19 - Hell Hath No Fury

The taxi stopped abruptly in front of the vacant storefront in Brooklyn, and Sheridan’s thoughts jarred as loudly as the plexiglass divider between the front and back seats.  She was still a bit stunned to have gone from being the object of Jon’s rabid desire to being yesterday’s news in the blink of an eye.  Maybe the rasp of a zipper was more appropriate?

Naturally she expected it to happen at some point.  Maybe even in the immediately foreseeable future, but not less than twenty minutes after a quaking orgasm.  The abruptness left her dumbfounded, and it was going to take longer than a cross-town cab ride to make her peace with the slightly used and dirty feeling she’d been left with. 

“Dat be twelve fifty,” the cabbie announced, slamming the vehicle into Park. 

Sheridan dutifully passed over the requisite fare, along with a small tip, and slid out into the crisp December morning.  The wind immediately cut through her leather jacket and, shivering despite the sunshine, she pushed her hands into her pockets.  Stepping onto the curb in front of the weathered brick building, she looked first left, and then right, searching for the man she was supposed to be meeting. 

There was no sign of Rick Ellington.

Rick was a Londoner who had been her personal massage instructor since September.  An affable man, he had a way with people and was looking to expand his massage school from the tiny downstairs of his Murray Hill brownstone into a more formal space.  It would allow him to double his amount of pupils – Sheridan was one of six – and, if he could find an ideal enough spot, he also wanted to try his hand at opening a small day spa. 

This particular property was one he got wind of earlier in the week.  At her lesson on Tuesday, he’d been quite excited and asked her along to look it over despite her lack of real estate savvy.  It seemed he was readily willing to substitute her business experience and age for a realtor’s license.

That’s because he’s barely more than thirty.  He assumes you’re aged and wise.

“’Allo, Love.”

She turned at the familiar British accent, forcing a smile at the handsome man who had slipped up behind her.  “Hello, yourself, Rick.”

“Som’thin’ the mattah?” he asked, his piercing blue eyes – brighter than Jon’s – narrowed beneath a handsomely crinkled brow.  “You seem to be a bit outta sorts.”

The professional smile of interest she’d used for her entire career locked easily in place.  “Not at all.  Just eager to see the treasure you’ve found.  I’m still not quite sure how I’m qualified to judge, but eager to see, anyway.”

“Aw, c’mon, Love.  I think you’ve likely turned vast, empty warehouses into cozy bookstores.  You’ll see the potential – or lack thereof – in a flash, I’m convinced.”  His artfully mussed inky-dark head swiveled from left to right, inspecting the smattering of pedestrians on the block.  “If the bloody realtor will ever get here to unlock the door.  Is it nine yet?”

 “It just now turned nine.”

“Ahhh…  And there’s the lovely Marla, right on time.”

His brilliant smile was astonishingly white in the midst of his stubbled face, and Sheridan could objectively see the truth behind the whispered comments of his younger female pupils.   She’d heard the term ‘dirty hot’ more times in the last three months than she’d ever heard in her life. 

“Good morning!” the perky and petite Marla greeted first Rick, then Sheridan with a firm handshake.  “Are you ready to take a look at this fabulous piece of property?  It’s just been waiting for the right tenant to make it the focal point of the neighborhood.”

“Well, let’s see what we can do about that then, shall we?” Rick charmed even as he put a guiding hand under Sheridan’s elbow to escort her in the open door.

It took only minutes to get through the downstairs area, and Sheridan tuned out Perky Marla and her ‘wall here, wall there’ chatter as they did so.  Rick wanted to lease the place, he could act like he cared about what she was saying while Sheridan let her mind wander. 

The place could be nice.  She could envision the soothing colors of the ocean in here – seafoam green and a rainbow of aquas and turquoises.  Throw in a few rich, green potted palms and the scents of the ocean and it could be a virtual oasis in Brooklyn.

 “And then there’s the upstairs…”

As Marla scuttled up the steps, and Sheridan prepared to follow, Rick dipped his head to speak in ear. “So whaddaya think, Love?”

“Downstairs is nice.  Therapy rooms would go up easily without feeling cramped and still leave plenty of space for a small communal area.  You’ll put your classrooms on the second floor?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed, joining her on the top step and giving her a sly smile.  “And the lab.”

Sheridan tipped her head in confusion. “Lab?”

“Oh!  You must be talking about this area back here,” Marla supplied helpfully guiding them into what looked a lot like a kitchenette.  “The former tenant used it for a break room, I believe.”

“It would double quite nicely as an aromatherapy lab.  I was hopin’ to convince ya to concoct lotions and potions for me, yeah?”

At Sheridan’s look of distress, Marla discreetly disappeared back to the lower level, leaving them to talk in private.

“Rick, I don’t have my certification yet.  Even if I wanted to, which can’t say that I do, it wouldn’t be possible.   You can’t use amateur mixtures on your clients.”

“But ya aren’t that far from it, and ya could get your clinical experience in the spa.  Whaddaya say, Sheridan?”

The offer was flattering, but she was pursuing aromatherapy and massage as hobbies, not as a new careers.  Money was not an issue, and she didn’t have to work – didn’t want to work for that matter.  Sheridan wanted to be open and available to new adventures.

She shook her head firmly.  “I’m sorry, but I’m not interested in that kind of commitment.  I’ve kind of dedicated this part of my life as the time to live.  To have fun.”

Your fun is over, remember?

She frowned, her earlier numbness becoming annoyance.  No.  It wasn’t.  Just because Jon Bon Jovi had his fill of Sheridan-fun, didn’t mean that it was all used up.  So what that it had taken three years after her divorce before she went out on a date?   The next time would be easier, and she would know better than to make herself so readily ‘available’ for extra-curricular activities.

No more slut-puppying.

As though reading her mind, Rick’s grin turned devilish.  “Then let me show ya some fun, yeah?  Go out with me t’morrow night.  I know this fab Mexican place.  Best bloody tequila in all o’ New York.”

Okay, so she had just been mentally tooting her own horn.  That’s what a girl did when a man tossed her over, right?  Pump up her ego by convincing herself she was completely irresistible to the opposite sex.  It didn’t mean she expected it to be proven in the next five minutes.

“You’re asking me out?”

“Hell, ya.”  He stepped in close and smiled down into her face.  “I’ve been wantin’ to for ages now, but you’re always so serious that I didn’t know what ya’d say.  But since you brought up fun…”

Rick was a nice guy, but there was no attraction there for Sheridan.  Was that a good thing or a bad thing?  It would at least help keep her resolve about not slut-puppying.

He doesn’t carry the same sizzle for you as Jon.  Big deal.   He sizzles fine for a lot of women, and it wouldn’t hurt your wounded pride to be seen out with the young ‘dirty hot’ guy.   

“I have been craving margaritas lately,” she said slowly, warming to the idea.  “Do they have good margaritas?”

“Fabulous,” he crooned, ice-blue eyes twinkling gleefully.  “But the tequila is so good, ya must drink it in straight shots, Love.  I promise it’s an experience ya won’t forget.”

❧❧❧

“What are you scowling about?” Dorothea asked curiously standing in the now-open front entrance of his former home.  The home he still used from time-to-time, because of the custom-designed studio he had built on the property.  It was part of the reason he’d come by before the kids got home from school – to drop a couple of tracks on the new song he and Richie had written this week.  And the fact that Dorothea had asked him to, for whatever reason.

“Was I?” 

Jon hadn’t realized he was scowling.  He knew he was tapping his foot, mostly because that damn Nickelback song that was playing when he came out of the tunnel into Jersey.   It was one of their new ones and, while he’d heard it before, he couldn’t remember the lyrics screaming at him quite so loudly before today. 

“…You know, she's got everything I want, but all rolled into one

Gotta get me some

God almighty! Look at that body

Flickers like a sticker on a new Ferrari

She's a scene from a Baywatch rerun

Hotter than a barrel on a squeezed machine gun

Well, she can get lower than a Maserati

Never seen somebody move that way…”

He was annoyed that the words made him think of Sheridan.  And annoyed that they messed with the way his pants fit.  About the time he’d been forced to adjust the crotch for the second time, he angrily flipped the damn station on the satellite radio. 

That’s probably what he’d been thinking about when Dot answered the door.

“You were,” she confirmed, stepping back to allow him entrance.  “Wouldn’t she get out of your bed this morning?”

“I dunno what the hell you’re talking about.”

His ex-wife’s whiskey-colored gaze flicked back over her shoulder with scorn.  “Whoever you fucked last night.  It hasn’t been so long that I can’t recognize what you look like after an all-nighter.”

“So what did you wanna talk to me about?” he changed the subject without answering, draping his jacket over one of the chairs and leaning against the counter with his arms folded.  They were still on good terms, but there was no way in hell he was discussing his sex life with Dorothea.

“You probably don’t remember her name anyway.  Just another notch in the bedpost.”

The irony of those words were not lost on him, but he merely flattened his mouth and kept it firmly shut.   

Dorothea handed him a cup of dark, lightly sweetened coffee and leaned her back against the island so they were facing one another.  Her normally relaxed, Zen, features went from disdained to serious and sent a frission of worry through Jon.  Something was wrong.  Something besides her contempt for his love ‘em and leave ‘em lifestyle.

“What’s the matter, Dottie?”

She sighed, shaking her head.  “Maybe nothing, maybe something.  I’m worried about Romeo.”

That had his attention.  The world and everything else in it ceased to matter when there was something going on with one of his kids.  If there was a problem, he would fix it or kill himself trying.

“Why?  What’s going on?”

She pulled a frown as though considering her words.  “This is the first Christmas since the divorce, and he doesn’t seem to be getting that it’s not going to be the same as last year.  He keeps commenting on how it’s the best day of the year because Daddy will be home again and everything will be like it used to be.”

“Jesus.”  His heart tightened into a hard knot in his chest.  All the kids had been coping so well up until this point, that something like this had never been a possibility on his radar.

Smug, pro-active parents that they were, he and Dorothea had been patting themselves on the back for having all the kids see counselors during and after the divorce.  Stephanie and Jesse had only gone a few times, but the two younger kids still went. 

“Have you asked Dr. Rennicke about it?”

“I have.  She seems to think it’s perfectly normal.  Since neither of us is dating anyone, Romeo has nothing to compel him to change his expectations.”

“So you’re gonna find a boyfriend to make this easier?”  He sure as hell wasn’t going to be having a girlfriend anytime soon.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Jon.  No.  We’re supposed to gently reinforce that things won’t be the same by reminding him of the new plans.”

The problem was that there weren’t any new plans. Again, being the smug, pro-active parents that they were, he and Dorothea had decided it would be best to keep things pretty well the same this year.  They assumed it would be an easier transition for the kids.

The current plans were for him to spend the night on Christmas Eve here at the house – in the guest room – and be with them all on Christmas morning, just as he always was.  Then he would pile the kids into the car and go to his parents’ house to do the family thing, possibly bringing Dorothea along if she decided that’s what she wanted to do.

“Well aren’t we just fucking brilliant?”

“Aren’t we though?” she agreed with a grimace.  “And I’m afraid if we start changing everything this close to Christmas, it’s going to make it worse.”

“Fuck,” Jon sighed.  “I’ll talk to Romey this weekend.”