again,” he observed, blue eyes twinkling with mirth.  “It was just an offer for football and beer – maybe pizza – to say thank you.”  Lifting a careless shoulder, he added, “And to apologize for being a prick.  Fans have been known to do some crazy shit to get near me.”

“Wonder why?” she pondered aloud before realizing it was probably in poor taste.

Jon apparently didn’t take offense, surprised laughter contorting his face into a mask of sheer amusement.  “Ya got me there, Cupcake, because I ain’t got a clue.”

Arching her pierced brow again – a gesture she’d spent a long time perfecting in front of a mirror– she pinned him with a look of pique.  “I’d like to see the game, but can you cut the Cupcake crap?  Unless you‘d like for me to refer to you as some type of snack cake.  Ding Dong maybe?”

Jon’s hands went up in immediate surrender, although never releasing his grip on the wine glass.  “Okay, okay.  Point taken.  Petey.”  A heartbeat later he was on his feet moving toward her with enough purpose that she automatically back-stepped, hands curling over the top of the chair to brace herself.  But he was only making a beeline for the bar again.  “I need a refill.  Beer, Petey?”

She nodded, nonchalantly extracting her fingers from the chair’s back.  Silently releasing the breath she had instinctively sucked in, she took three steps and collapsed into the buttery softness of the leather chair.  One heavy boot dangled loosely above the floor when she slumped down in the seat and crossed one leg over the other.

“So what does P.T. stand for?  Is it like that circus guy, P.T. Barnum?  I think his name was…”  Jon stopped mid-way to the fridge under the bar, leaning on an open palm as he frowned thoughtfully.  “Phillip Tyler maybe?”

“Phineas Taylor.”

“Phineas Taylor,” he acquiesced agreeably, dipping out of sight to fetch her beer.  It came to a quiet rest atop the bar, patiently waiting while he drained the last of the white wine into his glass. 

She wasn’t up on her wines, but based on the expensive decor and his reputation for being one of the richest men in America, Petey would guarantee it was the best.

There was a muffled clink of glass as he put the wine bottle into what, she presumed, was the recycling bin.  Sweeping both drinks up, he re-entered the living room, coming to a halt beside her.  One finger encircling the neck of the bottle, he tipped the bottom half of the beer toward her in a mute offering.    

“So is that it then?” he congenially asked over the subtle squeak of leather under his weight.  “Phineas Taylor?”

Schooling her face into the blank look that had wigged out more than one person over the last couple of years, she savored the flavor of the malty brew for a moment, allowing it to warm before sliding down the back of her throat.  “No.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed playfully, clearly not wigged out, and he cocked his head slightly to the right.  “Not the chatty type, are you Petey?”

“Not so much, no.  Especially when I don’t understand the motive behind the conversation.”

“Motive?” he scoffed, swirling the remaining dregs of his wine around the bowl of the glass.  “There’s no motive.  I’m just trying to be hospitable and make small talk until half-time is over.  Feel free to lead.  You can ask the questions if you like.”

“Nah, I’m good.”  Petey’s eyes drifted to the Pepsi commercial on the big screen, for what good it did.  His stubbly face with its smile straight from some Orthodontic Utopia had been indelibly committed to memory from first glance.

“In that case, mind if I ask another one?”

It was a Papa John’s ad on the screen now, bringing to mind his earlier offer.  Pizza sounded good.  The rumbling in her stomach was an uncomfortable reminder that she hadn’t eaten today.

“You mean I could actually stop you?  And did you say something about pizza?”

“Sure did.  And all you have to do is give me an answer and I’ll have the best pizza in the neighborhood up here in twenty minutes.”

It was all she could do to toss him a half-hearted glare.  He was fortunate that the two beers had worked their soothing magic and stifled her desire to be bitchy.  “What?”

His triumphant grin very nearly rekindled that desire, but she stuffed the bitch back down in favor of food.

“How old are you?  And is that your real eye color?”

“You said question.  Singular,” she reminded him blandly.  “No, it’s not my real eye color.  I don’t like anchovies or mushrooms.”

“Touche,” he muttered under his breath.  Immediately consulting the directory on his phone, he scrolled through the list of contacts until finding the one he sought.  “Yeah, Sal?  It’s Jon Bon Jovi.  Can I get a large works delivered?  No mushrooms though.  Fifteen minutes is perfect.  Put it on my tab?  Okay.  Thanks, man.” 

The phone bounced off the couch cushion as he carelessly allowed it to fall from his fingers.

“So you’re determined not to tell me how old you are?”

“Why are you fixated on my age?”  It was starting to become annoying, but she fought to keep her tone neutral.

“I’m not really.  Just trying to decide if I have grounds for my next question.”

“More questions?  God, what are you, the Gestapo?  I didn’t realize I was signing on for war crimes questioning.  Silly me, I thought it was a football game.”

She allowed her head to fall against the back of the chair, perusing the ceiling with a pronounced lack of interest.  At least that’s how she hoped it appeared.  In all actuality, he was making her uncomfortable with all the personal questions.  She had no interest in sharing her personal life with him or anyone else, so she seized opportunity to segue into the business of business.

“Give me a position on your upcoming tour and you can have your two questions, but that’s it.”  Lolling her head to the side to find him staring again, she decreed, “After that, we watch the ballgame like a couple of homophobic men - completely separate and silent.”

His chin dropped into his chest with a quiet laugh.  “I’ll see if I can channel my inner homophobe,” he promised.  “But you work for Tony, not me.  He has final say-so over who comes on tour.  Although, based on what I’ve seen here today, I can make a strong recommendation.”

“A strong recommendation for or against?”  Petey had heard too many political-type promises through the years to assume his recommendation would fall in her favor.  He had to say the words before she would subject herself to his nosiness.

There was nothing but open honesty radiating from his eyes when he affirmed, “For.”

Flicking her eyes back to the screen, she took note that the players were slowly filing back onto the field at Heinz stadium.  Half-time was nearly over. 

Thank God.

As far as his assurance…  Well, from all appearances, either he was telling the truth or he was an exceptional liar, and social niceties mandated that she give him the benefit of the doubt.  When he gave her a reason…  Then she would move him to the liar column. 

“I’m thirty-eight.  What’s the other one?”

 “Thirty-eight?  Really?”

Of course he couldn’t just accept her answer at face value, he needed to explore it ad nauseum.  Petey was quickly coming to understand that this man was accustomed to people falling in line under his command, and her abbreviated responses weren’t feeding that need for control. 

Sucks to be him, then.

“Stop posing questions that you didn’t intend to ask.  Your other question?”

His eyes licked up and down her comfortably slouched body with a touch of arrogance and… condescension?

“Aren’t you a little old to be dressing that way?”

The rhythmic sway of her foot stuttered for an imperceptible instant.  Petey let her mind wander over the Preamble to the Constitution for a solid sixty seconds – a full minute in which Jon was quietly attentive – while drafting a politically correct response.

Screw politically correct.

“Are you so old that you don’t remember being viewed as walking on the wrong side of social acceptability?  I would think after wearing purple leopard-print spandex, you wouldn’t look down your nose at anybody.”

Content with her response, Petey absently bit at a hangnail and affixed her attention to the television, impatiently willing the second half to kick off.

Jon, however, did not seem content and reared back with a grimace of pain.  “Dayum, woman!  You don’t pull any punches, do you?”

“I give as good as I get,” she mumbled around her finger, intently watching the Steelers form their offensive line.

While she’d technically answered every question he asked, Jon was no less curious now than when she first sat down.  Every cryptic, half-assed answer she supplied only conjured up more questions.

One thing was for sure though, he thought as the doorbell rang.   He sure as hell wasn’t bored anymore.