26 - Honey, I'm Home!

“Don’t listen to a damn word he says,” Jon cautioned as the hired car drove through the entrance to Richie’s gated community. 

The flight had been comfortably uneventful with each of them involved in their own reading and sipping coffee.  Sheridan grew sleepy as the flight went on and used his shoulder as a pillow.  It was enough to convince him to catch a quick catnap too.  His only regret was that they hadn’t taken advantage of the private aircraft’s bedroom.  

“I’m tellin’ ya, he will make shit up just to have me look bad or get a reaction.”

“Then he should be very entertaining.”  Sheridan patted his cheek condescendingly and leaned in for a chaste kiss.  “In case you need a reminder, your friend’s house is considered public.  I expect you to keep it clean and not embarrass me.”

“You mean I can’t pin you to the wall and put my tongue down your throat while he eats his heart out?”

“Um.  No.”

“Then I best be gettin’ a helluva lot better kiss than that as my ‘last supper’.  C’mere, my feisty little Kitten.”  He palmed a demanding hand around her nape and held firm while he laid claim to her mouth, sliding his tongue in to taste the now-familiar flavor that was Sheridan.  Her immediate and willing surrender had his chest swelling with puffed-up arrogance.   She couldn’t hide her body’s reaction to him.

“Mm.”  She gently disengaged herself from his kiss when the car slid to a halt in Richie’s driveway.  “We’re here.  Best behavior?  Promise?”

Jon frowned with annoyance, unhappy with the interruption.  “Only until the bedroom door closes,” was his magnanimous concession as she quickly touched up her lipstick. 

Tucking the little tube back into her purse, she treated him to a saucy wink.  “Perfect.”

Jon shook his head faintly, then slid out of the car, reaching back to offer a hand of assistance.  Instead giving him her hand, she pushed the bakery box at him while the driver got their two overnight bags from the trunk  How in the hell was he going to keep a straight face when Richie opened this box, he didn’t know.

You’re about to find out.

“Hola compadres!” Richie’s mellow voice came from the doorway. 

“He’s lived in Southern California for twenty years and thinks he’s born in East L.A.” Jon muttered under his breath, forcing Sheridan to duck her head so that she could smother the laughter.  It was enough to make Jon grin down at her as he tucked her into his side. 

“Don’t listen damn word he says,” Richie offered casually as he took the bags from the driver, clearly unconcerned about the source of the private joke the two of them were sharing.  “He’ll make shit up just to make me look bad.”

Sheridan’s head whipped toward Jon, blatant disbelief washed over her face.  “What?  Are you kidding me? You two have a script?”

“I knew it, you dirty SOB!” Richie chortled with delight over his shoulder while depositing their luggage in the foyer.  “Poisoning her mind against me before we’ve even met.  Are you that insecure, Jonny boy?”

“Fu-“  He slid a look at Sheridan, thinking better of his ingrained response to Richie’s bullshit.  “Shut up and meet her already.  Rich, this is Sheridan King.”

“Enchantee.”   Playing the host role to the hilt, Richie bowed from the waist and captured Sheridan’s hand for a gallant Prince Charming-type kiss. 

“Kee-riiist,” Jon groaned quietly to Sheridan’s obvious amusement.  Her laughter tinkled in his ears and earned her a devilish wink from Richie as he straightened, knowing that he’d just put Jon’s non-existent shorts in a wad.  “Back the fuck up already!”

If Sambora thinks he’s gonna dick around like this all weekend, he’s lost his mind.

The other man’s evil chuckle earned him a stink eye of the finest proportion. 

“Yo.  Tropical Storm Sheridan.  How’s it hangin’?”  Richie kicked up a dimpled grin.  “That better, asshole?”

“Oh, my word.”  Visibly horrified at the nickname he’d branded her with, and the sophomoric conversation that was taking place before her very eyes, she stepped forward and relieved Jon of the bakery box.  Offering it to Richie, she guided the social fiasco with a smooth, “Moving on, never to return….  Richie…  In appreciation for allowing me to come into your home, I made a little something that I hope you’ll enjoy.  Jon said you liked honey covered pastries.”

Richie nearly dropped the box.

Ha!  Take that, fucker!

To anyone who didn’t know him, Richie’s expression was perfectly calm and pleasantly neutral when curling his fingers more firmly around the edges of the thin white cardboard.  To Jon, though…  There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that his buddy was just about to swallow his own tongue with laughter.

He patted himself on the back for a job well-done, the pride lasting for one hot second before a distantly familiar feeling edged its way in.  It was a feeling that he used to be intimately acquainted with, but in recent years there hadn’t been occasion to experience the combination of dread and anticipation.    

Brown eyes glowed with maniacal mischief, darting to Jon before settling on Sheridan and going all warm and friendly. 

Why did Jon always forget one thing about getting one over on Richie?  The other man retaliated.  And he took no prisoners.

“That’s no lie.  I do, but I have a very discriminating palate.  Kidd’s willingness to share must mean that your honey is exceptional.  I can’t wait to give it a taste.” 

He licked his lips in a silent ‘fuck you’ to Jon, whose eyes closed with outraged defeat.

“Come on,” his friend invited jovially, gesturing toward the far doorway with his container of baked treasures.  “Let’s take these in the kitchen so I can put them on the counter and bury my face in that box.”

Jon was about to have an aneurysm, but poor Sheridan was none the wiser.  Thank God she was completely missing the subtext of the exchange and unaware that Richie had pretty well just said he wanted to eat her on the counter.   For now, she just frowned at him, wondering why they weren’t following Richie. 

“Jon?”

If she ever figures out what the hell just happened, we are dead men. 

“Yeah, let’s go.” 

Dredging up a rueful smile, he curved an arm around her waist and grudgingly gave his ax-man props for his on-the-spot improv skit.  Sambora would be reminding him of this exchange for years to come.

Jon stifled both a groan and the urge to pull Sheridan away when they stepped into the room, Southwestern-style kitchen to find Richie bent over the counter, his face in the box of pastries while he cooed with appreciative noises.  He pinned Jon with another calculating look and opened his mouth to speak. 

God only knew what would have spilled out, but they were all granted a temporary reprieve from Richie’s witty repartee in the form of his housekeeper.  The woman with the military stiff posture and matching short, steel-gray hair bestowed what was an unexpectedly warm smile upon Jon and Sheridan while smacking at Richie’s shoulder.

“Get your face out of there,” she ordered sharply.  “Nobody wants you breathing all over the pastries.”

Standing upright to tower over the five-foot-nothing woman, her employer snorted.  “Now, Gracie, if they didn’t want my face in them, they wouldn’t have offered them to me so generously.”

“Mind your manners.”

She wasn’t much older than their own fifty-something, but Richie’s housekeeper ruled his house like a miniature drill sergeant.  As a matter of fact, Jon thought that she had some connection to Richie’s ex-father-in-law – the Marine General. 

Which was a good thing, in Jon’s opinion.  The woman was a much needed dose of discipline in Richie’s somewhat free-spirited existence here on the West Coast.  When they were working, Richie knew where the lines were drawn, but at home…  Jon was glad Grace was around.

“Gracie.”  Jon slipped away from Sheridan and bent to touch a kiss on the little woman wearing jeans and a Camp Pendleton t-shirt.  “How’ve ya been, beautiful?”

“Oh, you stop, too.”  Not one to accept flowery compliments, she smacked his shoulder in much the same way she had smacked Richie’s.  “Introduce me to your friend, since Mr. Manners over here obviously isn’t going to do it.”

“Hey.  I’ve got manners,” he mumbled around a bite of sticky flakiness.  “That’s why I’m appreciating the gift that Storm, here, brought me.”  Another outrageous wink flew at the demurely smiling Sheridan, while Jon wondered why he had thought this would be a good idea.

“Sheridan King, this is Grace Maloney, Richie’s warden.”

“The official title is ‘domestic manager’, thank you very much,” she sniffed, holding a hand out to Sheridan.  “But a warden wouldn’t be a bad idea sometimes with this one.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” his socially savvy girlfriend returned.  “I’m sure you do a fine job in both capacities.”

“Another one of those politically correct crew, huh?”  She looked Sheridan up and down with a skeptical eye. 

“Gracie, play nice.” Richie settled an affectionate arm around his housekeeper’s shoulder, with one hip bumped up against the earthen marble countertop.  He clarified to Sheridan, “She’s technically my housekeeper, but the real reason I pay her to come in four days a week is to badger and belittle me.  And trust me, she excels at her job.”

“I hate to be a bother,” Sheridan detoured the conversation.  “But is there someplace I could freshen up a bit?  It’s been a long time since I left my apartment this morning.”

“I’ll show you.”  Grace’s gruff offer was perfectly normal to Jon, but he could see that Sheridan was a little taken aback by the abrupt, non-nonsense tone.  “I’ve got to go upstairs and run the sweeper, anyway.”

Sheridan leaned in and touched chaste lips to Jon’s jaw, telling him softly, “I’ll just be a few minutes.”

“Take your time, Kitten.”

The two women’s footsteps had barely faded when Richie held  his open palm for a high five.  “Damn, man.  I didn’t know you still had it in you.  Well-played with the pastries.”

“It was genius and you know it,” Jon chortled smugly, accepting the filled coffee mug.  It was a classic in the Sambora tacky coffee mug collection, depicting beautiful, bikini-clad triplets and declaring ‘If you’re sexy and you know it, do all three!’.  “You just about busted us both out with the box overkill though.  Sheridan knows nothing, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Consider it locked in Pandora’s box.”  Richie switched his own coffee to his left hand and bumped knuckles with Jon.  “Storm won’t hear it from me.  I might have to tell Lemma though.  That was some seriously funny shit.”

Knowing their keyboardist’s love for practical jokes, he would appreciate it.  He would also be the first one to blow the whistle if he ever met Sheridan, and he would blow it long and loudddd.

“No.  This stays between me and you, and quit with the Storm shit.  It’s making her uncomfortable.”

Richie’s mug – showing a psychotic squirrel and saying ‘Protect Your Nuts’ – scraped dully against the countertop.  “Can’t say I’m surprised she has you whipped already.  She’s definitely a ball-buster.”

“What makes you say that?”  There was nothing further from the truth.  So far, he hadn’t experienced the first cringe that him know she was trying to take the upper hand.  Mutual respect seemed to be the name of the game so far, and he couldn’t be more pleased.

“Don’t get me wrong.  She’s easy enough on the eyes, but she looks like a friggin’ PTA mom.  I know freak, and that girl doesn’t have it in her to freak.  I call bullshit on your whole Jamaican fuck fest.  You made it up.”

Jon smiled into his cup, using the gulp of hot liquid as a reason not to respond.  He took perverse pleasure in the fact that his sexually psychic friend had no idea that there was a hissing, spitting sex kitten buried inside that PTA mom exterior.  Because if Richie didn’t know it, then nobody knew Sheridan’s dirty little secret.

Nobody but Jon.

Yeah.  He liked that.  A lot.