136 - Hurt

“And you have me more than you realize.”  Petey tapped the black and pink gift still being loosely held under his arm.  “I think we’ve got a few minutes if you want to open that now.”

“This?”  Taking a step backward, into the master suite’s foyer, Jon held out the wrapped box, inspecting it critically from several different angles.  “Looks awful girly.  Are you sure I want it?” he teased, tucking his elbows into his ribs for protection when she silently threatened to poke him with a playful scowl.

“If you don’t want it, I’ll find somebody who does,” she sniffed indignantly, reaching for it, knowing there was no way he would give it up.

“Ah, ah, ah…”  He snatched it out of her reach, pretending to reconsider.  “You said I could have it.  I may as well see what’s inside.”

With a delicate snarl, she shoved, and he allowed himself to be herded into the bedroom.  The mattress jostled under his weight when he was propelled onto the bed, and Petey toppled down next to him, hooked by his arm.

“Join me, won’t you?”

Shaking her head at his ‘polite’ antics, she wondered if she would be able to stand him for the next umpteen years.

Without a doubt.

“Way to make manhandling sound socially acceptable, Bongiovi.”

Gesturing to where she was seated, he observed, “It got you where I wanted you, didn’t it? And watch where you’re throwing around that ‘Bongiovi’.  You’re gonna be one of us come tomorrow.”

So she was.  P.T. Bongiovi.  Would that make her PTBJ?  A quiet little giggle slipped out.  Oh God.  No.  She was going to end up being PBJ. 

“What the hell is so funny?”

“Maybe I’ll stick with Diehl.”  Being likened to a peanut butter and jelly sandwich wasn’t really something she wanted to encourage.  Good grief, once David made the connection it was going to be non-stop heckling.  He wouldn’t be able to pass it up, and she could hardly fault him for it.

“Excuse me?”  Jon arced an arm over her head, dropping the gift behind them, and leveled a stern gaze at her.  “You got a problem with my name?”

“Not for you, no.”

She couldn’t help but admire the biceps bulging under his t-shirt sleeves.  His arms being folded in annoyance was a minor pitfall, but she could still appreciate the swell of muscle. 

“Why is it a problem for you?”

“JBJ sounds great.  Very musical, melodic.  It flows.  Tony’s even adapted it for himself with TBJ.  Also sounds good.”

“And…?  Not making a connection here.”

“Jon.  Seriously?”  For a smart man, he was being awfully dumb.  “My name is PT.  Or Patience.  P, Jon.  PBJ?”

His face went blank, and then he snickered, mouthing curling with humor.  “PBJ huh?”  The bicep she’d just been admiring crept around her back and towed her flush to his side.  “I like to eat PB&J.  I like to eat you.”  He nuzzled a kiss behind her ear.  “I fail to see the problem.”

“The problem is…”  She forced herself to wriggle out of his grasp and away from his distracting mouth.  He was incorrigible.  “You’re the only one I want making that connection.”  Glancing at the bedside clock, she saw they were running short on time.  Only fifteen minutes until the car would arrive.  “We’ll talk about it later.  If you want to open that gift, you have five minutes and then you have to get dressed.”

Frowning, he reminded her, “Tomorrow night starts anytime, anywhere.  Remember that, Baby.”

A ripple of anticipation crawled up the insides of her thighs and made them quiver like an overtight guitar string.  Adopting  an unyielding tone, she strove to appear unaffected.  “Tomorrow night is not now.  Open your present.”

She was affected, but more than that she was suffering from a serious case of cold feet.  Petey hadn’t wanted to admit the insecurity over these photos even to herself, but now that the moment had arrived, the jitters were more like a five on the Richter Scale.  Giving artistically shot nudies of oneself was a little harrowing, to say the least. 

Jon wrapped his fingers around the box without looking, lifting it at the same time he did his warning brow.  “You’re getting to be a sassy little thing.”  The package found a resting spot on his lap and he eased off the unattached lid, setting it aside.

“Self-defense,” was her dry response.   She concentrated on being cocky, not insecure.  “If I expect to live with you, I don’t think I have a choice.”

Jon laughed quietly as he folded back the pink tissue, admitting, “Maybe not.  Good thing I like it.”

“Mm.”  Her attention was riveted on the book nestled inside the tissue paper, anxious to see what Joel had done.  So far, it was good from what she could tell.  The black leather album was about ten inches square and stamped on the front with an intertwined metallic-silver pair of hearts.

“What’s this?”

Her eyes flicked back to the bedside clock.  “Four minutes.  Open the damn thing and find out.”

“Don’t push me, woman,” he muttered mildly, setting aside the rest of the packaging and flipping open the cover.  

There, on the first page, was a softly smudged picture of her hand – hot pink fingernails and a brilliantly shining pink diamond.  It was tastefully elegant.  Almost romantic.

Then it started getting interesting.

Jon didn’t breathe a single word as he turned through photo after seductive photo of her.  A coquettish smile here, the hint of breast there, a sexy sprawl, demurely crossed ankles.  Soft pink alternated with hard, black leather for at least twenty poses. 

Seeing myself like that is awkward, but the photography itself is really good.

Jon turned the final page, coming face to face with the single photograph she'd fallen in love with – the one of her ring, tattoo and imp tail.  He paused there, staring at it for long seconds before silently closing the back flap of the album.  That silence hung for several more seconds while his eyes bore a hole into the supple leather cover.

“Well?”  Unable to stand the suspense any longer, Petey tipped an expectant smile up at him and froze, the smile falling from her face in shattered slivers of ice.  Jon’s face was a study in sharp, unforgiving lines – a hard mask of… disapproval?  Whatever the motivation, it definitely wasn't the lust or excitement she'd been primed to expect.

I’m going to kill you, Gavin.

“They’re beautiful,” he said quietly, re-boxing the book and rising to put it on the dresser.  “Thank you.”  He bent to buss her cheek with an impersonal kiss, avoiding her eyes.  “I’m going to change clothes.”

What?  That was it? 

From his response, or lack thereof, she could only assume that he didn’t like it.  At all.

Petey’s spirit took a bit – okay a lot – of a beating, and she now found herself officially humiliated.   During the shoot, she’d found a way to make this okay in her head.  Gavin had her believing that Jon would be ecstatic over her little gift.  She'd even had the notion that it would build anticipation for their wedding night.

Had she horribly misjudged his appreciation of her body?  Or… 

Or what?  If he were mad, he would’ve just been mad.  He’d never had trouble expressing his disapproval before, so there was no reason to believe he would start now.  No, he just didn’t like it.

Mentally tucking her tail between her legs, Petey swept up the scattered pieces of her pride and rose from the bed.  Scooping the book from the dresser, she stole past the closet and bathroom without looking from the floor until she stepped into Jon’s office.  There, the paper shredder sat in the corner behind the desk, beckoning to her.  


It would be the best way, short of a bonfire, to ensure that no one would stumble across her mistake. 

There’s no time now.

Rocco would be ringing the doorbell any minute to escort them to the car.

Shuffling quickly down to the first floor, heart aching that she could have made such a grave error in judgment, Petey ducked into the guest room to temporarily bury the source of her mortification.  She would retrieve it later tonight and feed it through the shredder, rendering it into a pile of recyclable mulch.

She locked the bedroom door and, with a hearty slam, the book was safely ensconced in a dresser drawer.  Out of the neighboring drawer, she pulled a pair of pantyhose from her small stash of clothing that still resided downstairs.  The black dress she was wearing hit the floor and she shimmied into the pantyhose in ten seconds flat. 

Striding tot he closet, her hand flicked rapidly through the handful of hangers, landing on the black cowl-neck sweater dress that her mother had given her for Christmas.  The sleeves were long, the hem hit her just below the knee and the soft cashmere subtly draped her curves.  It was elegantly conservative and classy.

The strong part of her psyche would like to have believed she was defying Jon's earlier orders as blatant retribution, but it was actually the needy part of her psyche at the helm of this decision.  Not exactly drag show attire, and Gavin would kill her, but she was mad at him so she didn’t care.

Being stared at doesn’t sound like much fun right now.  I prefer to do the conservative wallflower thing tonight.  Mom will be happy, at least.

“Petey?”

“Shit,” she breathed, pushing her fist against her sternum.  The jiggling doorknob and subsequent pounding at the door had scared the life out of her.

“Coming.”

Rummaging around in the small bag of jewelry that was tucked in the same drawer as the stockings, she came up with a strand of little-worn pearls and clipped them around her neck.  “Nothing screams conservative more than pearls,” she muttered, sliding stockinged feet into her Victorian boots.  They were the evening's lone nod to her quirkier nature.

Now fully re-dressed, she wrenched open the door to find a still-somber Jon on the other side.   Refusing to allow her hurt feelings to ruin the evening, Petey dredged up a bright smile to counter his frown.  “Ready.  Is Rocco here?”

“Yeah.”  His eyes roamed her body, darkening with displeasure.  “You changed.”

“I did.”  She gave him the same absent cheek-kiss that she’d been on the receiving end of ten minutes ago.  “Let’s go.”

But of course it wasn’t that easy.  He had to latch onto her elbow and hold her at his side, demanding, "What’s wrong?”

When the first words into her mind were, Are you fucking kidding me?, Petey knew she was on well on her way to becoming an honorary New Jerseyian.

Summoning her deepest dimples, she summoned the Senator's daughter to shove the Jersey girl into the background.  “Nothing at all.  Come on.  We’re going to be late.”

Not surprisingly, her ordering him around didn't fly so well.  If anything, his countenance grew even darker under the sullenness.

“Don’t lie to me, Petey.”

She let the fake smile go and met his starkly solemn eyes with her own bleak irises, keeping her voice moderated for the benefit of the guard lingering in the foyer.  Having extra people around was a pain in the ass.  If he weren't there...  Well, it didn't matter, because Rocco was there.

"Fine.  Something's wrong, but I don’t want to talk about it right now.  We’re supposed to pick up Richie in ten minutes and be at the restaurant by five.  If you still want to know tonight, then I’ll tell you.”

The thick fingers only curled more tightly around her arm, preventing her departure, and the lines of annoyance dug deep in his forehead.  “Now.”

Petey’s hurt mutated into a prideful anger.  People within earshot or not, no way in hell was she having this discussion with him now.  She wouldn’t admit to weaknesses like hurt feelings and body image insecurity while he was being a prick.  Especially when it meant they left guests waiting.  After all, they had a joyous fucking occasion to celebrate.  “No.  Now stop bullying me and let’s go.”

“Petey…”

“I said no!”

Astonishment had the grooved lines falling from his beautifully sculpted face.  Petey took the opportunity to reclaim her arm and glide around the corner, where she congenially greeted a waiting Rocco.

It had been a long time since she’d resorted to that particular tone of voice with him.  He’d apparently forgotten what it sounded like.