18 - Something for the Pain

Jon spent the day alternating between watching football and talking on the phone.  After contacting Monique, who assured him his Christmas thing would be no problem, he got in touch with David and Tico with a date of December seventeenth.  Both were glad to hear from him and said they would be there.

His conversation with Dave made him laugh, as usual. 

“So, Boss Man, when are the gypsies gonna pack up and hit the road?”

“We’re on schedule for the first of February.  The opening show is in Anaheim.”

“Thank God,” his keyboardist exclaimed dramatically.  “I thought you were going to tell me Buffalo.  February in upper New York is a bitch.  West Coast is much better, and we can crash at Richie’s place.”

“That was the plan,” Jon informed him dryly.  “I do think of these things, you know.”

David snorted.  “Yeah, but sometimes you decide you don’t give a rat’s ass.  If you thought the fans would still fill the place, we’d be doing Antarctica with a road crew of Emperor penguins.”

“Go to hell, Bryan,” Jon grumbled good-naturedly.  “I don’t hear you complaining when the pennies are clinking into your piggy bank.”

“No sir, Boss, sir.  Me and my piggy bank are thankful for your shrewd business acumen and greed.”

Greed. 

Jon felt his stomach roil at the haunting word.  He wasn’t greedy, dammit, he was just trying to maximize their efforts.

“Gotta run, Lemma.  See ya on the seventeenth.”

Nice to know everyone close to him thought of him in the same light.  Dot sure as hell felt that way.  Richie and Tico had never said it, but they probably thought the same thing.  Hadn’t he just been calling himself St. Jon the Greedy a few days ago?  Maybe he shouldn’t be blowing it off quite so lightly.  Maybe…  Oh hell.

In an isolated moment of self-doubt, he tapped the button that would ring his guitarist.

“Hey, bro.  I’m surprised to hear from you again so soon.”

“Rich.” He bypassed the formalities of polite small talk.  “Am I greedy?”

“Huh?”  Confusion easily spanned the thousands of miles between them.

“Greedy.  Would you call me greedy?”

“Uh…  Why do you ask?”

Richie was stalling.  He only did that when he was trying not to outright lie.  Fuck. 

In an effort to force the other man’s hand, Jon ripped a page from Petey Diehl’s book.  “Greedy.  Yes or no?”

“I think workaholic is more fitting.  Jon, what’s going on?”

His head fell forward and Jon rubbed a weary palm across his nape, now regretting the impulsive call.  In search of an honest answer, he hadn’t considered the questions it may prompt, and for that Jon kicked himself in the ass.  He always planned ahead. 

“Nothing,” he huffed.  “I was talking to Dave and he was screwing around with me as usual.  Said I’d tour in Antarctica with penguin roadies if I could make a buck, and called me greedy.”

Richie was well-versed on the circumstances behind Jon’s divorce, and now that he understood where Jon’s head was, he had the right words.

“You know you can only take about ten percent of what he says seriously.  Joker, remember?”

Jon grunted quietly.

“Listen, man,” Richie continued to try and bolster him out of his funk.  “If he believed that, he sure as hell wouldn’t have said it to you.  Like I said, you’re not greedy, you’re a workaholic, and in your case work just happens to generate more money.”

“All work and no play makes Jonny a greedy bastard?” he asked sarcastically.

“All work and no play makes Jonny think too fucking much.  Sounds like you’ve got everything lined up for the tour, so why don’t you find something else to concentrate on until we hit the road?  A distraction would do you good.”

Unwanted, a raven-haired imp in combat boots tromped through in his mind.  Distraction.  Yeah, that was Petey in a nutshell.

“Maybe,” was his grudging concession.  “Christmas party is the seventeenth.  Monique will send details.”

“Okay,” his friend said absently and Jon knew he’d never remember the date.  He was thinking about something else, and, recognizing the signs, Jon tried to end the call before the psycho-babble started.   

“Jon…” 

Too late. 

Richie’s thoughtful tone dulled the harshness of the words when he bluntly ordered, “Get out of your head and step away from the dark thoughts.  If you let them suck you in, the quote/unquote weakness just pisses you off afterward.  When was the last time you got laid?  I say a mindless fuck would be the perfect distraction.  And God knows a good blow job can cure a host of evils.”

As a courtesy, his friends usually avoided calling attention to his depressive nature.  Most of the world wanted to paint him as a loud, screaming control freak and he gratefully accepted the personality assessment.  More often than not, he purposefully embraced it and endeavored to fulfill the role.  It was the rare occasion that anyone was able to catch him stuck in the mire of his own self-destructive musings.  Today was the exception, brought on by his brief mental lapse and his buddy’s sixth sense for emotional crap. 

Brushing it off, Jon silently admitted that, as usual, his consigliere had offered sound advice.  A mindless fuck might be just what he needed. 

Sadly, there was only one woman he’d been fucking, and it was anything but mindless with her.  She kept him guessing on all kinds of different levels.

“I’ll think about it,” he gruffly relented, and indulged in an uncommon bout of schmaltziness.  “Thanks, Rich.  I love ya, man.”

“You know I love you, bro.  I’m here if you need me.”

Jon knew that better than he knew his own name, and sincerely returned the sentiment before inquiring, “Hey.  Did you ever call the little Goth chick like you said?”

“Nah, I haven’t found a chance yet.  I did get some kinda mass text message today that she changed cell carriers and got a new number.”

So had he, and his inquiring mind was more than a little interested to know why.  If she hadn’t sent him the new number, he would say it was because of him. 

“Yeah, I got the same one.”  Not wanting to dwell on it, he changed topics briefly before ending the call. 

Richie had a way of putting things in perspective and, mindless or not, he was going to take his friend’s advice. 

A tap of the screen dialed Petey’s new number.

The sun was inching closer to sundown and long shadows settled across the city as he gazed out the study windows.  The late fall afternoon was stirring a cold breeze that blew the odd dead leaf across the terrace while he waited for her to answer. 

“Hello?”

“Was it worth going out at two in the morning?”

“Hello to you too.”  Her sarcasm made him smile.

“I thought we were keeping the word count to a minimum.”

“Not at the expense of social decorum.”

“My bad.  Those rules weren’t laid out as clearly for me as some others.”

“Now you know,” she chuckled softly and the throaty sound scraped down through his center and stirred him.  It didn’t matter that he’d had her twice in the last twenty-four hours.  He wanted her again.

“Will you come over?”

“Why?”  Did he imagine it, or was the question a little breathless?

“Because I want you here.  In my bed.”

“Mm.”  Jon frowned the non-committal reply that he recognized from his own mouth only moments ago with Richie.  “I was just going out for a run.  I’ve been a slug today and I’m hoping the exercise will give me a much needed adrenaline boost.”

“I can think of other ways to boost your adrenaline,” he coaxed.

“I really had my heart set on running…”  He sensed her hesitance and gave her a mental push, waiting for her to continue.  “You could come with me if you want?  There’s a park near my place.”

The offer knocked him off balance.  It was a major concession from the woman who didn’t want anything but sex.  But…

“No, I just finished a couple miles on the treadmill,” he lithely fibbed, with only a twinge of shame pulling at his conscience.  “What about after?”

“I… guess I could.”

She sounded as though it were against her better judgment.  He didn’t just want her; he wanted her willing, so Jon exercised his feeble powers of enticement.

“Would it help if I said please?  And that no special costuming is necessary?  Just come as you are.”

Her soft breathing came through the phone clearly, so he knew she hadn’t hung up, yet the resounding 'yes' he'd been hoping for still hadn't come.

When was the last time he’d had to work this hard for a woman?  The answer was never, but it didn’t stop him from being a schmuck and tacking on, “I’ll order dinner in.  I know I always promise to feed you, but this time I’ll make sure you actually get to eat.”

“I appreciate the offer…”

Fuck.  She was going to shoot him down. 

“…but I can get food anywhere.  It's not why I'd be interested in coming over.”

There was a kick of desire in his solar plexus and his stomach muscles abruptly clenched.

“Oh?  What would you be interested in?”

Be casual.  She wants casual and you want her.  Give her what she wants and she just may return the favor.

“Multiple orgasms.”

Oh hell yes….

“That was a given, baby.”

He could almost visualize her casual shrug.  “Then I guess I’ll be over in a couple of hours.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” he murmured before his consciousness was pierced by a random, but nagging thought. “Petey, there’s one other thing.”

“Isn't there always?  What?"

“I should have probably mentioned this before, and would have if you weren’t such a distraction.”  His timing unequivocally sucked, and Jon knew it.  This had the potential to set her off - enough that she wouldn't show, multiple orgasm guarantee or not.

“My sincere apologies for distracting you with sex.  Not.”

He snickered obligingly before getting to his point.  “Petey, even though I’m something  of a public figure, I’m a very private man.  I like to keep my personal life…  Well, personal.”

“I see.”  The neutral tone didn’t tell him anything.

“What goes on in the privacy of my apartment isn’t anybody’s business but mine.   I’m adamant about that.”

“So you don’t want anyone to know we’re having sex.  Is that the bottom line here?”  Was her voice cold or was he reading too much into Petey’s normal, clipped speech pattern?

“Yes.  It doesn’t concern anyone but us and you’ve been very clear that we won’t have a relationship outside of sex.  Do you want to be known as the woman screwing Jon Bon Jovi?  Especially when you’re going to be part of my road crew?”

“No,” she replied without hesitation.  “I don’t, and I’m not exactly eager to share the sordid details of my life in case you hadn’t noticed.  You needn’t worry.  I’m the picture of discretion.”

“You have sordid details in your life?”  Jon pushed away his own agenda and zeroed in on the most revealing bit of what she’d said, in hopes that she might elaborate.  Maybe she was finally going to let him in - just a little.

“Doesn’t everyone?  I’ll see you later, if you still want me to come by.”

He should have known better.  Naturally she wasn’t going to say anything more.  She was the picture of discretion, after all. 

Jon had the feeling he’d just screwed himself in order to get screwed.

“Yeah.  See you soon, Sugar.”