22 - Me, Myself and I

“Jesse, change the station.”

The teenager was slumped into his seat, tapping his foot in time to the hard beat thumping from the car stereo speakers.  “It’s the new Nickelback song.  Don’t you like it?”

“I like it fine,” Jon all-but snarled and placed the blame somewhere besides his sleepless, seething night.  “Your brothers don’t need to be listening to that crap.”

The teenager let loose with a huge put-upon sigh and stabbed at another button on the console, but not before Jon was lucky enough to catch the lyric about her ‘drinking a little Cuervo’. 

Fuckin’ phenomal.

The song already screamed of Sheridan by ‘getting lower than a Maserati’.  Now it had to give him another reminder of her and whatever tequila escapade she went wild with last night?

Don’t forget about her face being in the guy’s trousers.

After declining to leave a message with Trouser Tom, Jon had been unaccountably furious at both Sheridan and the guy – and himself, in all honesty.  He cussed, he swore, he stewed and fumed as though she should have been waiting for him to call and ‘allow’ her to re-enter his life.    Then he cussed himself for being an arrogant sonofoabitch.

Jon spent the night half-pissed and soaked his anger in an entire bottle of Pinot Grigio.  As a result, he had a lengthy argument with that nasty bitch, Karma.

Tsk, tsk, Jonny.  If you hadn’t politely kicked her to the curb, she wouldn’t have been out with Trouser Tom.

“Where are we going?” Jake piped up from the back seat, dislodging the snarky feminine voice.

“I’m taking you to your mom’s house.  Why?”

Jesse snickered.  “Because you passed the turnoff.”

Because of where the house was situated, on a road with no side streets, Jon couldn’t even use the excuse of going the ‘other way’.    Unwilling to admit that his mind was elsewhere, he calmly told the boys, “I need gas first.”

“Uh, Dad.  You have almost a full tank.”

Damn smartass teenagers.

“Guess I don’t need gas then,” he muttered, engaging the left turn signal with a sharp tap of his finger.

❧❧❧

Two o’clock the next afternoon and Sheridan still felt about as engaging as a puddle of cat yack.

She dropped her forehead on the work surface in her ‘workshop’, not even minding the sickening thud that sent dull pain through the rest of her head.  Aromatherapy wasn’t getting rid of her tequila hangover.  If anything, it was making it worse. 

The worst part was that she couldn’t even justify it by saying she had a good time. 

Determined to hold her own among the younger crowd at Mexican Radio, Sheridan gamely dove in and extracted the shot glass of tequila from Rick’s waistband – using only her mouth.  She downed it, sucked the lime dry and victoriously dropped both on the table.  Spurred on by the cheers, she dusted off her knees and took a tiny bow before allowing the gloominess inside her to resume residency. 

It wasn’t twenty minutes later that she made her excuses to Rick and thanked him for the invitation.  He, showing remarkably good manners, followed her outside the bar and offered to take her home, but she refused.  His friends were inside, and he was having a great time.  She was the one feeling like a wet blanket.

“Thank you, but you should stay and enjoy the rest of the night,” Sheridan assured him, zipping up her jacket against the frigid breeze zinging along one of the streets nestled between SoHo and Little Italy.  “It’s just a short taxi ride home.   I’ll be fine.”

“Alright, Love.  If you insist.”  His slight slur was courtesy of at least half a dozen tequila shots, which she smelled on his breath when he tried to bend his head close.  Sheridan’s stomach rolled at the realization he was going to try and kiss her. 

Pressing a gently restraining hand against his shoulder, Sheridan touched fleeting lips to Rick’s jaw and backed away to flag a passing cab.  “Goodnight, and thank you.   I’ll see you in class on Tuesday.”

With a muffled “G’night, Love,” he wandered back into the energetic New York City fiesta that was the architectural equivalent of Montezuma’s Revenge in Sheridan’s opinion.  She would go to great lengths and take all the necessary precautions to avoid another encounter.

So what did she do?  What any self-respecting woman of ‘her generation’ would.  She made an essential pit stop at the local liquor store to get a bottle of classic Jose Cuervo and her favorite margarita mix.  The two combined for a late night jam-packed with self-pity. 

Damn Jon Bon Jovi.  Dating was not what it was cracked up to be, and before he had stalked her like a relentless hunter, she knew that and was perfectly fine with the whole thing.  It hadn’t bothered her to entertain herself with family and her hobbies and volunteer work. 

Now though, she’d been given a taste of what possibilities existed, only to have it snatched away as though she were an unworthy child.  Or slut puppy.  Whatever.  She should probably be thankful that he didn’t leave money on the nightstand.

Oh wait.  He probably thinks you should have paid him for the privilege.  Bastard.

As soon as she could get rid of this hangover, Sheridan was going to put the whole damn debacle behind her and get busy with her writing.  She didn’t need to secure rights to the biography of the rock star recluse in order to get a book published.  For that matter, she hadn’t wanted to do his biography to start with.  That was Karl’s idea, not hers.

No, she would find something else more relevant to society as a whole.  Maybe the healing properties of a perfectly mixed margarita….

❧❧❧

The leisurely Sunday afternoon traffic made for an easier-than-usual transition from the Jersey Turnpike into the Holland Tunnel.  The boys had been returned to their mother, and Jon had somehow escaped without allowing Romeo to drag him in to spend the afternoon as a big, happy family.

Dorothea listened to his lack of progress on the subject of Christmas with a stoic nod, telling him that she wasn’t surprised and that it was fine.  However, she wasn’t quite so affable about another subject.  With the boys safely out of earshot, she had a few choice words about his appearance to offer through the open car window. 

“She’s still keeping you up, I see, since you look like shit.  I will assume you have enough sense to save your sleep-overs for when your children aren’t sleeping over, too.”

Add one more log to stoke the flames of infuriation that were getting close to consuming him.

“Dottie,” he drawled, knowing she hated that particular nickname.  “Don’t worry about my sleepovers.  By the way, I’m going to LA next weekend to see Richie.  I’ll want the kids when I get back on Sunday morning and will keep ‘em a couple days since they’re on holiday break.”

“Did you tell them that?”  She might snark and bitch at him once in a while, but Dorothea had yet to deny him access to the kids.  When he gave his affirmation, this time was no different.  She merely nodded and retreated into the house.

Now, he was stewing in a grumpy ass cloud of pissiness, glowering about the last billboard he had seen on the Turnpike.

Fucking Jose Cuervo.  Does the whole damn world have a tequila problem?

He hated not getting what he wanted.  Despised it with every last breath left in his aging body.  And when it was because of his own ‘oversight’?  Well, the people that worked for him and the band thought he could be a perfectionistic taskmaster bastard. 

Jon snorted with humorless mirth. 

Maybe he was, but they had no idea what kind of standard he held himself to.  It was ten times more than what he demanded of anyone else, and he had zero tolerance for shortcomings.  Particularly after arrogantly assuring Sheridan that, if he desired something enough, he would find a way to get it. 

Then find a way to get it.  You owe your entire life to persistence.  You are who you are because you never fucking took no for an answer.  Why should a woman be any different?

Because she moved on, and with good reason. 

Pussy.

Halfway through the left-hand turn onto Sixth Avenue – toward home – Jon snapped the wheel around, keeping his course dead-ahead on Canal Street. 

Trouser Tom had kept him from talking to her last night.  She didn’t even know he was interested in rekindling this thing, or maybe even taking it in a different direction.  He wasn’t going to lay down and die until all of his resources had been exhausted.  What was she going to do?  Slam the door in his face?

A purposeful right turn had the car sailing down Lafayette.   

She might, but so what?  It wouldn’t be the first time.  He was going to have to apologize, there was no two ways about it. 

Well, maybe not apologize exactly, but explain that he had reevaluated the situation and thought maybe there was something more between them than just sex.

Just man-up and fucking apologize.

If it came to that, he certainly wasn’t above it.

It’s going to come to that.  She deserves a fucking apology.

Who was to say she didn’t owe him an apology?  Why did she just agreeably walk away?  Did she already have this other guy lined up and waiting in the wings?  Less than a forty-eight hour turn-around time was awfully damn suspicious.

Suspicious?  It’s not like you gave her a reason to expect more from you.

What if all that bullshit about ‘vacation Sheridan’ not really existing was just that?  Bullshit.  Maybe she was a party girl who did her fair share of bed hopping. 

A final right turn put him on Leonard Street, only a few blocks away from her apartment.

You’re a dumbass sometimes, Bongiovi.  You had to chase this woman.  She didn’t drop her panties and bend over the minute she saw you.  She hid from you. 

He knew that.  He knew she wasn’t a party girl.  It was what made her so damn appealing.  Knowing that she only did private parties. 

Jon swore and fidgeted in his seat.

You better start planning what you’re gonna say, Politician Rockstar, to make yourself just as appealing to her. 

He whipped the car into an open parking spot half a block down from Sheridan’s building.  A Sunday afternoon parking spot on this street ranked right up there with selling out the Meadowlands Stadium.  Or winning the lottery.

Jon grinned and set the car alarm.  Karma was back in his bed. 

Sheridan’s not back in your bed.  Don’t be a cocky bastard yet. 

With an absent  wave at Jack, who was just coming on shift, Jon strode to the elevator and impatiently  jabbed the call button three times.  He slid between the doors before they had fully opened and, just as impatiently, punched the button for the fifth floor.

Slow the fuck down.  You’re not a horny schoolboy, you’re a mature man who should not be this excited.

Inhaling deeply, he tucked his sunglasses into the neckline of his t-shirt and blew the breath out.  A quick shake had the muscles in his shoulders going a little less taut.  They bunched right back up again when he swiped an annoyed hand over his jaw.  He hadn’t shaved today.

A quick glance down at his clothes had him realizing he didn’t exactly look irresistible in his ancient ‘Bounce on this’ t-shirt, jeans and scruffy tennis shoes.  At least he had showered and brushed his ‘famous’ hair so he wasn’t dealing with a hat.

You should’ve planned this out a little better.

Fuck planning.  She’d seen him naked with this same stubble.  It hadn’t been a problem then, and he didn’t count on it being one now.  His mere presence might be a problem, but his appearance?  Not so much, he didn’t think, stepping from the car to arrive at her front door.

You’d better at least plan your spiel.  You can’t just stare at her like a dipshit when she answers the door.

Hello was always a good place to start.  “Why didn’t you call me back last night?” was another option.  “Have you missed me”?  No.  Probably not. 

You better pray Sambora never gets wind of this little episode.  You’ll never live this shit down.

That was it.  When he annoyed himself, it was time to gauge the little voice in his head.

Jon pushed the buzzer, then casually folded his hands together and waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Think you should’ve called first, genius?

Scowling, he pushed the buzzer again.  This time, thank God, it was only seconds before he heard the footsteps.  Another few seconds and he heard a quiet, “Dammit.”

Yeah, this is gonna go well.

If he weren’t afraid of being committed, he would punch himself in the face.

“Come on, Sheridan.  Open the door,” he murmured without moving his lips.  She didn’t need to see him talking to himself.

Finally – finally! – the locks started opening, one-by-one, until they were all released.  The knob turned while he held his breath and struggled to maintain his outwardly leisure, open-legged stance.  The door eased open and…

And there she was.

There were dark smudges under her wary eyes, but other than that, she was… Sheridan.  In her yoga pants, a classic Aerosmith t-shirt and the fuzzy slippers she seemed to favor, she wasn’t a party girl.  She was just a woman at home on the weekend.   A regular woman, who might – just might – be wearing some sexy underwear beneath it all.

If he was lucky.

“Jon.”

Any pre-conceived, scripted monologue that he might have thought to use… vanished.  His mind went tee-totally blank at the unhappy pucker of her lips.

So he did the only thing he’d really wanted to do since he left this spot on Friday morning.

Jon stepped forward, capturing her face between both palms, and kissed the living shit out of her.