4 - Statistically Speaking

Jon threw the door open wide for a second time in as many hours, again without checking the peep hole.  This second go-around left him almost as surprised as the first had.

“Rich!  What the hell are you doing here, man?”

True to form, his best friend ignored any notion of personal space and dropped the battered leather carry-on that he traveled with, pulling Jon into a back-thumping hug.  Affection displayed to his satisfaction, Richie withdrew, emitting a knowing chuckle as he reseated the bag on his shoulder.   “You forgot, didn’t you?”

Aw, shit!

Jon scraped frustrated fingers through his hair in a move that didn’t help his ‘style’ any.  Richie was in town for the week, and he was supposed to have picked him up at the airport – or at least sent a car for him.  There was some kind of fashion gig going on this week, he thought.  Richie’s involvement in the fashion world continued to mystify him, but he should have at least remembered that he would have a house guest for a few nights.

“Dammit, I’m sorry,” he apologized contritely, waving his buddy into the apartment.  “I ran into some unexpected problems and got lost in my head.”

“Is that all you got lost in?”  Richie asked slyly, with a pointed gaze toward the living room.  

Snapping his head around, Jon saw the same thing Richie did:  a diminutive combat boot bobbing in and out of sight around the edge of the chair as Petey animatedly swung her crossed leg.

“Shut up.  It’s not like that,” he defended.

“Oh yeah?”  They’d been friends too long for Richie to buy into that lame defense on Jon’s word alone.  “Then exactly how is it, bro?”

“She’s-“

“Do you need help with the pizza?” Petey called, both feet now on the floor and rising from her seat.  She’d just made the ninety degree turn that placed her in direct view of the entryway when she drew to an abrupt halt.  “Oh.  You have company.  I should probably go, then, huh?”

“No, no.”  Jon waved away her concern with a frown as she stepped onto the marble tile in front of the men.  “Richie’s not company, he’s family.  Petey, this is Richie Sambora – my friend, song writing partner and guitarist.  Rich, this is Petey Diehl.  Petey works for Tony.  She came by to rescue me from a football-less existence this afternoon.”

“Couldn’t turn on the TV again?” Richie smirked and extended his hand to her.  “Hello, darlin’.  Nice to meet ya.  Those are some kick-ass boots you’ve got there.”

Jon was mesmerized at his first up-close and personal view of her dimples.  They were etched deep in her face, taking about ten years off of her already youthful appearance.  Dubbing her a kewpie doll when she first arrived had been a perfect assessment.  She was adorable when she smiled.

Petey politely thanked Richie and they briefly discussed the merits of lug soles versus Panama soles, leaving Jon clueless – in more ways than one.  Yet another clouded facet of this enigmatic woman had been revealed, further taunting him.   

The doorbell pealed again, and he reluctantly left her with Richie to collect the pizza.  The two of them were speaking in a language he didn’t understand anyway, engrossed in the latest fashion trends or something.  If anybody knew Richie was a one-hundred percent red-blooded, woman-loving man... well, it was Jon.  But these kind of conversations still bordered on…  weird.

It took only seconds for the food to exchange hands along with a hefty tip for the delivery guy.  His bare feet were silent on the tile when rejoining them.  “Rich, you want some?” he invited, waving the fragrant container under both their noses before taking it toward the kitchen.

“It’s one of Sal’s,” he spoke behind him, temptingly.  “Petey, you want another beer?”

“Nah, that’s okay, man, I ate on the plane,” Richie called out before encouraging her to join Jon.  “But you go ahead.   I’ll just hang up my coat and put my bag away.”

Nodding, she followed Jon into the open kitchen, asking, “Plates?”

He dropped the flat box on the counter and pointed toward the cabinet beside the sink.  “You know, Petey, I assumed all the one-word answers were because you don’t know me, but you were all Chatty Cathy with Rich.  What do you have against me?”

Wooden cabinet doors closed with what seemed like an inordinate amount of force and she spun on her heel, violet sparks shooting from her eyes.   Those sparks made him glad she was still empty-handed, but despite the evident anger, her voice was something near emotionless when she answered his question with a whole lot more than one word.

“Gee, I don’t know, let me see…  You jump down my throat when I show up to help you, then look me up and down like your dick is gonna fall off if you get too close.  That’s right before you start ogling my ass and asking a million nosy questions like I’m a fucking science project.   At least your friend spoke to me like a person instead of sideshow freak.”

“Dude, you’ve been without a woman too long,” Richie observed dryly from behind him, arms crossed leisurely over his black fitted t-shirt.  “You’re totally screwing up this date thing.”

“It’s not a date.” Jon and Pete chorused in unison, eyes locked in standoff.

“O-kayyy then…  I saw a ballgame on in the living room. Think I’ll go check the score.”

Jon knew the bastard was laughing at him under his breath, not believing a word of their denial.  He’d have to straighten that misconception out later.  For now…

“Listen, I apologized for the way I acted when you first got here.  I was led to believe a guy was coming to help me out, not a woman.  It threw me off for a minute.”

“You don’t owe me anything but a job recommendation,” she intoned, her footsteps just shy of stomping when she retreated from the kitchen.  Her cotton candy scent teased his nostrils, stirred by the whipping of her hair.  “Your TV is working, so I’m out of here.”

Jon cursed under his breath before striding after her.  She was just pushing her arms into leather jacket sleeves when he caught up with her.  “Petey…”

“Interception!”  Richie jumped up from where he was seated on the couch.  “Look at him run!  Tackled on the fifteen, but what a play!  Damn, the Steelers are bringing it.”

Petey's attention was immediately riveted to the big screen.  "That's his seventh interception this season, and he ran back two of them for touchdowns.  He's also got four sacks and one hurry and he's only been sent on a blitz eight times.  If he keeps this up, he could be in contention for the Rookie of the Year award.  I was worried about how effective he'd be this week, since that strained knee was supposed to limit his playing time, but it looks like he's making the most of it."

Both men turned toward her with their jaws slightly agape, but she was still blinking wide-eyed at the television, speaking more to herself than anything.

“First down on the fifteen has been converted into touchdown plays four out of five times this season for an average of eighty percent.  If history holds true, they’ll pass unsuccessfully to the outside twice before rushing up the middle for the score.  Once that happens, based on the three point lead New England has, they should stick with the field goal for one extra point rather than trying to convert for two.  The payoff isn’t worth the risk at this stage of the game.”

“Holy shit,” Jon murmured, thoughtfully propping a fist on each hip.  Who the hell was she, and what was her story?  He’d just pushed past intrigued, flew by fascinated and was diving headlong into obsessed.  He had to find out more about her.

“Let me guess…  Steelers fan?” Richie asked with a laugh.  “I don’t think the commentators can spew that many stats on the fly.  Impressive, darlin’.”

A tiny shake of her head brought her consciousness back to the room.  Eyes flicking back and forth between the two men, she intently interlaced the separate halves of her zipper closure.  With a metal rasp, the two pieces of black leather met snugly over her torso, and she regarded Richie from under her lashes.  “Yeah.  Steelers fan.  I need to head out.  Nice meeting you Richie.”

“The pleasure was mine,” he assured, with a wink and friendly half-wave.  “I’m sorry you can’t stay.”

“Petey, stay and watch the game,” Jon cajoled, trying to make amends.  “Don’t make me feel like an even bigger ass by forcing you to miss the last quarter.”

But she was already pulling at the heavy door, one foot over the threshold. 

“I have the NFL app on my phone.  I'll stop in a coffee shop along the way and watch it."

And with a quiet click of the door latch, she was gone.

Muting the television, Richie folded his frame into the armchair where Petey had been in residence and looked at Jon expectantly.

The chair probably still smells like fucking cotton candy, Jon thought irritably.  “What?”

“You wanna tell me what the hell that was all about?”

The bar was calling Jon.  Loudly.  There was another bottle of Pinot Grigio literally screaming his name, but he couldn’t exactly get rip-roaring drunk with a recovering alcoholic in residence.  Even he wasn’t that much of an ass.

Dammit.

He collapsed to his former seat on the sofa, curled his bare toes over the edge of the table and mentally scrambled for the right words.  Richie had a tendency to see more than he wanted him to, either by reading his body language or sheer fucking intuition.  Not knowing what was truly going on himself, Jon sought the inner calm of his CEO persona – the one that dealt in facts, not emotions.

“Ya got me, man,” he shrugged.  “Tony wouldn’t come over and told me he was sending ‘Petey’, who I naturally assumed was a guy.  Enter the Pixie of Death, who was a little pissed that I questioned her presence when she would rather be home watching the game.  After I finally let her in, she fixed the TV and rewired everything so that it makes sense to me.  As a thank you, I invited her to stay and watch the game.  You saw the rest.”

The dark-haired man was silent for a time, whether analyzing the problem or determining the truth to his words, Jon wasn’t sure.  Knowing his luck, Richie would be in philosophical mode and give him a lecture on Karma and maintaining the balance of the universe or some such garbage.

But his friend surprised him.

“She’s not your usual type.”

Jon snorted at the understatement of the year.  “She’s not anybody’s type.”

Again, with the silence.

“So you’re not interested in her?”

Jon’s eyes narrowed, thinking of the smooth, pale skin of her torso and that spectacularly shaped ass.  Then the memory of her combat boots, purple contacts, piercings, and psychotic recitations came crowding in, larger than life.

“No.  Absolutely not.”

Much.

Richie nodded slowly, seemingly pleased with the answer, and dove directly back into the ballgame.  "Think the Pats can recover from that interception?"