2 - Darkness and the Declaration

About fuckin’ time, Jon grumbled to himself at the sound of the doorbell.  Carefully placing the empty again wineglass on the table, he swung his feet to the beige carpeting and went to admit Tony’s geek of the week.  No doubt the guy had been busily involved with some rousing game of Dungeons and Dragons or whatever the hell techno-nerds played nowadays.

He paused in the foyer, schooling himself to be pleasant.  It wasn’t this guy’s fault Tony was too lazy to drag his ass over here and fix the TV himself.

“Hey, man,” he greeted, not bothering to check the peep hole before flinging the door wide.  It was an unfortunate error on his part and Jon's cordial smile quickly disintegrated into angry confusion.  “Who the hell are you and how did you get up here?”

The girl in front of him was one of those freak shows trying to be different in the same way as a million other kids in New York.  She barely reached his shoulder and long inky hair that wasn’t straight or curly draped over one eye, softened only by a bubblegum pink streak down the left side.  Thick ebony liner framed startling purple eyes – well, technically eye since the other one was covered – in a face so pale that it likely had never seen a ray of sunshine.  Midnight devil worshipping practice, perhaps?

 Jon’s own distrustful eye skimmed downward and he took in her tight tee, whose pink and black striped hem fell only inches below the swell of her breasts and clung to their fullness. 

Hastily, he pushed onward, lest he look like a letch.   

A smooth, lily-white midriff showcased the dainty pink jewel suspended from her navel piercing.  The low riding cargo pants were the same shade of darkness as her dog collar, spiked bracelets, short leather jacket and combat boots, fully completing the Punk Mistress of the Dark look.

Flipping her hair back to reveal a jauntily pierced eyebrow, the girl lifted it into a perfect arch, prefacing the sarcasm that dripped from her bubblegum tinted lips.

“Golly gee Mister, your overwhelming hospitality makes me so glad I’ve spent my Sunday afternoon schlepping over here instead of watching the Steelers run over top of the Patriots from the comfort of my couch.”

The husky voice surprised him coming out of such a little girl.  Actually, now that he looked more closely, he could see that she was probably older than he’d first assumed.  The fullness of her breasts and the softly rounded hips spoke of a more mature woman, and…  His eyes slid back to her face.  There was also a wisdom in her eyes.   The barest hint of crow’s feet framed them, too, alluding to the possibility that she wasn't always in angry-girl mode.

“Well, that makes one of us, Cupcake.  You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

Propping one fist on her hip, she treated him to the same disdainful once-over.  “Because you’re electronically inept?”

Lord, God, Jesus you've got to be kidding me...

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously, not convinced that this little Gothic kewpie doll could be one of Tony’s minions.  “Says who?”

“Your brother.”  The toe of her chunky boot was now tapping impatiently, but silently, against the deep-pile carpeting in his hallway.  “Listen, do you want me to look at the TV or not?  Because if you don’t, I can maybe get home by half-time.”

She was saying all the right words, leading him to believe that she had indeed been dispatched by his little brother.  But she sure as fuck wasn’t any ‘Petey’, and she wasn’t getting into his apartment without coughing up some type of ID.

“Who are you?  And what happened to Petey?”

The stifled sigh and pronounced blink of her eyes were strangely reminiscent of his ex-wife and daughter - and not in a good way.  If her look meant the same thing as theirs....  She thought he was a moron. 

“I’M Petey,” she spoke slowly, pointing to herself lest he not be able to digest the carefully enunciated, single syllable words.  “TV.  Yes or no?”

This was still his house and he was in charge.  One demonic pixie wasn’t going to have him cowering into a corner – especially since that corner didn’t have television at the moment.  Pinning his mouth into a hard, flat line, he planted his feet a shoulder’s width apart.  Jon then crossed his arms over his chest in a way that he knew made the muscles appear more impressive/intimidating than what they really were.

“You sure as hell don’t look like any Petey I’ve ever known.  ID. Yes or no?” he paraphrased her staccato words.

This time she didn’t bother trying to disguise the disgusted roll of her eyes, and he was reasonably sure she was swearing under her breath about ungrateful rock stars as she dug the wallet from her back pocket.

Of course her wallet is on a fucking chain.  Where else would it be?

“My initials are P.T., but it always gets turned into Petey.”  She offered no further explanation, merely passed over one of the identification badges that Tony’s crew always wore while they were on the job.  He’d seen enough of them on tour to recognize at a glance, but he accepted and critically analyzed it just the same.

Her picture was on the left-hand side of the card, and in it her hair was still black, but pulled up into two ponytails, one on each side of her head.  And she was smiling.  She was actually a pretty girl when she smiled, he thought, with funny little dimples that made a T on each side of her mouth.  The more traditional dimples were crossed by another indentation that underscored the apples of her cheeks. 

Beside the photograph her name was printed in bold, black letters:  P.T. Diehl.

Satisfied, and feeling only a little like an ass, he inclined his head and returned the card to her.  Taking one giant step backward into the foyer, he swept his hand wide in a welcoming gesture.  “Please.  Come in.  The TV is in – “

“I can find it,” she cut him off, shucking her jacket and pressing it into his still open hand as she strode by.  The color in her hair must be cotton candy pink, not bubblegum pink, he realized as the sugary scent flooded his nostrils.

He was left stare dumbly after her, the sway of her ass drawing his eyes like a man-magnet.  The cargo pants were tight at her tiny waist, but flared out to accommodate the generous curve of her butt before dropping into straight, wide legs.  Peeking just above the waistband was the inkling of a tramp stamp – some kind of script, he thought, but couldn’t – hell, refused to – see enough to tell for sure.

Stop staring at the Goth chick’s ass, Bongiovi.

One wide palm propelled the heavy entryway door forward until it sealed in the frame with a resounding thud.  He could only hope this would be something simple and that she – and her ass – would be out of here before the end of the first quarter.

Tossing her jacket over the back of the armchair, he saw that Petey had her head stuck in the nest of wires in back of his entertainment center, so he nabbed his empty glass from the coffee table.  He could definitely use a refill.

Cocking his head he could swear she was talking to herself.  Something about people and government that sounded strangely like…

“Are you reciting the Gettysburg Address?”

Her nimble fingers didn’t pause in their manipulation of the hodgepodge of cables, cords and wires, but a muffled, “Declaration of Independence” filtered back to him before she resumed her recitation.

Okay.  That was interesting.  So interesting, in fact, that he found his feet rooted to the floor, gawking at her bent form and trying to formulate some reason that a Goth would be reciting national historical documents while working her way through a rat’s nest of wiring.  Weren’t the Goths part of some anarchist movement or something?

“Is there something on my ass besides your eyes?”

The hell of it was that he hadn’t even been ogling her, instead lost in thought and staring blankly ahead.    He refused to apologize for something he didn’t do, even if he wouldn't have minded being guilty.

“Not that I can see.  You want something to drink?”

One purple iris incredulously regarded him over her shoulder.  “That’s it?  Seriously?”

“What?  You mean the wine?” he asked deliberately feigning ignorance while uncorking the bottle and artfully sloshing alcohol into the glass.  The liquid remaining in the bottle had reached a precariously low level.  “I have more.  Or there’s beer, soda, water… maybe some juice.”

Petey inhaled deeply and clenched her teeth to keep from biting the tip off of her tongue.  This man had a mega million dollar organization that she wanted to enlist with for his upcoming tour.  He was one of the best and most reliable employers in the business.  His brother was surprisingly pleasant and amazingly easy to work with.  For her own self-preservation, she had to play nice, but she didn’t have to take his egomaniacal womanizing bullshit. 

Even if he was hotter than hell with his bare feet, dragon tattoo and two days’ stubble.

Dropping to her haunches, she draped an arm over one knee and twisted her body so that she could confront him more directly.  “You’re not even going to deny looking at my ass?”

He hid a smirk by burying his chin in his chest.  Jon had to give it to her – she had spunk to call him on his alleged impropriety in such a way that it didn’t sound like she was ripping him a new one.  That ‘politeness’ combined with the historical recitation made him wonder what the hell else she was hiding under the layer of off-putting darkness she cloaked herself in.  He was officially intrigued.

“Cupcake, your head was buried in the entertainment center.  It’s not like I could look at your face.”  He offered up his most charming grin before taking a deep swallow of the wine.  “So that’s a no on the drink?”

“Beer.  Please,” she bit out before turning to practically dive head first back into the electronics cabinet.  Her fingers picked back up with their task and she began quoting under her breath. “Four score and seven years ago…”

“Now that’s the Gettysburg Address,” he called from the depths of the mini-fridge beneath the bar.  “One of the most recognizable lines in American history.”

“You got it stuck in my head,” came the muffled response.  “If you’ll give me five minutes of silence I can have this finished.”

Clunking the beer down on a coaster, he held onto his wine and sank into the supple black leather of the overstuffed sofa.  His phone still lay on the end cushion and he extended an arm to snatch it up under the guise of checking his e-mail.  In reality, he was evaluating the limited view he had of Petey while being quietly hypnotized by the soft cadence of her voice speaking of a government for the people.

That sweet ass was still front and center in his line of vision, but if he could manage to get past that, there was also a wide stretch of skin exposed above her waistline.  No matter what her indeterminate age was, the girl had abs of steel from what he could see – and he could see plenty.  The way she was contorting herself in the cabinet encouraged her already short shirt to ride even further up on her ribcage. 

“So exactly how old are you anyway?”   Jon was well aware that his sons got their hyperactivity from him.  Normally he had a tighter rein on his restlessness, particularly around new people, but if his mouth wasn’t talking, his mind was thinking.  History told him that his mouth was more easily censored than his mind, and his mind was headed into dangerous territory.

You need to get laid.  It’s been way too long if this imp is warranting a second look.

“Old enough to realize it’s rude to ask a woman her age.” 

With a huff, she extracted herself and lithely rolled to a standing position.  The errant dust bunnies that were infamous for multiplying in electronic villages clung to her breasts and immediately drew his attention. 

“You’ve got some dust…”  Jon nodded toward her shirt.  “Doesn’t matter how many times the cleaning service comes a week, it seems like there’s always dust floating out of there.”

“Oh.  Thanks.”  Brushing the fluff from her bosom with one hand, she stooped to retrieve something from the floor with the other.  He hadn’t noticed the plastic dinosaur at her feet until that moment.

That’s because you were focused on something more interesting.

“You have kids I take it?”

“Yeah,” he admitted with a grimace.  “And two of them are just the type to be responsible for that.  Did they cram his tail in an outlet and blow something up?”

“No.”  She exchanged the toy for the beer bottle on the table and took a strangely lady-like swig.  “It was wedged up against the power switch on the surge protector, forcing it in the off position.  Took about two seconds to find it, but it was such a mess in there that I rewired everything more efficiently.”

“Jesus, no!” He moaned dramatically.  “I barely know what’s what as it is and now you go changing stuff on me?”

“Relax Mr. Bongiovi, it should even make sense to you now.”

He summarily dismissed the jab at his technical abilities, but bristled at the formal address, mostly because it made him feel old.  Too old.  Given half a chance, he would again be quizzing her about her own age, because…  Well, because he hated puzzles and she was swiftly becoming the biggest one he’d encountered in a long while.

“It’s Jon, and what makes you think so?”

“White - Wii, green - Xbox, blue - Blue-Ray, yellow - satellite, red - TV, black - stereo.  Just make sure you press the correctly associated colored button before selecting the command you want to perform on the device.”

He heard her rattle off a bunch of colors, but then it was just, “Blah, blah, blah, blah.”

“And why is that supposed to make sense?”

She chuckled in an even huskier tone than her speaking voice, if that was possible.  It took an innocent laugh and wrapped around it in such a way that it sounded…  not so innocent.

“The actual Wii is physically white, the Xbox has the big green ‘X’, the Blue-Ray…  Obviously.  Yellow for the satellite because it’s out in the sunshine and red for the TV because that’s the color you see when it doesn’t work  Oh and black for the stereo because it should remind you of a vinyl album.”

And just like that, the dreaded electronic beast that he feared rousing every time he touched the remote was tamed, now seeming no more ferocious than a newborn kitten.  He effortlessly pushed the necessary combination of buttons to bring the jerseys of his beloved Patriots to the big plasma screen.  “My God, it works.  And there actually seems to be some logic to it.”

She shrugged, draining the last of the beer.  “I thought so.”  Replacing the empty bottle on the table, she turned toward the chair over which her jacket was draped, mission obviously complete.

Jon saw her reach for it and something irrational inside him stirred, compelling him to act completely out of character.  He didn’t like strangers in his house, yet he gave it barely a moment’s consideration before nodding at the screen and casually throwing out, “So, you wanna stay and watch the game?”