4 - Waiting Game

“Make that two orders of Schezuan chicken,” the take-out clerk called to the cook in the kitchen of the Red Egg Restaurant.  They sold so many orders of the popular dish that  the similarity in his back-to-back orders was as unremarkable as the SoHo and Tribeca addresses to which they would be delivered. 

“Feng.  Li,” the same clerk called only moments later, both orders ready to leave the restaurant.    The two delivery boys came in from the back alley, where they’d been taking a quick break.  “Penthouse at 158 Mercer,” was the instruction given with the first brown bag.  The second identical order was dispatched with a gruff, “80 Leonard Street.  5B.”

Both boys hurried out with their orders, knowing that quick service meant a larger tip.

❧ ❧ ❧

“Thanks, man.” Jon passed the delivery boy a ten dollar bill.  If the restaurant could get his food to him in under half an hour, he usually threw in a little extra for the kid who ran his ass off to make it happen.  On the off chance they got it there in less than twenty minutes, he threw in a lot extra.  Tonight, it was just a little.

The front door closed and, phone tucked into his shoulder, he took his dinner to the kitchen and put it on the counter. 

“Yeah, Mom, I know, but Christmas is still almost three weeks away.”

“You have tours planned in your head for two years from now,” she countered with a dry humor.  “Excuse me if I want to make sure I have all my children and grandchildren together for the holiday.”

Pulling a stoneware plate from the cabinet with a muffled clank against its cabinet-mates, Jon frowned briefly.  A big family get-together wasn’t foremost in his mind right now.  He was more interested in an intimate tete-a-tete. 

Sheridan hadn’t called today.  He got delivery confirmation of the honor bar at about two o’clock this afternoon.  It was now eight and not a damn word. 

“Would I disappoint you?  You’ll have me and all my babies.  I can’t vouch for Matt and Tony.”

“Four o’clock Christmas day.  We’re having dinner at five on the dot.  Promise me.”

Jon loved his mother as much as any other grown man did.  Probably more, but she was in an unfortunate position.  When the phone rang, it had been her instead of a certain tropical memory.

“For cryin’ out loud, I said we’d be there.  Goddammit!”  Jon hissed after pulling the aluminum-bottomed food container from the bag.  It dropped to the countertop with a metallic ‘plop’.  He had no fucking idea how the Chinese restaurants got the food so hot that the damn container still burned the ever-living shit out of you half an hour later.  Did they have a communal nuclear reactor?

“John Francis, you don’t talk to your mother that way.”  She was blasé about her chastisement, well-acclimated to the colorful language of her sons and husband.  At most, it could be called a bland lesson in manners.

“I wasn’t cussing at you.  I burned my hand.”

❧ ❧ ❧

“Goddammit!”  Sheridan dropped the take-out container as quickly as she’d plucked it out of the bag.  The Schezuan chicken landed on the marble countertop with a muffled ‘plop’. 

“Sheridan Nicole, I know it’s a huge inconvenience for you to come home and actually see your family for a change, but I don’t think you need to resort to swearing at me.”

“I’m not swearing at you.  I burned my hand.”  Using her wrist, she flipped up the handle that would start cold water running in the kitchen sink.  Plunging her wounded hand under the soothing flow, she caustically remarked, “I think they use nuclear radiation to heat Chinese takeout.”

“Don’t you ever cook?  I can’t believe you don’t weigh three hundred pounds with all the takeout you eat.”

Defending her eating habits to her mother was at the bottom of her list of entertainment activities right now.  Drowning her common sense in the honor bar was currently ranked number one the list.  She had resisted temptation and talked herself out of calling Jon at least half a dozen times in the last six hours, but it was getting harder as the evening progressed.   When her common sense dissolved into ‘what if’ fantasies, food became her new diversionary tactic.

Sheridan sighed, shutting the faucet off and blotting at her hand with a kitchen towel.  It looked like she would live.

“Neither can I, Mom.  It’s one of the great anomalies of the world.  Black holes, the Bermuda Triangle and my lack of obesity.”

“I can see you’re in one of your moods, so I’m going to hang up now, but I will be calling you tomorrow.  And if you ignore my phone calls, I’ll simply enlist the help of your siblings.  I want you home for Christmas, Sheridan.”

It wouldn’t do any good to explain to her mother that she had planned on coming all along.  If she told her that, then she would have to tell her why she wasn’t trying to dodge familial obligation this time around.  Pam Norris had spent the last fifteen Decembers using all of her persuasive powers to goad her youngest child into coming home for Christmas.  Sheridan felt, at this point, it was one of their holiday traditions.

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow, okay?  My dinner is going to get cold.” 

Probably not until morning, but whatever.

Having successfully deterred her mother for another day, Sheridan fixed her plate and took it the few necessary steps to the dining table, which she had already set with a placemat, napkin and silverware. 

The domestic touches had started coming out not long after she moved in.  She’d always bypassed the formalities due to time constraints, but now that time wasn’t an issue, it was kind of nice to indulge a little.

That’s not all I want to indulge in.

Sheridan looked at the little refrigerator that had been pushed against the wall, biting her lip with indecision.  She hadn’t called him, and had no intention of doing so.  Nothing could top their time together in Jamaica.  Reality simply couldn’t compete with that one surreal night, and drinking his alcohol now meant…

It meant she would be allowing herself to entertain a pleasant memory with dinner.   Nothing more.

There were half a dozen varieties of adult beverage in teeny little bottles – whiskey, rum, gin, tequila, wine of all different sorts.

If you’re going to have the memory you might as well make it accurate.

Sheridan selected the Pinot Grigio – make that two – to fill her glass.  It might not be the exactly same wine that she shared with Jon, but it was close enough.

❧ ❧ ❧

The white wine, his favorite bastard Pinot Grigio, splashed in the bowl of his glass like a pastel tidal wave, and he inhaled its subtle aroma with pleasure.  Pinot Grigio was the red-headed stepchild of the wine world, but Jon had never cared much about public appearance.   Screw ‘em.  He liked what he liked.

Glass overfilled to an improper level, he set the bottle next to it on the kitchen table.  It wasn’t often he ate home alone, and when he did it was generally a salad or pizza in front of CNN – or whatever ballgame happened to be playing.  Tonight though, he was in the mood for something a little different.  So he turned on the sound system, picking one of satellite radio’s classic rock stations, and sat at the table to eat his dinner for the first time in forever.

Damn chicken is still scalding.

He chased the bite of hot food with a healthy swallow of his wine.  Leaving the food to cool a bit longer, he planted his elbows on the table and dangled the wineglass from his fingertips. 

As it had repeatedly in the last twenty-four hours, his mind took a trip to Jamaica and the beautiful woman who knocked on his door to ‘borrow a cup of electricity’.

Looks were good.  Hell, looks were great, but Sheridan’s willingness to forgo any games had the lit fuse on the explosive powder keg of their coupling.  For him anyway.  That, and her desire to dive right in and go at it without the long, drawn out foreplay that most women wanted.  It called to his inner caveman, who was ready for another bite of that tantalizing shoulder of hers.

He wielded the chopsticks and poked another bite of chicken into his mouth to satisfy his oral craving. 

You’re getting your foreplay now, aren’t you, ya smug bastard?  She still hasn’t called.

Which brought up another, looming problem. 

What was he going to do if she didn’t call?

❧ ❧ ❧

I’m not going to call.

She was in bed with the elegant comforter tucked around her legs, while she leaned against the dark walnut headboard.  After consuming four instances of ‘honor’ from Jon’s gift bar, bed was the best place for her to be. 

Not necessarily because she was feeling sleepy, but because she was feeling… flushed.  Attributing it to the alcohol alone would make her a bold faced liar, so she didn’t even go there.  When those small doses of booze infiltrated her bloodstream and mixed with the heady cocktail of a certain perfect storm, Sheridan’s body had overridden her mind.  She was aroused, and the lack of sexual partners since August only compounded the problem.

Call him.

She couldn’t.  Wouldn’t. 

In their short time together, Sheridan had been rocked and made to see enough stars to fill the Milky Way.  That qualified Jon Bon Jovi as the biggest rock star in her world.  Trying for the encore with a pre-orchestrated, pre-meditated, potentially awkward date was sure to bust him down to mere mortal status. 

There were enough mere mortals in the world.  She preferred to remember him as a rock star. 

With a sigh, she snuggled beneath the comforter, rolling onto her right hip.  The bottom nightstand drawer slid open easily, as it had a thousand times.  Her fingers automatically sought the most effective weapon in her arsenal of ‘toys’, grateful that she’d had the foresight to recently put in fresh batteries. 

Sheridan might not call him, but she certainly couldn’t be faulted for calling out his name.

Next update: Monday, October 1

3 - Honorable Woman

Audra is absolutely INSISTENT that you get two weeks' worth of postings this first week.  Who am I to disagree? Right?  ;o)   

The coffee was bitter, and scalded his tongue as it went down.  Jon grimaced with discomfort watching the morning light creep higher in the sky.  It was the price he paid for impatience, but he wasn’t particularly concerned about singed taste buds right now.  After being up and down all night, this coffee was the only thing that was going to make him tolerable in – he glanced at the clock – ten minutes when he started making phone calls.

Sheridan King.

When you got older, the mind tended to play tricks on you.  He was realistic enough to admit that he was getting older.  It’s the main reason why, around the first of October, that he decided that his imagination was likely responsible for the stunning good looks of his Jamaican bed buddy.  After all, it had been more shadows than light during the throes of both the storm and their heated passion. 

There was that one glimpse of her on the beach, but even that had been at a distance. 

Yes, he’d decided the Sizzling Siren of the Sheets had become a lot more attractive with time and distance. 

And now it turned out that he was wrong, which pissed him off.  He hated being wrong.

On the bright side, his memory was fucking perfect.

So maybe she wasn’t supermodel beautiful, but the electricity that crackled between them made her as attractive as any woman he’d ever been with.  The chemical reaction he’d attributed to heightened senses from the blackout was as real as a stick of Doc Brown’s plutonium in Back to the Future.

And she wanted to leave it as a fond memory.

Fuck that.

He wanted to see if it was possible to recreate that 1.21 gigawatts of electricity that would send them back to Jamaica.

He wanted to see if it was possible to have another night like that.  Hell, he needed to see.  At his age, he wasn’t impressed by much.  Jon had been sucked, fucked  and bucked so many times he couldn’t count them all.  If he were being honest, he couldn’t remember a good percentage of them.  But this woman – this night – he remembered often.

Sheridan King.

Putting his nearly-empty mug on the granite countertop, he stole another look at the clock on the wall.  It read 7:55 a.m.. 

Close enough.

Jeri Daniels wasn’t a stranger to early morning phone calls from her employer.  She would likely just be happy he wasn’t ready to kick somebody’s ass into next week.   Crisis management was the usual reason for these coffee fueled conversations with his assistant. 

He puckered his mouth into a little frown as he flicked through the contact list in his cell phone.  Jeri was a notoriously curious woman, but there was no one more loyal or discreet.  Even if she were about to burst with nosiness, she would never ask him why in the hell he was making this crazy-ass request.

The simple fact was that he needed to remind Sheridan about the finer details of their Jamaican adventure.  It was his intention to jog her memory so that she would remember how good it was in his bed.  Ludicrously good.  Irresistibly good.

“Mornin’ Jeri,” he greeted, rubbing a hand over the prickly stubble on his jaw.  A rueful grin stretched his lips. “No, I’m not going to start screaming this early in the morning, you sassy wench.  I need your help with a gift for someone.”

After he’d explained - in great detail – what he wanted, Jon staunchly ignored the unasked questions his assistant was itching to put voice to and made one final request.  “Oh, and Jeri?  Here’s what I want the card to say….”

 ❧ ❧ ❧

Sheridan reached for her tea cup, face twisting with revulsion when the cold, chamomile blend hit her tongue.  Why in the world was it cold?  It had been scalding hot when she poured it a few minutes ago.

It only took a quick peek at the clock in her ‘workshop’, to see why it was cold.  What she’d perceived as a couple of minutes was actually almost three hours.  Rather than it being late morning with the whole day ahead of her, it was well after one in the afternoon.

Why are you surprised?

She’d always been one to get wrapped up in her work, to the point of oblivion.  This morning, she’d been working on a batch of lotion, toying around with a new recipe – lilac and lemon verbena.  Feminine yet fresh, it was a calming scent that should help clear the mind and enhance concentration.

Aromatherapist, heal thy self.

Okay, so maybe she’d been trying to erase the memory of a certain pheromonally enhanced musician with the scents of relaxation and clarity.  His unexpected presence at Karl’s book launch had figuratively knocked her on her ass.   Then, in the car…  The way he claimed her mouth with such authority and put his hand up her dress without reservation…

Sheridan shivered.

Shaking her head with annoyance, she stood to replace jars and bottles in their respective cubbyholes and drawers.  The antique mahogany apothecary cabinet and matching shelf had been a gift to herself this fall, in celebration of her new life. 

It hadn’t been long after the return trip from Jamaica that she found herself restless.  Discontent.  The chain of bookstores that she’d nurtured from one small store no longer held the zing of excitement it once did.  That made dealing with less-than-stellar employees such as her incompetent assistant, Todd, even more difficult than usual.

Within about two weeks, she was completely over the whole thing and itching to shed the skin that had fit her so well for so many years.  It no longer felt like her skin.  It was time to move her life in a new direction. 

She contacted an old friend who once expressed an interest in buying her business, and arranged for the sale.  Three weeks later, she was free.  Her belongings were packed onto a moving truck headed for New York City, and the condo that she’d fallen in love with on sight.

It was a spacious two-level unit in the Tribeca area, with oak hardwood flooring.  The lower level was an open floor plan with living area on one end, kitchen on the other and dining space in between.  The upper level had two bedrooms and a terrace.  Having no need for a second bedroom, she decided to make better use of the space.

Aromatherapy was something she’d dabbled in years ago, but put aside when she got too busy for it.  Sheridan decided it was the perfect use for the extra bedroom and the extra time she now had on her hands.  The initial problem with that was that when all of the supplies had been assembled, she was in dire need of storage.   The apothecary cabinet was the perfect solution.

The last vial of essential oil was being put in its assigned slot when the chimes of the front doorbell pealed throughout the apartment.

Wondering who in the world could be at her door, she wiped damp hands on her velour lounge pants and padded toward the short staircase.  Her socked feet slid on the polished wood steps and she clutched at the bannister to maintain her balance, swearing softly.  

I need socks with treads before I break my neck!

Karl and Suzy were pretty well the only ones who knew where she lived, Sheridan thought, slip-sliding through the kitchen on the glossy, polished floor.  She’d talked to Suzy earlier this morning.  Madison was still sick and they were staying in today, so it couldn’t be her.

Fully zipping the dusty purple hoodie that matched her pants, she stood on tiptoe to check the front door’s peephole.  There was a uniformed delivery man in the fifth floor foyer.

I didn’t order anything.

“Who is it?” she called through the locked door.

“Delivery for…  Sheridan King.”

“I’m not expecting a delivery.”  Philadelphia might not be as urban as New York, but she still knew not to open her door for just any big, burly stranger.

“I dunno if anybody expects boxes with big red bows on ‘em, lady.  That’s why they call ‘em presents.”

What the heck?

She released both deadbolts, but left the chain secured when she eased the door open a couple of inches. 

Sure enough, there was a big cardboard box that came up to mid-thigh on the deliveryman.  Perched on top of it was an obnoxiously large and fluffy red bow. 

“Told ya,” the man droned, impatiently tapping his clipboard.  “You want I should bring it inside?”

Not just yet.

“Who is it from?”

He sighed and impatiently flipped through the clipboard’s short sheaf of papers.  “Bon-gi-o-vi.  First initial J.”

Sheridan could use a fifty-gallon drum of that new calming lotion about now.  Jon had sent her a gift.  A big gift.  With a bow.

“Just a second.”  She closed the door and removed the chain before reopening it more fully. 

Tipping the dolly back on its wheels, the delivery guy rolled the box by her, disinterestedly asking, “Where ya want it?”

She indicated with a silent hand gesture for him to place it beside the long kitchen island.  As he scooted the dolly out from under it, she found a couple of bills in her wallet for a tip.

“Thank you.”

“Yep.  Happy Holidays, lady.”

Sheridan closed the door and secured the locks before quietly circling the box, trying to guess what might be inside.  Yes, it would be easier to just open the damn thing and find out, but she was half-afraid to.  She couldn’t begin to fathom what Jon might have thought appropriate to send to her after their unexpected meeting last night.

Not only was there a huge bow on the top, it was tied up with matching red ribbon.  She ran a finger under it.  Velvet ribbon.

Open it, already, before you drive yourself crazy.

Exhaling loudly, she extended a hand toward the bow and gave the end of the ribbon a firm tug.  That was all it took for it to slither into a pile of velvet spaghetti.  The lidded box was now completely bare of adornment and all markings.  It looked so much like one of those game show boxes from the old game shows.  All she had to do was lift the lid to see what she’d won.

Fully annoyed and impatient with herself, she jerked off the lid and jumped back as the sides fell away. 

My God, it is a game show.

There, appropriately enough in her kitchen floor, was a mini refrigerator.  It reminded her of college days, strongly resembling the one she and Suzy had in their dorm room. 

Why in the hell did he send me a refrigerator?  Isn’t there a card with this stupid thing?

The little refrigerator opened easily, but with an odd rattle.  It took all of a second for her to locate the source of the rattling.  The shelves and door rack were fully stocked with at least fifty small bottles of booze.

Oh.  My. Word.  It’s an honor bar!

A less hurried look revealed that, tucked in front of two bottles of tequila, was an envelope with her name neatly printed across the front.   Sheridan wasted no time in snatching the envelope up, and allowing the fridge to close while she turned it over in her hands.

It was just a plain white envelope, the size of which could contain an invitation or RSVP card. 

One red-nailed fingertip broke the seal, and Sheridan unintentionally held her breath while sliding the contents free.  The heavy white card was computer-printed in the same font as her name on the outside of the envelope.

“A friend once said that emptying the honor bar made me more likable.  I’m hoping to see that friend again real soon.  Call me.  ~JBJ” 

He had included a telephone number at the bottom.

Sheridan bit her lip and read the message again, this time more slowly.  Halfway through, her lip slid free when the corners of her mouth curled into an irrepressible smile. 

The man was clever.  She’d give him that. 

2 - Author, Author

Okay, Audra believes you all need a little more this first week so that you have something to sink your teeth into.  This is NOT my idea.  You know I don't believe in extra posts (I can't even type that with a straight face), but I respect my partner's judgment.  Enjoy the extra post... ;o)

Holy Mary, Mother of God.  This is not happening.

Sheridan nearly swallowed her tongue when she turned to find Jon standing behind her. 

That part of her life was never supposed to intersect with her ‘real’ life.  It was an aberration.  A tawdry vacation fling that was destined to remain a fond memory.

It certainly wasn’t supposed to be fucking standing in front of her with wicked promises threatening to spill out of that smug little smirk.

She locked her knees to keep them from buckling.

Denial, Sheridan.  Pretend you’ve never met him.  Surely to God he’s got enough class not to mention leaving bite marks all over you as souvenir of your Jamaican vacation.

A fierce shiver took hold of her spine and she irritably willed the accompanying nausea away.  She was going to have to open her mouth and speak before Suzanne and Karl started wondering what in the world was wrong with her.

“Hello, Mr. Bon Jovi,” she finally forced through stiff lips.  “What a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine, Ms. King.” 

The tension between her shoulder blades eased just a bit.  He was going to play along.  She still wanted to take that ‘I’ve seen and tasted every part of your body’ smirk and slap it off his face, though.

“Karl tells me you’d like to write my biography.”

The cocky grin may as well have been non-existent for all it meant to her after that little bombshell.  She turned on Karl, speaking through her gritted, barracuda-esque smile.

“You told him what?”

Great.  Now the guy was going to think she’d been plotting ways to hook back up with him since Jamaica, when that had been the furthest thing from her mind. 

Karl did have the good grace to look embarrassed, and was saved from his wife’s wrath by the buzzing of her cell phone.  “Pardon me for a moment,” Suzanne excused herself with a withering glare at her ‘better’ half.

“Well, I didn’t exactly say that, Jon.  I said I had an author that I thought would be perfect to write your biography.”  He chuckled a bit nervously, clearly realizing his plan wasn’t all that brilliant.  “Sheri didn’t really know the details of the project I wanted to line up for her.”

“So Sheri…”  Jon seemed to have trouble with the shortened version of her name.  “… didn’t know I was going to be here tonight?”

Dammit all to hell!  Jon does think I’ve been involved in some type of groupie espionage.  I’m clearing up that misconception right now.

“No.  I didn’t,” she interjected smoothly, her ingrained corporate skills finally rousing from the stupor his presence had induced.  “I thought being here tonight was my way of supporting Karl’s new project.  I had no idea there was an alternate agenda.”

Jon’s eyes sparked with adulterousness, calling an army of goose bumps to attention on her forearms.  “Maybe it was just Karma.”

“Karma might be a bitch, but right now it feels an awful lot like she’s my bitch.”  Sheridan heard it as plainly as if he’d spoken the words four seconds ago, instead of four months.  Her neck had to be a ridiculous shade of red by now. 

“Karl,” Suzanne beckoned plaintively, the phone still tucked against her ear.  “We have a problem.  Could you come here, please?”

Jon barely waited for Karl to join his wife before stepping close enough to Sheridan for her to feel the heat of his body.  “You look good… Sheri.” 

Her eyelids involuntarily fell shut in defense against his thumb discreetly scraping against the wildly fluttering pulse in her wrist.  Staunchly ignoring the nipples that had pebbled at the light touch, she coaxed heavy eyelids open and pushed out a breathy, “Sheridan.  Suzy and Karl are the only ones who call me Sheri.  And my family.”

He didn’t care about her nickname.

“You feel it, don’t you, baby?  The chemistry is still there.”  His words were a mere whisper against her cheek.  Nobody could possibly hear him, but Sheridan jerked as though he’d asked the question over a public address system. 

“Sheri, honey…”  Suzanne and Karl rejoined them, and her voice was soft with apology.  “My sitter just called.  Madison is sick with an ear infection and crying for Mommy, so I have to get back to her.  I know we were going to give you a ride home, and Karl still will, but do you want to stay for the whole party without me here?”

Jon leaned on his left foot, placing enough distance between them that no one would suspect he’d been sensually stroking her wrist only second before.  Sheridan couldn’t catch her breath, but she could always develop a sudden case of asthma to explain that.

God, yes, get me out of here.

“No, Suze.  I’d rather leave now with you.”

Suzanne frowned delicately.  “I’m going to have to make a stop.  The pharmacy is closed, so her pediatrician told me to go to the ER to get some antibiotics.  He supposed to call and let them know I’m coming, but it may take a while.  I hate for you to sit and wait.”

She’d do anything to get out of here and away from Mr. Pheromone.  The casual brush of his leg against her  long taffeta skirt, had the material brushing against her bottom.  She stiffened and rushed to assure her friend, “Oh, sweetie, that’s absolutely –“

“I’ll take her home,” Jon offered with a benign smile before she could assure Suzanne she would wait days, if necessary, just to get out of here.  Jon held up his coat.  “I was getting ready to go anyway, and I’ve got a car tonight.”

Damn him.

The irony of cursing a man’s chivalry was not lost on her, but she couldn’t let these two worlds collide.  She was a professional woman, not a groupie-on-call.  No matter how much his touch was making her hormones go haywire.

“Yeah.  Jon lives right here in SoHo,” Karl jumped on the bandwagon, giving his musician friend a friendly tap on the arm.  “Sheri lives in Tribeca.  Not too far out of your way, is it, buddy?”

The man’s smile was blindingly beautiful.  “No, not at all.”

Suzanne – dear, sweet Suzanne – wasn’t so easily swayed.  Sheridan’s face must have betrayed her horror and desperation, because Suzy’s brow puckered with concern.  “Is this okay with you, Sheri?  Karl’s known Jon for years.  I’m sure you’ll be safe with him, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Of course you’ll be safe!  Jon’s a helluva good guy!”

Gee, Karl, thanks.  Now if I refuse, I think your friend is a serial killer?

“Really,” Jon lifted his free hand to gently touch her elbow.  It was a completely impersonal gesture that felt excruciatingly intimate, even with the thin fabric that separated their skin.  “It’s no trouble.”

Sheridan was stuck between a rock and a hard place.  Get in the back of a chauffeured car for the short drive to her condo – alone, with Jon Bon-freaking-Jovi – or look like an ungrateful bitch.

Somehow she unclenched her jaw enough to produce a believable smile of gratitude.  “If you truly don’t mind, then I would appreciate the lift, Mr. Bongiovi.”

Triumph lit the spectacular blue eyes, but his reply was an easy, “It’s Jon, and I truly don’t mind.”

Lovely.

“Then I’ll just go fetch my coat.  Suzy, do you want me to get yours, too?”

“No, I’ll come too.” 

They were only feet away when Suzanne quietly asked, “Are you sure you’re okay with this?  I realize you don’t know Jon, but he’s a pretty respectable guy from what I understand.”

Oh, I know him.  I even know him.

“Suzy, it will be fine.  You get Madi’s medicine and go to her.”  She gave her friend a conspiratorial grin as they shrugged into their coats.  “If I have to, I’ll jump out of the car and walk home.  It’s not that far.”

Suzanne laughed, as Sheridan had known she would.  That had happened to one or the other of them on at least one date during college.  After a while it had become part of their criteria in choosing new guys.   Any first date that required a trip on the freeway was a no-go.  They couldn’t very well jump at sixty miles an hour.

Offering her friend a reassuring hug, Sheridan requested, “Give Madi a hug for me, okay?  I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

After that, there was a brief push through the throng of party-goers in order to get back to Jon.  He was standing alone, Karl having drifted off to speak to one or the other of his guests. 

“I wasn’t sure you were coming back,” he murmured, situating the black wool coat atop his black t-shirt and gesturing for her to lead the way.  “You looked like a scared deer there for a minute.”

“Why would I be afraid of you?”

They snaked through the long room, and curved around the bar before they were able to reach the staircase tucked into the far corner.  Sheridan’s foot stuttered on the first step and Jon steadied her with a firm hand.    

Before releasing her arm, he bent close to speak in her ear. “Not of me.  Of yourself.”

Sheridan blinked unseeingly, feeling much like that deer he’d referenced a moment ago.  She wasn’t afraid of herself.  She was afraid of…  It didn’t matter what she was afraid of.  He was wrong.  That’s all that mattered.

Climbing the steps without another word, she was about to make the turn to that would take them into the main part of the club when strong fingers twined into hers.  “I asked the driver to meet us at the side door.”

It wasn’t her intention to be a bitch, but it didn’t stop her from snatching her hand away as though she’d been burned.  Her hasty action earned her a knowingly arched eyebrow as he held open the heavy glass door for her.  Awaiting them at the curb was a black SUV, whose door Jon also held like a gentleman.

While trying to be aloof and regal, Sheridan's heel caught on a crack in the sidewalk, sending her stumbling.  Two strong arms kept her more or less upright, but she found her cheek pressed against a masculine, wool-covered chest.  Before she could stop herself, she inhaled and found that she was lost in his scent for a moment.  Familiar, yet not, it conjured images of hot sex and had her skin crawling with anticipatory desire.

God, he smells so good.  

Offering a polite nod of thanks, she disengaged herself and stepped up into the vehicle, giving Jon her address when he asked for it with a knowing smile.  That smile meant he knew exactly where her mind had gone.  He knew she was still attracted to him - in a big way.

Jon relayed the address to the driver and gracefully slid onto the dark leather seat beside her.  When the door slammed shut, he let loose with a little growl from the back of his throat.

“Sheridan…”  He rasped, pulling her close.

There was no time to do anything except gasp with surprise, and he took immediate advantage by sliding his tongue in her open mouth.

Her gasp lowered to a growl that matched his as he assaulted her taste buds, and the ingrained memory of his flavor flooded her mind.   Jon tasted every bit as good as he had that night in Jamaica – hot , spicy man seasoned with the sweet/tart taste of wine.  

“Jon…”  His name was no more than a whimper when his hand ruthlessly plundered its way beneath her skirt.  That whimper blossomed into lingering mewl when he landed upon the strip of bare thigh just above the fine silk of her stocking.  She couldn’t keep her wayward fingers from fisting into his hair.

“Christ,” he growled against her throat as his fingers snaked higher.  “I thought I dreamed how hot you were.  How hot you made me.”

The gutturally groaned observation was the dash of cold water Sheridan so desperately needed.

She wrenched herself away, palms resting against his chest to ensure a safe distance.  There was a driver in the front seat, for God’s sake.  Making out like a teenager in the backseat would be indisputably unacceptable even if she had any intention of taking this further.  This was going no further, and therefore made their behavior a total abomination 

“No.  Stop.”  She kept her voice soft, but made certain to convey the sincerity. 

Jon allowed her to pull away, but his hand was still firmly entrenched beneath her dress, and that damn thumb of his was wreaking havoc with the soft skin of her inner thigh.  Headlights passing in the darkened streets streamed across his lust-filled eyes.   “Why?  You want me.  You know you do.”

“That isn’t the point.  Our one night was never supposed to go beyond being a fond memory.”  Sheridan grasped his wrist and gently, but deliberately, dislodged his hand from her thigh.  She wasn’t this woman.

“Not until Karma intervened.”

Her hormones were screaming that she was the queen of all fools.  Battery operated boyfriends and self-pleasure-vation couldn’t hold a candle to the sex she’d had with Jon.   It was likely that nothing ever would, but that was just too bad. 

The vehicle rolled to a stop and Sheridan immediately reached for the door handle.  A car passed, its tires humming on the wet pavement, and Sheridan looked back over her shoulder.  It would be so much easier if he weren’t so damn handsome.  “You gave me one unforgettable night.  Let’s keep it that way.”

She silently slid from the backseat, slamming the door on his protest.  High heels tapping on the asphalt, Sheridan strode purposefully around the Escalade to the front door of her building.   She pretended not to hear him call after her, and scuttled into the safe, familiar haven of her lobby, greeting the doorman as she passed.

1 - The Greenhouse

Jon stepped from the back of the the hired Escalade, slamming the door and executing a slow sprint from the dark street to the front of the club.  Typically, he would have walked the short distance from his SoHo apartment.  It was only eight blocks or so to the Greenhouse, but the cold, December drizzle had encouraged him to indulge in a driver.

Under the shelter of the leafy awning, he shook the moisture from his sleeve onto the uniquely shaped bush standing at the entrance.  Each sculpted segment was draped with little white lights in deference to the holiday season.

With a quick shake of his head and shoulders, more of the droplets were dislodged from his wool coat.  Feeling it was as dry as he was going to get, he sighed and grabbed the door handle. 

I’d rather be home tonight.

That desire was moot, though.  He’d been invited to a book launch party by an old friend, and there was no way he could back out now.  The RSVP had been returned just after Labor Day, and Karl had contacted him earlier this week to reconfirm. 

At least I don’t have to sing for my supper this time around.

Glancing around the wildly lit first floor of the club, he searched for the signs that would point him to the lower level, where the private event was being held.  It only took about ten seconds to give up and ask a waitress. 

Jon ducked his head and moved unnoticed through the small, Sunday night crowd.  The dark-headed girl had told him he would find the staircase in the far corner, and she was right.   It was only a dozen or so steps until he arrived in the lush tunnel of leaves. 

The Greenhouse took its eco-friendly status seriously, and the biggest part of the décor down here was plant based.  There were leaf covered walls and ceiling, and a dozen or so cocktail tables with mossy stumps inside.  The bar was similarly designed.

He’d just given his wine order to a passing server when Karl emerged from the sea of guests, his face alight with a genuine smile

“Jon!” he greeted with a hearty handshake.  “You made it!”

“Karl, buddy, how ya doin’?” He gestured to the fairly thick crowd milling about.  There were probably a hundred and fifty people or better gathered in clumps of different sizes along the length of the room..  “Looks like a nice turnout.  Are you pleased?”

The other man’s salt and pepper head bobbed enthusiastically.  “Yeah, yeah, thrilled!  Isn’t this place great?  I thought it was the perfect complement to the book.”

Jon had a vague recollection that the book was a fiction piece set in the jungle somewhere.  Some kind of mercenary action novel, if remembered rightly.  That was not his brand of reading material, but Karl was clearly excited about it, and he’d known the guy for years. 

Karl Fenning had worked for one of the big entertainment magazines back in the day.  It hadn’t been one of the cheesy ones like Tiger Beat or Teen Idol, but it wasn’t Rolling Stone either.  Circus was a magazine that had been dedicated to rock music, and Jon’s band was fortunate enough to be featured in its pages a time or two.

On one of those occasions, Karl had been the reporter doing the article, and they’d hit it off pretty well.  The interview itself had been an enjoyable one for a change, seeing as the questions hadn’t been centered on his hair styling regime or the color of his spandex pants.  Karl had actually wanted to talk music, and he was one of the few reporters at that point in Jon’s career who did.

When the article had published, Jon had been so pleased with the outcome, that he gave Karl a call and took him out for a beer.  They’d been in touch off and on through the years since then.

When Circus shut down in 2006, Karl decided to try his hand at fiction.  To date, he’d had three or four books on the New York Times bestseller list, all based upon the adventures of a mercenary.  It was the same mercenary who would be appearing in the new book.

“Yeah,” Jon agreed, accepting his wine with a nod of thanks as the waitress turned sideways to work her way back to the bar.  “I’ve been here a couple of times.  It’s a cool place.”

“Honey?”  An chic redhead brought her hand to rest on Karl’s shoulder, with an apologetic smile to Jon.  “You have people asking for you.”

“Gimme just a minute.”  Karl’s eyes rolled to the ceiling.  “Jon, I don’t think you’ve met my wife, Suzanne.  Sweetheart, this is Jon.”

Her smile went from apologetic to polite and she offered a hand.  “Hello.  It’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

Jon barely had time to murmur a polite response before Suzanne was insistently prodding her husband.  “There’s a group of men over here that want to talk to you about the book.”

“Sweetheart, I’m about to be in the middle of an important discussion here.”  Bushy eyebrows lifted and he gave her a look so pointed, Jon was surprised it didn’t bring blood. 

“Honey… I can ask about their kids, but I can’t talk about pipe bombs and assassins.  Please talk to them.”  Again, she flashed the politely detached smile.  “You’ll excuse him for a moment, won’t you Jon?”

Having been on the receiving end of that type of ‘nudging’ more than once, Karl had his sympathy.  He crinkled his forehead with sincerity, knowing it didn’t do anybody any good to piss off a man’s wife.  “Sure.  Take all the time you need.”  He held up the still-full glass of Pinot Grigio.  “I’m just going to enjoy this glass of wine and head out.”

“No!”  Why did his friend look so horrified?  “Please promise me you’re gonna stay for a while.  I have something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Afraid that he knew exactly what Karl wanted to talk about, Jon inwardly cringed.  “Yeah, okay.  I’ll hang around.”  What else could he say?  Suzanne was damn-near glaring daggers at him, trying to break her husband away.

“Great!  I’ll be back in just a minute or two.”  He gestured toward Jon’s glass with animated hands.  “Drink up!  Relax and enjoy!”

Because spending the evening in a room of people I don’t know, but who know me is the way I wanna spend my Sunday evening.

Of course, he didn’t say that out loud. He just lifted his wine in salute and took a drink.  A big drink.  Then he signaled the waitress for another while he found an inconspicuous corner to disappear into.

Draping his coat over the back of a booth, he leaned against it and stared unseeingly into the crowd.

He had a feeling he knew what Karl wanted to talk about, and wasn’t looking forward to the conversation.  The last time they’d spoken, Karl had casually asked Jon if he would ever consider doing an authorized biography. 

The answer was no.  Hell no.  The televised Biography thing had been bad enough.  The only redeeming qualities were that it wasn’t Jon doing all the talking.  He could call bullshit and refuse to answer and they moved on to talking to his brothers, parents and the band.

An actual biography was out of the question.  It had been a lot of years since anyone got that deeply immersed in his life.  He had no interest in opening The Circle for membership again.

Trading an empty glass for full, Jon again nodded his thanks at the waitress and tucked one hand into the pocket of his dark-washed jeans.  Black t-shirt, jeans and boots was about as formal as he’d felt like going tonight.  Being a musician afforded him a pass on the suits and ties for most events.  Tonight, he took the pass.

Unlike the majority of the women in this room.  They were decked out in all the varied degrees of ultra-feminine finery, like it was some kind of fancy ball instead of a book launch party.  A book launch party in the basement of a nightclub, at that. 

Mature women and young girls alike proudly displayed their short, short skirts and clingy dresses bedazzled with an abundance of sparkles and shimmers.  All of their finer assets were on display and Jon felt a dormant desire begin to stir.  A man would have to be dead not to have a physical reaction to the blonde in the red sequins.

The only notable exception to the ‘do me’ dress policy seemed to be Suzanne and the blonde she was talking to. 

Suzanne was wearing a modest cocktail dress that was neat and tasteful in its muted shade of merlot.  The woman she was with wore an inky black dress that flared out around her calves.  It had a very retro feel to it – timelessly classic with its short black jacket.  He couldn’t see the front of her, or the dress, but he assumed it discreetly covered everything of importance.  The only dash of flamboyance was her blood-red high heels. 

He drained his second serving of wine, placing the empty glass with a passing server and requesting another.

Those blood-red heels reminded him of some blood-red fingertips that had inflicted some damage on him a few months ago.

Sheridan.

He still couldn’t think about that hot little hellcat without a wicked smile.  Temptation haunted him for days and weeks after their tropical interlude.  How could he forget?  Every rainstorm throughout the fall was a reminder. 

He could have bribed the hotel to find out the contact information, or at least the last name, of his penthouse neighbor, but he hadn’t.  It had been an incredible night, after which she vanished without a trace.  Karma hadn’t seen fit to intervene, so Jon chalked it up to a pleasant memory and left the woman with her privacy intact. 

“Jon!”  Karl rushed up beside him, disrupting the memory before pausing to order himself another drink from the server who delivered Jon’s drink.  Karl always seemed to be bundles of barely contained energy, making Jon understand why he made people nervous.  “Sorry that took so long.  I know you’re a busy man, and I appreciate you taking the time to stop by tonight.” 

“Nah, man, that’s cool.  I always like to support my friends in their projects.”

Bad choice of words, Jon.

“I’m really glad to hear you say that,” Karl bull-rushed into the opening Jon had left.  “You know I kind of asked you about a biography.”

The white wine swirled in the glass while Jon dug for his cache of diplomacy.  “Yeah, Karl, about that…”

“I think it would be a great thing for you to do, especially during this spot before you hit the recording studio again.  You’ve got a little down time, and you know those fans of yours would go nuts over this kind of thing.  Inside the secret ‘Circle’.”  Karl actually used the air quotes and lifted his eyebrows like it was all some high school joke. 

“I’m paid very well to live in the public eye, Karl, and I do it without resentment.  But… that also makes me a man who values the private side of his life more than most.  I thought you were happy with your mercenary fiction?”

“Me?”  The other  man’s palms went to his chest in a gesture of surprise before snatching his drink and tossing back a quick guzzle of gin and tonic.  “I’m not asking for me.  There’s a woman I know.  A personal crisis and whatnot has caused her to toss aside her very lucrative business.  She’s picked up a couple of hobbies, but now she’s looking into becoming a writer.  She’s very good.  Fresh, honest, engaging.  Exactly the type of person you would want on this project.”

“There is no ‘this project’,” Jon reminded him.  “No offense, but if I were to consider it, it sure as hell wouldn’t be with a rookie writer.  Since when do you pimp out other authors, anyway?”

He swallowed with a grimace.  “Truthfully, she’s Suzanne’s best friend from college and just moved to the city.  My lovely wife has been all over my ass, ‘encouraging me’ to help get her started on this path.  I swear Jon, I’ve read a couple of her pieces.  She really is good.”

“Mnnhh….  I’m sorry about your wife being on your ass, but I can’t see it happening, man.  Not even with an established writer.”

“Christ.”  His friend let loose with a gusty sigh of defeat.  “It was worth a shot.  Hey.”  Bushy eyebrows shot up with inspiration.  “Would you at least meet her and pretend to consider it?  Like you haven’t already done enough by just being here, but this would really be a huge favor to me.”

What could it hurt?  He played nice with strangers all the time.  What was one more mini meet and greet before he crawled off to the solitude of his Mercer Street penthouse.

“Yeah.  Yeah, sure,” he conceded with a reasonably sincere smile.

It was enough to earn him a series of hearty thumps on the shoulder.  “You’re the best, Bongiovi.  Seriously.  She’s right over here talking to Suzanne.  It won’t take just a minute and will keep me out of the dog house, if you know what I mean.”

“Mm.”  Jon snagged his coat and trailed willingly behind the other man.  It was ironic that, of all the women in attendance, he was being led to the woman in the modest black dress, shining like an elegant beacon in the room.

Allowing himself to lag a bit behind, Jon waited for Karl to step between the two women with a cheery, “Sheri, I’ve got someone I want to introduce you to.”

Almost in slow motion, the woman in black pivoted on one heel to face Karl.  With the next breath, she gracefully swiveled her head to meet Jon’s eyes. 

He knew the instant she recognized him.  The greeting died with a pitiful squeak on her lips and her classically beautiful features froze in astonishment.  If that weren’t enough, her neck and chest flushed a shade that nearly matched her blood-red shoes.

Karma.  I missed you. It’s good to see you again, baby.

“Sheridan King, meet Jon Bon Jovi,” Karl made the introductions, completely unaware that the lady was flabbergasted.  Or maybe he was aware.  Maybe he thought that’s how all women reacted to meeting a rock star.  “Jon, this is the writer I was telling you about.  Sheridan King.”

A slow grin curled Jon’s lips, heated memories stoking a fire that had been banked for four long months. 

His evening had just gotten infinitely more exciting.

“Hello, Sheridan…”

New chapters will post on Monday and Thursday.  Next update: Thursday, September 27!

It's Almost Time!!!

In less than 24 hours the first chapter of After the Rain will post!  Are you excited??  We are!!

While you're waiting, why don't you revisit Jon and Sheridan's first meeting in Perfect Storm??

♥blush & Audra

Good News!

Production is coming along pretty well, so we have decided to be brave and move our first post date forward a whole week.   Instead of October 1st, After the Rain will kick off on Monday, September 24th.  Updates will take place twice a week, every Monday and Thursday at around noon, Eastern time. 

Mark your calendars, friends.  That's only 5 days away!  Eeeep!  Hope you're as excited as WE are...

Can't wait to 'see' you then!

♥blush  & Audra

It's coming!!

We're trying to get a head start before posting begins, so check back here on October 1 for the first installment of After the Rain.  In the meantime, feel free to check out the prequel to ATR - Perfect Storm.