21 - Body Shots

The night sky was twinkling with the lights of the city, and the residents of New York were bustling about, full of an equal share of good holiday cheer and bah-humbug.  Sheridan found herself somewhere in between as her cherry-suede boot angled out of the taxi in front of Mexican Radio.

While Rick paid the cabbie, she straightened her matching suede jacket and silently assessed the restaurant with the “best bloody tequila in all o’ New York”.  It wasn’t much more than a drearily painted exterior that contrasted against the cheery fiesta-style ambience seeping through the condensation that hazed the front windows.

Twenty-something men and women ebbed in and out of the weathered door, merriment dancing around them with an enthusiasm reminiscent of Speedy Gonzales. 

“Whaddaya think, Love?” 

Sheridan accepted the proffered hand and joined him on the curb with a valiant smile.  “I think it looks like fun.”

In reality, a root canal would be more fun, she realized upon stepping into the boisterous bar/restaurant. What had she been thinking by accepting this invitation?  She was a good ten or fifteen years older than all these people.

And my date.  I’m too old to date. 

Rick just chuckled and found them a tiny high-topped table close to the bar.  “Fun doesn’t begin to cover it.  You’ll never f’get your first night at Mexican Radio.  Or never remember it.  I get those confused.”

If she wasn’t the luckiest woman in the world, she didn’t know who was, Sheridan thought caustically when she heard a rejoicing cry from the bar.  She settled her denim-clad derriere on the stool, wiping damp palms over the black lace-appliqued pattern that decorated her jeans before putting her phone on the scarred, wooden tabletop.  It was one of the few times she was more than happy not to be carrying a purse. 

“Whaddaya wanna start with ta drink?”  he asked loudly over the pulsing dance music, his grin purely feral.  Dirty hot did not compensate for the evil wickedness lighting those pale blue eyes.  This man was having way too much fun orchestrating her alcoholic demise.

“Um.  A margarita?”

Her naiveté gave him more cause for amusement.

“Love, there is no such thing as a plain margarita ‘round here.”  He swung onto the table’s second stool and shoved the salsa-speckled menu toward her.  “There’s the X-File, Short Wave, Transistor….”

Mexican Radio.  Radio-themed margaritas.  Cute.

“Or…” he enticed.  “Ya could just go ahead and sign up for yer Tequila Club membership.”

“What’s that?”

He flipped over the drink menu and pointed to the back.  “Twenty-one dif’rent varieties of tequila for yer drinkin’ pleasure.  After you’ve had ‘em all, they give you a complimentary snifter of their very expensive Gran Patron Bordeos.  Killer stuff.”

“I don’t know – “ Her protest was cut short by another raucous cheer from the bar.  “What are they doing?”

“Body shots,” was his triumphant proclamation.  “Lick a little salt off yer hand, take the shot from a navel, waistband or cleavage, then suck a little lime to chase it.”

Oh, hell no.

When she had first gotten dressed tonight – in yet another fitted black turtleneck – she had cursed Jon’s sharp teeth.  The persistent purple bites had kept her from wearing a v-necked sweater.  Now she was grateful.  Nobody was going to be taking shots from her cleavage in a turtleneck, thank God.

“C’mon…  Best bloody tequila in New York, remember?”

Why are you here if you’re not going to at least try and have fun? 

“Fine,” she acquiesced, tucking the menu away and slipping out of her jacket with intent to enjoy herself.  “Tequila club it is.  But no body shots!”

Rick shook his head with a laugh.  “We’ll see about that.”

❧❧❧

Jon let the soft gray cotton of his favorite NY Giants shirt slide over his damp body with a sigh.  It had been a long damn day.  Jesse was still up, no doubt, but Jake and Romeo were in bed.  His gym-short covered butt hit the bed and he leaned into the headboard with a grunt, crossing his ankles without bothering to get under the covers.

Romeo was still determined that his Christmas family reunion would take place, but they’d managed to have a decent evening despite his stubbornness.  No matter how many alternatives Jon offered, the boy wanted Christmas morning in his house, with his Mommy and Daddy.  Nothing else would do. 

Throwing all sense of shame to the wind, Jon had even trotted out the six foot rat and a trip to Disney World.  He thought for a hot-second it was going to work – until Romeo said they would have to check with Mommy and see if it was okay.  Because, of course, she would be coming with them. 

Was it really worth the fight, Jon wondered?  Would it really be horrible to give the kid the Christmas he wanted?

Enough parenting shit for today.  It’s time to think about something light and fun – like the news.

A soft click had the flat-screen television emerging from its hidden cabinet and, noting the time, Jon bypassed CNN for the local ten o’clock news. 

He roughly scrubbed both hands over the stubbled face, that he hadn’t bothered shaving today, and sighed.  It was embarrassing how much of a news junkie he was sometimes.  What most people would consider stressful with the dire state of the world, economy and humanity, he found relaxing. 

Knowledge is power and all that shit.

“Today there was a special event at the Upper East Side Library, and our Anna Martinez was there…”

The library.  I should’ve taken the kids there today.

Thirty seconds later, upon seeing Sheridan’s smiling face on his television screen, Jon repeated the words to himself.  This time, however, the thought was flavored with a colorful expletive or two. 

Yesterday he’d only thought of her a couple of times and, despite Richie’s call earlier this evening, he had still kept her at bay.  Now, though, with her smiling face in his bedroom, speaking cheerily about volunteering at the local library…?

He couldn’t help but think about her.

She was impressive in front of the camera – relaxed, composed and well-spoken.  There was no doubt of her sincere passion for the reading program that she spoke so highly of.  It was a wider look into her public persona that he’d gotten a glimpse of the other night, and it intrigued Jon.

That intrigue didn’t stop him from wondering what kind of bra she was hiding under that very conservative sweater – that concealed her neck – and jacket.  Surprisingly, it wasn’t an obsessive thought, but more of a passing curiosity.  It said a lot about her on-camera presence that he was more enamored of what she was saying than what she was wearing.

The short segment ended, and he snapped the television off with annoyance.  Karma was no longer his bitch.  In fact, he was pretty sure she had just given him a Jersey salute – loud and clear.

You fucked up, big boy.

From the beginning, his arrogance had him ignoring the innate knowledge that she was more than a casual romp in the sack.  Hell, her pronounced reluctance to jump back into that sack at the first opportunity was a blazing testimonial in and of itself. 

So what were the chances that the hottest sex of his life came wrapped up in a woman he could admire and respect? 

It was time for Jon to do something he despised. 

Swinging his feet to the floor, he padded into the office space just outside his bedroom and flipped on the lamp.  He dropped into the desk chair with a slight squeak and whirled it around to reach for the tawdry tool that he never thought he would bring himself to use.

He grunted in self-disgust as the screen flared to life. 

Welcome to the other side.

Vowing never to admit this to anyone, Jon used two fingers to type Sheridan’s name into the Google search box and curiously scoured the results…

❧❧❧

“’Ere ya go, Love!” Rick spoke loudly in her ear to be heard over the music and the shot glasses plopped down onto the table, tequila sloshing over the side.  Sheridan thanked him with a half-hearted smile.  She hadn’t enjoyed the first two shots, so there was no reason to expect to enjoy these. 

How could she when the damn things weren’t doing their job?  Rather than magically transforming her into some kind of carefree party girl, the booze was sucking her into a bout of melancholy.  She was a forty-year-old business woman having a midlife crisis.  She didn’t belong here.  She belonged in a nice, quiet restaurant with overpriced food and well-aged wine.  Or an actual margarita.

At the very least, she should be doing shots in the privacy of her own home.

Or Jon’s.

Things had been so easy with him.  This?  This was not easy.

“Come on, girl, slam it back!” came from the blonde, buxom Heidi who, along with her boyfriend – Raoul? – had joined them a bit ago.    That was after they had already been joined by another couple – Missy and Drake.   The growing group of revelers that were young enough to – theoretically – be her children didn’t do anything to bolster Sheridan’s funk.

“No, no, no!” Missy interrupted with a hand over the shots.  “She’s gotta do this one as a body shot.  You have done a body shot, right?”

Sheridan’s eyebrow lifted at the Latina beauty’s decree and follow-up condescension.  A body shot wasn’t happening – not from her body or to her mouth from anybody else’s.  It didn’t matter what the slutty little brat thought of her.

“Now, now… Let ‘er do this one first,” Rick shushed her away, pushing one of the lime-garnished glasses toward Sheridan.  “Ya don’t start doing body shots until after you’ve had three drinks.” 

Heidi nudged Missy.  “Let her alone.  Her generation doesn’t do that kind of thing.”

Oh, it’s on now, girls.  It’s soooo on.

Sheridan’s lips flattened and she snatched the offered shot from Rick’s hand, downing it with a covert glare at the two young chippies.    Her lips wrapped around the lime wedge with one hard suck.  Scrunching up her face at the tartness, Sheridan shook away the sour shiver and turned to Rick with a speculative look.  Nodding at the remaining shot glass, she asked boldly, “So where does that thing go?”

❧❧❧

Karma was right.  He fucked up. 

After half an hour trolling around the internet, Jon was kicking himself in the ass – repeatedly – for walking away from her.  Brilliant business woman, charitable philanthropist, willing volunteer…  It was all laid out there for anyone who cared to look, in glorious photographic Technicolor that practically mirrored his own non-band life.

The only difference was, whereas he had been photographed with at least a handful of women in the months since his divorce, he couldn’t find her on the arm of any man but her husband.  The last image that he found of them was taken four years ago at a fundraiser of some sort. 

Three years divorced and no dates?  Was it possible?  Or was she that secretive with her affairs?  Somehow he doubted the secrecy angle.  He wasn’t finding any other men because there weren’t any to find.  She was a fucking saint, and he was now feeling damn lucky to have convinced her to sin with him. 

Could he convince her again?  Not just to sin, but of something a little more.  He wanted a shot at all of her.

Don’t go jumping the gun there, Chief.

He wasn’t talking about rushing into some kind of relationship, but he was anxious for a chance to spend time with her.  Would she continue to be as intriguing?  Would she continue to bewitch him with the woman she was behind closed doors?

There was only one way to find out. 

It was after eleven, but he didn’t want to wait and talk to her until after the kids went back to Dorothea’s tomorrow afternoon.  If he smoothed things over now, maybe he could actually stop by her place after dropping them off.

Backtracking into the bedroom, he settled against the headboard while trolling through his contacts and planning what he would say.  When he had a rough idea of how to approach the situation, he tapped the button and folded one leg beneath him to wait for the call to ring through.

“’Ello?” a male, British voice answered, shouting to be heard above the loud music in the background.

“Uh.  Yeah,” Jon hesitated, slightly taken aback.  It hadn’t occurred to him that she would be out.  Or that the date would answer her phone.  “Can I speak to Sheridan?”

The guy’s laugh was as dirty as any he, himself, had uttered, and it put Jon’s blood pressure on the rise. 

“The little love is busy with 'er tequila right now.  Can I ‘ave ‘er call ya back when she gets her face outta my trousers?”