6 - Runaway

The treadmill rolled under her feet at the same steady pace as it had for the last half-hour.  Petey’s black tank was soaked both front and back from the same sweat that drenched the fine hair along her nape and temples.  The soles of her feet throbbed and the muscles in her legs had begun to quiver, threatening to give way, but still she ran.

It had been three days since Tony Bongiovi had called her with two messages – one from his brother Jon and the other from Richie Sambora. 

Richie’s message was a nice surprise and brought a pleased grin to her face.  He wanted her to call him about going out to dinner while he was in town. 

The few minutes they had spent talking left her with a good vibe about him, so she returned his call within hours.  Petey had every intention of declining his kind offer, but Richie’s charm doggedly undermined that intention.  His easy demeanor was irresistible and she got sucked into a playful banter that went on and on and on… until she laughingly relented and agreed to dinner.

He hadn’t cringed with embarrassment when meeting her at a little restaurant near her apartment in the Village.  Instead he’d made her twirl in front of him like a model before complimenting the form-fitting black corset adorned with pink laces.  Winking, he told her there was a leather jacket in his closet at home that could pass for the twin of hers.

“It’s a good thing I didn’t wear it.  People would say we were being too ‘matchy matchy’,”he laughed.  Any tension she’d been harboring immediately eased.  He had smoothly set the tone for an entire evening of talking about everything and nothing.  A good time was had by all.

So much so, in fact, that he wanted to see her again again before he left town.  Petey surprised herself twice – once by immediately agreeing and then again when she found herself looking forward to it.  Richie saw past her exterior, interested more in what she had to say than how she dressed.  It was a refreshing change.

Her life was precariously low on friends these last few years and it was good to let her guard down enough to sit and talk about frivolous things like fashion and football.  It was an eclectic combination, but he discussed both with equal comfort and Petey was hard pressed to recall the last time she’d met such a nice guy.

No, she wasn’t the least bit stressed over that message, she thought as her ponytail swayed rhythmically in time with her footsteps.

It was the other message that had her running three days straight, to the point of exhaustion each time.

Supposedly all he wanted was some more help in the battle against his home electronics.  Okay.  No problem.  All arrogance aside, she could probably do it blindfolded. 

It was her reaction to him that was the problem. 

She hadn’t lived under a rock all of her life.  Petey knew who Bon Jovi was, had more than a passing familiarity with their music and had repeatedly seen photographs of its famed leader throughout the years.  She knew all about his famous smile, the remarkable blue eyes and chiseled jaw.  But it wasn’t something she obsessed over.  Sure, he was a nice looking guy, but so were a lot of other men. 

No, his hype was a direct result of his public persona and she’d never taken the time to go to a show or listen to interviews.  That meant she could take him or leave him.

Now she was being forced to re-evaluate that assessment. 

New theory:  his hype was a result of direct exposure.

The man exuded more pheromones than should be legal.  From the moment he opened that apartment door, the magnetism surrounding him had reached across the threshold with the force of an electric shock.

That pissed her off.

She was not a lemming, blindly following the breadcrumb trail of everyone else’s life.  Not anymore. 

The bottom line was that Petey liked being different, and Jon Bon Jovi was one of those people clearly incapable of appreciating the difference.  Disapproval had rolled off him with such force that it was almost as overpowering as his sex appeal.  

That pissed her off even more, which, in turn, prompted her nervous tick to rear its quirky head. 

But somewhere around the Gettysburg Address Jon had, for some unknown reason, decided to be pleasant despite his disapproval.  Probably because her ass passed inspection, she thought wryly.  Whatever the cause, he nearly lured her in with his rapt fascination as he interrogated her, and the way that perfect smile took him from serious to playful with a  single flash of pearly white enamel.

Butterflies – or maybe bats – repeatedly kicked up a flutter in her stomach during her time in his apartment.  Again, pissing her off.

It was the only explanation she had for blowing up at him in the kitchen.  Jon Bon Jovi broke the circuit of her logical thought process with some unseen electrical current.

Unnerving.

That’s why Petey hadn’t called him back. 

Based on the tenacious way he’d grilled her, she would guess that her silence was driving him crazy.  Two exasperated voicemail messages  from Tony were also a pretty good indication.

The control buttons on the treadmill beeped cheerily as she reduced the speed to a walk and worked through her cool down before turning it completely off.  Bending at the waist, she clung tightly to the control panel in an effort to keep herself upright despite the severe trembling in her legs. 

Rubbing at the sweat stinging her eyes, she acknowledged that she couldn’t avoid him forever.  The job he represented took precedence over her screwed up hormonal reaction to the man himself.

Scooping the hand towel off the grab bar, she scrubbed it across her face with a sigh and plucked her phone from the kitchen counter.  A cold bottle of water from the fridge went down while she kicked off her shoes then dragged her weary body toward the bathroom for a much needed shower. 

Phone still in hand, she paused outside her bedroom door, abruptly deciding to take the coward’s way out.

[7:45 PM] Sunday at noon? -Petey

Mentally shrugging, she lobbed the phone onto the bed.  That gave her three more days to get her act together.

☠☠☠

Jon's right knee began to protest as the miles pounded away under his running shoes and the sweat poured down his bare torso.  He’d much rather be running outside but with a visitor scheduled, he couldn’t risk being away from the apartment too long.  He had a feeling if he missed her, she wouldn’t wait, and it was better than not running at all.

God knew he needed to burn off the extra energy.

Petey’s text message had arrived Thursday evening while he and Richie were out to dinner with the kids.  After finding out Uncle Mookie was in town, the little ones demanded to see him and the older ones came along without acting too put out about it. 

The phone vibrated against his thigh while they were all gathered around a big table with pizza and soft drinks everywhere.  Jon pushed Romeo back down into his chair and forcefully threatened to restrain him if he got up again, all the while slipping the phone out to see who was buzzing him.   Three days' wait made him a touch over-eager and, Romeo temporarily forgotten, within seconds he typed and sent his reply.  

[7:46 PM] Sounds good.

“What’s your smug ass grinning about?” Richie leaned in to quietly ask.

“Nothing.”

Richie had been out with Petey night before last.  Jon knew that because the sugary smell was still clinging to Richie’s clothes when he collapsed onto the sofa beside him that night.  But he didn’t ask where they went, what they did or the things they talked about.  He didn’t want to know.  His interest in Petey was completely separate from dating.  Completely separate.  It was merely an intellectual, brain-picking quest to see what made the woman tick.

And he believed that.

Until his theory was shot to hell about six hours later.  That was when he woke in a puddle of sweat, his dick hard enough to pound nails. 

In the way things in the middle of the night tended to be, the dream had been larger than life.  It was so vivid that, lying there in the darkness, he could close his eyes and still see it.  Could still feel it as the blood pulsed through his groin.

Ah, fuck it.

Wrapping a loose fist around his throbbing erection, Jon groaned softly and gave himself permission to get swallowed back into the dark cloud of eroticism.

Petey’s hair framed her face, in wild disarray from the agitated fingers she had repeatedly pushed through the strands.  She slid those hands slowly down her torso, cotton candy pink lips shining wetly, violet irises dilated with desire.

Jon lay naked on the bed, admiring her translucent, made even more pronounced by its contrast to the black leather lingerie.  High, firm breasts were encased in supple cups that were liberally dotted with silver studs.  The G-string panties were the same supple leather as the bra, with the silver studs artfully arranged across her pubic bone.

He tugged lightly on the collar at her neck, urging her to join him on the bed and she obediently crawled on top of him, swinging one booted foot over to straddle him. 

He tugged the bra down to allow her breasts to hang free, his attention instantly captured by the small hoop through her left nipple.  Bowing up off the bed, he popped the smoky, dark aureole into his mouth where the metal felt cool against his tongue.  Clamping it firmly between his teeth, Jon gave a slight tug and that husky voice of hers dropped to a purr.

“I want you,” she whispered.  “Inside me.”

“Then take me.”

It was all the offer she needed.  Too impatient to remove her panties, she merely shoved them out of the way, pushing him inside with a lusty moan.

Clamping firm hands around her hips, the few studs dug into his palms as he forcibly kept her movements slow and steady.  She allowed it for a only few strokes.  Agitation had her pushing  his hands away and arching forward so that they were chest to chest as she rode him. 

Her breathless whisper tickled his ear.  “To form… a more… perfect… union…”

Jon grunted as the warm, sticky release spattered over his hand and stomach.

Jon grunted with frustration and ran faster.  The dream had come both nights since then and so had he.  His hope was, that by running himself into the ground, there wouldn’t be enough energy left for his body to form a humiliating hard-on the instant he opened the door.

The doorbell echoed through the apartment, signaling him that Petey had arrived.  He punched the control panel to stop the machine and hopped off the treadmill, lungs on fire.

Mopping a towel across his face and chest, he willed his breathing under control and strode toward the front door.

I guess I’m about to find out if it worked.