25 - Gimme Shelter

The TV was silent.  The stereo was silent.  The entire apartment was silent.  He wished he could say the same for his restless mind. 

Jon absently strummed his guitar, stretched out on the couch in the living room.  It had been a while since he’d sought the cathartic solace of his faithful Takamine.  Not even pretending to try and write, the mindless music falling from its strings didn’t serve any purpose other than to crowd out the belligerent voices in his head.  Those voices were telling him shit he didn’t want to hear and screaming things he didn’t want to think about.

Greedy.

Lonely.

Asshole.

Workaholic.

Each word painfully true and he knew it.  Workaholic?  Yes, but at this point it was self-defense. 

In that vein, the visit to Tony’s shop today had been informative even though he’d thought it strange that none of his crew was around – not that he’d been looking for anyone in particular.  He just found it weird that his brother was alone in the middle of a work day.

Tony had been right about the changes to the design.  Jon couldn’t really tell the difference, except in the bottom line cost, which made it all the more impressive.  He got what he wanted for what he was willing to invest in it.  This particular group of Tony’s video geeks was going to serve him well.

One already has.

Jon hit a particularly harsh chord and testily slapped his fingers across the strings to silence the unpleasant sound.

The reminder of her almost made him regret forcing a meeting with Tony.  He'd mostly put her out of his mind in the last week, but the whole way there he couldn't help but half-anticipate her presence in the studio.  Wondering if it would awkward seeing her in a 'public' setting.  Wondering if she was going to give him that damn impudent attitude or pretend he didn't exist.  Pretending he didn't exist would be preferable, considering that they were keeping whatever had happened between them on the down low.  It's what he would do.

To find out she was spending the afternoon with his ex-wife and kids was a relief of sorts, yet... disconcerting on a level he didn’t care to think about.

So, yes.  There was a reason he stayed five times busier than most people.  For Jon, an idle mind wasn’t a creative sanctuary, it was a chasm of self-destruction.  Granted, from time to time that chasm spit out something he could set music to, but for the most part it was just… 

The doorbell interrupted his thoughts.

Thank God.  Even if it’s Dorothea wanting more alimony, it’s better than sitting here alone, stuck in my head.

Holding the guitar away from his body, Jon rolled gracefully to his feet, careful not to tip over the wine glass on the coffee table.  He dragged a heavy hand over his face and, in lieu of an actual guitar stand, propped the Takamine into the corner of ‘Petey’s’ chair as he passed by.

Cool marble tile registered beneath his bare feet, and he realized he was probably underdressed for company.  The only thing he wore was a pair of loose, gray sweatpants.

They should’ve called ahead then.

As had become his habit recently, Jon didn’t bother checking the peep hole.  The doorman wouldn’t let anyone upstairs this late at night unless he was sure they would be welcome.

He still should've checked the peep hole.  It wouldn't have hurt to get an extra second's preparation for the visitor waiting on the other side of the door.

“Petey.”

He scarcely had time to register the duffel bag at her feet and the caginess in her stance before she woodenly rattled off, “My apartment got broken into and trashed tonight.  I could go to a hotel, but I didn’t really feel like being so… alone.  You live closer than anyone else I know, so I’m here to collect the debt that’s owed to me from the football game.”  Yellow cat-eyes finally shifted to look directly at him.  “Can I stay with you tonight?”

“Jesus,” he breathed.  His lingering anger over their last encounter was washed away in a wave of concern.  “Of course you can.”  He grabbed the duffel and stepped aside so that she could hitch her ever-present backpack onto her shoulder and whisk through the doorway in a velvety zephyr.  “Can I take your… cloak… for you?” he asked, not knowing it was the exact phrase his ex-wife had uttered hours before.

“No thank you,” she murmured, squirreling her backpack under the foyer table and whipping the cloak off in a breeze of sugary scented air.  “I know where to hang it.”

He dropped the bag beside the closet and took the opportunity to study her more closely.  Not since the first day had he seen her dressed so defiantly over the top.  The full-length cloak was… interesting.  The flowy little baby-doll dress was cute.  He even sort of liked it.  But the crazy striped tights paired with the  boots and Goth mistress jewelry?  And Lord Jesus, the makeup…  Dark shadows were smudged around kohl-rimmed cat eyes, making them appear eerie and sunken, and the sooty smudges on her cheeks did nothing but make her look gaunt.  The only positive thing he could say was that she wasn’t wearing black lipstick.  Her lips were their natural pale shade of Petey pink.

The closet door snicked shut, bringing him out of his reverie and Jon gave it only a moment’s consideration before he slipped a comforting arm around her shoulders.  Goth freak or not, she was obviously shaken. 

“Want a drink, Sugar?”

She nodded without a sound and he gently steered her toward the bar, urging her to climb onto one of the high stools.  “Beer, wine, something harder?”

“Wine, please.”

With an efficiency honed by years of practice, Jon uncorked the bottle he’d been drinking from earlier, and artfully sloshed a portion of its contents into a glass.  He thought she might benefit from a little over-serving, so he poured the pale beverage to within a hair’s breadth of the glass rim before sliding it across the the bar.

While she was busy putting a dent in her drink, Jon got his own glass from the living room and prepared himself a conservative serving.  Swirling it absently, he noted that the wine had put a little natural color in her cheeks.

His first inclination was to demand a bunch of answers.  What happened?  Did you call the police?  What did they say?  Is the stuff replaceable?  Instinctively knowing that it wouldn’t do anything but put Petey on the defensive, he placed a determined chokehold on the part of him that wanted to step up, take control and fix everything.

There was one thing he didn’t feel bad about asking. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, somewhat convincingly, even though her eyes still had that faraway look.  He’d bet anything she was still seeing the scene and reliving it.

“What did they take?” fell from his mouth before he could stop it. 

I’m sorry, Sugar.  I tried.

He’d been prepared for the usual litany – television, stereo, computer, jewelry.  Her quietly murmured, “Nothing,” stilled his hand.

“Nothing at all?”

She shook her head.  “I’m moving next week, so there wasn’t a lot there.  They tossed the things that were left, and my furniture was destroyed, but that’s about it.”

Placing his empty glass in the small sink behind the bar, Jon digested the wealth of information in that one short statement.  It was peculiar to say the least, but seeing as she was already wound up, he didn’t feel it was right to get her panties in a twist with any more questions just yet.  Maybe after she relaxed a bit... 

So he walked to stand behind her, hands lightly resting on top of her shoulders.  Gently kneading fingers discovered the muscles there rock solid with tension, and she flinched at the contact.  “Shh,” he soothed, a lazy thumb stroking from the base of her neck up in the hairline.  “Just relax.  You can bitch at me in a minute.”

And, to his great surprise, she did.  Petey sagged back against him, dropping her head forward to give him better access to her neck.  That, more than anything, told him she was rattled. 

He made it his mission to melt each knotted muscle in her neck and shoulders with gentle, consistent pressure, until she was supple under his touch.  Once she was resting languidly against his chest, he took the opportunity to drape his arms around her in a loose embrace, her unique scent wrapping itself around him.

All the tension he’d worked so hard to relieve returned in an instant.

“Stop,” he rebuked softly.  “I’m just holding you.  It won’t kill you to lean on me for a minute.”  He chuckled against her hair.  “It would take at least ten minutes to constitute a relationship, so you’re safe.”

Jon felt more than heard her tiny laugh and he smiled.  Miraculously, she didn’t pull away and they sat in a companionable silence for a  time.  Petey’s head rested against his bare shoulder and his arms rocked her gently, until he couldn’t hold back his inquisitiveness any longer.

“Sugar?” he breathed in her ear.  “What did the police say?”

She went stiff, although not as rigidly as before, sitting up straight on the bar stool before easing out of his arms.  Her feet slid to the floor and she stood, fingers wrapped tightly around her glass.

“There was no point in calling them since nothing was missing.  It was just vandalism.”

“You should still report it.”  He didn’t want to fight with her, but it was only common sense to involve the police in something like this.

“Jon.  Please don’t,” she sighed.  “I just want to forget about it until I have to clean up the mess tomorrow.  In the meantime, I’d like to get slightly drunk.  Could I have a little more wine?” 

He took the proffered glass, lips tightened in disapproval.  He wouldn’t argue with her, Jon ordered himself.  He wouldn’t.  She wasn’t his.  He had no responsibility for her.  She didn’t need his protection or worry.  She was just somebody he fooled around with occasionally, and tonight she was just looking for solace in a warm body or a place to crash.  He wasn’t sure which.

Returning the glass into her grasp, he followed her as she drifted to the living room’s seating area and stopped beside the chair where she usually sat.  Her fingertips traced the letters on the headstock, and she murmured, “Takamine EF341SC.  It’s beautiful.”  She lifted those eerie cat eyes with remorse.  “Did I interrupt?”

The enigmatic imp knew guitars too.  Why was he surprised?  She seemed to know damn near everything.

He leaned himself casually into the end of the couch, hands propped on either side of his hips against the upholstered arm.  With a thoughtful cock of his head, Jon deliberated for a minute before deciding to try his luck and lifting a challenging eyebrow.  “Quid pro quo?”

Petey had been leaned over, inspecting the carved initials in the body of his most loved and recognized guitar but, at his subtle dare, her head snapped up, eyes going wide before she shook her head.  “I don’t think I can do this tonight, Jon.”

“Well, I’ll answer your question first,” he placated smoothly, without missing a beat.  “Then you can decide.” 

His eyes followed her movement as she glided restlessly around the room, stopping here and there.  She randomly wiped dust from the bottom of the plasma television as her short skirt flowed around her hips, almost as though she were ignoring him.  Then she inspected the picture of his kids that was displayed on the wall.

She was silent, but didn’t silence imply consent?  He was going with that theory.

”No, you didn’t interrupt.  I was playing to chase away my thoughts.  I’m sure you’ll find this a surprise, but they can be loud and obnoxious at times.”

That got him one dimpled cheek, but nothing else.

“I’ll give you one more question before you decide.  If you want.”

She gestured back toward the picture without hesitation.  “Your kids are beautiful, and Stephanie is so much like you it’s a little frightening.”

He laughed, joining her in front of the photo.  “Sometimes I think she is, but really, she’s the absolute best of both me and her mama.  I love my boys, too, but as my oldest child and only daughter… Well, she’s Daddy’s girl.” 

His eyes went from the photo to Petey, who was still engrossed in the images of his children.  It was almost compulsive, everyone’s tendency to dissect the kids and attribute each of their features to one parent or the other, but his brood weren’t cookie cutter images of anyone.  They didn’t even resemble one another that much, except for the blondish hair.  They were each distinctive in their own way and Jon was glad.

“I heard you were out at the house today."  He fidgeted a bit, uncertain how to broach the subject on his mind.  "You...  didn't mention..."

"The fact that we've been fucking?"  She cut him to the quick with a poisonous look.  "Somehow I refrained telling your daughter and ex-wife that you were my current boy toy."

Yeah.  He probably deserved that.

"Of course you didn't," he agreed readily, channeling his inner diplomat.  "I was going to ask, 'You didn't mention my electronic idiocy, did you?'"  In reality, she had given the answer to what he wanted to know, but he wouldn't admit to it, or to questioning her discretion.  

She snorted softly.  "They were well aware of your... limitations.  I didn't have to say a word."

"Yeah, but I don't like to reinforce it," he chuckled, having dodged the awkward self-inflicted bullet. "I assume that you, no doubt, took care of the problem in less time it took to drive there.”

“Mm.”  The wineglass twirled in her fingers and she continued her rambling around the room.  He didn’t know if she was still that shaken up over her apartment or he was making her uncomfortable.  “Bad power supply in that behemoth television.”  There was a hint of her familiar attitude in the omniscient arch of her eyebrow.  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to compensate for something.  Good thing I’ve seen the evidence to disprove that theory.”

“Thank you for that at least.”  He dipped his head with a humble smirk.  This conversation was taking a turn for the interesting.  Or so he thought.

“I liked Dorothea and Stephanie,” she said unexpectedly, catching him totally off guard.

She was still talking, so the backpedaling away from sexual innuendo wasn’t as disappointing as he would’ve expected it to be.  He deliberately stalked her movements as she wandered his living room, now on the second lap, conceding amiably, “They’re both very likable.”

“How long have you been divorced?”

“Quid pro quo?”

It really was unsettling to have yellow cat eyes blinking up at him.  He wished she would lose the weird contacts for once.

“Quid pro quo,” she relented on a sigh, pivoting to take in the vast display of New York-ness that lay beneath them.  Taxis lit the streets like fireflies in the city that never slept, and Jon knew from experience that his well-insulated windows were the only thing that kept the constant blare of horns at bay.

“It was two years in August.  I guess that makes it almost two and a half years now,” he mused.

“And you haven’t had sex with anyone… since the divorce?”

Jon slid to a silent stop directly behind her, presumably to share in the view, but instead spoke low into her ear.  “You sure this is a road you want to go down, Sugar?”

He felt her awareness of him flare to life at the same time she stifled a gasp.  She hadn't realized he was so close to her.

“No.  You’re right.  I don’t,” she whispered.

But she’d opened the can of worms, and he felt inexplicably inclined to tell her, despite the fact that she would stonewall him if the tables were turned. 

“You don’t want to know that you’re the only woman to make sex worth the trouble in two very long years?  Out of spite, I screwed around for a little while right after the divorce, but it wasn’t satisfying.”  Petey shivered when his breath tickled her bare neck.  “Not like it is with you.”

The softly fragrant skin beckoned to him, and he dusted his lips against her nape.  The resulting goose bumps were empowering.

Petey cleared her throat, squaring her shoulders but not moving away.  He considered that a significant victory, especially when she gamely forced out, “Quid pro quo.  Ask your question.”

He had a million things he wanted to know.  He was certain of it.  But right now, Jon could only think of one.  “Did you come here to sleep with me, or for a place to crash?”

Her voice was thin and nearly inaudible.  So whisper soft that he almost missed it when she confessed, “I don’t know.”