48 - Draw the Line

Where the hell is she?

Jon had sent half a dozen text messages and dialed Petey’s phone at least twenty times in the last eight hours.  He knew she was pissed, and probably had every right to be, but he was worried and being worried cut his temper shorter than usual.

His hand itched to spank her ass red for doing this to him.

When she didn’t respond to his texts and calls within the first couple of hours, he’d phoned Tony, casually asking how things were going.  His brother had freely admitted to being short-handed today since Petey had called in sick, saying she would to try work on some of the show video.  While Tony had also called and text, he also hadn’t been able to reach her.

Obviously the problem wasn’t that she was avoiding him.  Well, he amended to himself, if it was, it wasn’t the only problem.

So Jon had continued blowing up her phone with no response.

When that amounted to getting nothing done all day besides stewing over her lack of response, he’d finally broken down and called the car company.  That driver was the only one who knew where she lived and it absurdly pissed him off that he didn’t know.  That she hadn’t told him something.  Again.  Still.  Whatever.

That was about an hour ago, and he was impressed that he’d kept it together until three in the afternoon, because she was making him nuts.  He didn’t do nuts, and he definitely didn’t do nuts over women.  He left that shit to Richie, thank you very much.  Jon had neither the time, nor the inclination to play head games.

Yet here he was.

Loitering in her hallway, waiting and brooding with hopes that she would come home before his arches fell from standing here in his position as a wall support.  It was now a quarter of four.  If she didn’t come home soon...   Well, he had a smart phone and e-mail to read.  There was no point in kidding himself.  He would wait until she did come home.

☠ ☢ ☠

Petey swished her hair around her shoulders with a smile as she walked the last two blocks home.  It was a beautiful day out, and she was feeling fairly sassy, all things considered.

Gavin told her that the length of her hair was weighing down its natural wave, and then proceeded to wield his thinning shears, razor and flat iron.  It was now a good three inches shorter, with nicely jagged edges that tapered downward from her cheekbone to hang just below her shoulders.  He adamantly declared that the waves would be spectacular when she let them go.

The end result was fun, particularly now that he’d returned her pink streak to its natural color – so that he could turn the bottom inch of her hair fuchsia all the way around.  He still staunchly assured her that it could be easily masked in an updo for her family social event, and she warned him it was his responsibility to make that happen.  If he didn't, he would get to deal with the wrath of her mother.

Petey dimpled with pleasure as she climbed the front stoop.

She had hair art and her mother wouldn’t have a heart attack.  What started out as a spectacularly shitty day had vastly improved, courtesy of one flamboyant fairy godmother.

On top of the hair treatments, Gavin had insisted on about three different kinds of facials, eyebrow shaping, and a mani-pedi.   She wiggled her fingers as she dug out her key, admiring the pink glitter that had been dusted over black nail polish. Glitter and rhinestones were her crack cocaine.  They made her happy in a way that no one but a true addict could understand.

When the day, including a light lunch Gavin ordered in, was finished, the final tally was a set of glittery toes to match her fingers, awesomely arched eyebrows, silky straight hair with jagged pink edges and a face bare of everything but baby soft skin. 

Apparently a day at the salon was a surefire remedy for PMS, because she felt refreshed and revived.

Petey topped the last step and drew up short, keys dangling from her fingers.  The man standing next to her front door had his cell phone clutched in his hand and, for all appearances, was one very pissed off rock star. 

Based on the level of his pissed-off, she would guess he had been there a while.

The expression on Jon’s face was as ominous as a black thundercloud.  With scorn dripping from the frown lines that bracketed his mouth, he leisurely looked her up and down.  She felt each scorch of his eyes as he absorbed her scrubbed face, hair, nails, psycho bunny t-shirt, leggings and tennis shoes. 

Petey thought she'd seen him pretty angry in their short time together, but this made all those other times pale in comparison.  The pulse in his jaw ticked quietly away, along with the vein in his forehead, as they engaged in their silent standoff, blue eyes boring into red. 

She fully expected his voice to be heard throughout the entire building when he finally chose to speak, but reality was a far cry separated.  His voice was eerily calm and even when he inquired, “You don’t answer your fucking phone anymore?”

She shuttered her eyes and tamped down the twin spikes of panic and lust that shot through her. 

He was dressed much as he had been at the Christmas party – blue dress shirt, sports coat, jeans and boots.  Some of the buttons on the dress shirt were wasted, unused and exposing the top half of his chest.  She could see his necklaces nestled in the downy chest hair. 

Damn man was too handsome for his own good – and hers.

“I mean, I can obviously see you’ve been at the beauty parlor all day.  It’s good to know you were relaxing while everybody was going nuts trying to find you.”

Continuing on her path as though he weren’t standing there, Petey unlocked the door without opening it.  She withdrew the key with more force than was strictly necessary and dropped it in her bag, refusing to be intimidated.  He was still the one in the wrong here.  “I left my phone at home.  What are you doing here?”

“Tony said you were sick.  He tried a few times, but couldn’t get ahold of you and was concerned.”

She scoffed with disbelief.  Like she was going to buy into that cock and bull story.  Tony thought they barely knew each other, why would he talk to Jon about her absenteeism?  “That’s not why you’re here.  Try again.”

“You also didn’t answer my texts or calls,” he lambasted, cramming the phone into his pocket and crossing his arms.  “I was worried.”

Her previous lust and panic combined into an all-consuming, fiery ball of fury that she hurled with every intention of incinerating him with it.   

“Worried my ass!  You were expecting me to be anxiously waiting in the wings to soothe your conscience once you decided you’ve been a prick.  Well guess what?  You are a prick, and from what I can tell, it’s not a new development.  Why aren’t you used to the idea yet?  I sure as hell am!”

The hateful, hurtful words were completely out of character for Petey, and she was flabbergasted to hear them rolling off her lips.  The fleeting shadow of pain that flickered across his face almost made her sorry she'd unleashed them.

That is, until he used bodily intimidation to back her against the wall, where he loomed formidably over her smaller form. His fury remained silent, but he was crowded so close that she could feel it emanating from his pores.  The uncomfortable nearness allowed her to smell his soap and cologne and… him.  Jesus, why did he have to smell and look so good?  And be a prick? 

But he didn’t touch her.  His body thrummed with the effort of restraint, but he didn’t touch her.  Jon angrily twisted the knob on her unlocked door and flung it inward.  “Get in inside,” he ordered menacingly, with no room for compromise.  “I’m not having this fucking argument in the hall.”

“Oh, that’s right,” she gasped dramatically in his face, with the full knowledge that she was being a complete bitch.  All that time with Candace was finally paying off.  “We’re outside your penthouse.  God forbid someone see us together.” 

She corralled all of the wild rage stampeding inside her and heaved her weight into his chest with an animalistic growl.  The impact threw him temporarily off balance and allowed her to slide past him and through the open doorway.  Scrambling for the door, she was two inches away from having it slammed in his face when he planted an open palm in the center of the its surface with an undeterrable force. 

Petey shoved against it in a desperate effort to shut him out, but he was bigger and stronger, and Jon easily walked her backward, easing the door open with slow, measured steps into her apartment.  Both the door and her strength were effortlessly conquered under his hand.

The windows rattled with the force of it slamming shut behind him, and the noise echoed throughout the room.  Petey scrambled to put herself in front of the sofa, skirting the cocktail table and putting it in position to act as a physical barrier between them. 

“Goddamit, stop that!  You know I’m not going to hurt you,” he snapped, pacing the short length of the living room and putting a hand through his expertly mussed hair.  Her living room had seemed average size until he started pacing like a caged lion.  In an instant, it shrunk by half.

“No, but I might hurt you.”  She tossed her bag on the couch behind her without looking, unable to remember the last time shed been so angry.  For him to barge in here with his artificial concern was not only insulting, it was ludicrous.  He was mad that she wouldn’t kowtow to him, plain and simple.

As a testament to that, he drew to a halt and clenched both hands into hard fists at his sides as the pulse in his jaw continued to beat out a random, staccato rhythm.  His eyes were cold and distant when his shins bumped the side of the table and he demanded, “Tell me what you want, Petey.”

She didn’t understand the question.  What did she want from life?  For Christmas?  For dinner?  Was he going to grant her some sort of wish? 

“I don’t know what you mean,” she informed him sharply, planting one fist belligerently on her hip and glowering.   The cocktail table had shrunk just as much as the room had.  He was within arm’s reach – or she was within arm’s reach.  However you chose to look at it. “Could you possibly be a little less vague?”

“What do you want?” he enunciated slowly, leaning his torso over the table and into her space.  The furrows in his forehead were as pronounced as the pulse that still throbbed fiercely in his temple.   “Because you told me you wanted a no-strings-attached fuck fest.  That’s what I’ve given you, yet here we are… fighting again.  It’s getting old.”

Incredulity swept over Petey, rendering her speechless.  What type of delusional world was he living in?  He actually thought he had given her exactly what she asked for?  The man had not only stood in front of too many loudspeakers, but he’d evidently smoked one too many recreational cigarettes. 

Stuttering for a moment, she ultimately found voice enough to exclaim, “No you haven’t!  You won’t just fuck me and keep it light so this could be easy and fun for everybody involved.   You’re obstinately trying to ‘know’ me.  You want to rip open my guts and expose all of my deep, dark secrets under the guise of friendship, but that friendship is only supposed to exist within the confines of your secluded fortress.  If you passed me on the street, I doubt you’d speak!”

His eyes fell closed on a heavy sigh, and Jon allowed his head to fall backward as far as his neck would bend, and then forward.  Pain was etched into his features alongside the anger and exasperation.   “What do you want?” he asked much more civilly this time, eyes opening as he forcibly unfisted his fingers and tucked them into his pockets.  “What do you really want?  Tell me.  For God’s sake, just tell me already.”