29 - Tit for Tat

"I saw that look," Richie remarked casually and took a small swallow of his beer. 

Lifting a condemning eyebrow, Jon eyed the Corona pointedly and asked, "What look?"

His friend fastidiously ignored the censorship of his beverage selection.   "The one that Tropical Storm Sheridan gave you.  The one that said she's gonna tie you to the bed and sexually manipulate you until you agree to that biography."

Oh. That look.

His eyes involuntarily darted in the direction she had taken when excusing herself to the ladies' room mere seconds ago.  He could still see the back of her red leather jacket and jeans that lovingly cupped her backside.  The white t-shirt under the jacket made it casual, yet classy – just like Sheridan.  

She would be horrified to know that Richie had caught a glimpse of her alter-ego.  That part of her was reserved for special occasions that involved him and him alone.  Considering the newness of their relationship, it was Jon's responsibility to downplay it to the best of his ability.

"I dunno what you're talking about man."

"The hell you don't," his friend snorted, clunking the distinctive glass bottle onto the earthen tile table top.  "I caught a glimpse of the woman you described from Jamaica, and I totally see the appeal. Stormy Rain is hot, horny and intense."

Among other things.

Having no interest in reciting a laundry list of Sheridan’s qualifications outside the bedroom, he stuck with a standard reply. 

"No comment."

A wide, dimpled grin split Richie's face.  "That ‘no comment’ was a comment in itself.  You’ve only eight more shopping days until Christmas.  Get your playmate somethin’ nice."

Christmas.  Damn.   They had only been dating a few days. Surely that was an unnecessary formality?

"I don't think she's gonna expect anything.  That's not how she is."

"Expect?  Maybe not, but she sure as hell hopes.  Don't be a dick just because you suck at shopping."

Jon grimaced.  That was the real problem here.  He did suck at shopping, which was why Jeri’s help had been enlisted for Sheridan’s birthday gift.  Now that they were actually dating, he wasn’t going to be able to get by with passing shopping duties on to his assistant, even if he wanted to. 

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he sighed, swirling his sangria in the oversized wine glass.  Waste of perfectly good – well, mediocre – wine to bastardize it with all that fruit and sugar.  Sheridan had goaded him into ordering it by calling him a boring wine snob and daring him to fiesta a little.  

The word ‘dare’ had jogged a wicked and forgotten memory from Jamaica.  Kitten wasn’t able to resist a good dare, as he recalled.  This was a weakness that was going to require exploitation.  Definitely.

“Hell yes I’m right.  I’ll bet I’m also right that you have no idea what to get her, despite the fact that you could tell me how me how many hairs are in her panties.”

It still astounded him that Richie was the ‘romantic’ one of the two of them.  He must be an expert at hiding his true personality around women.  That’s all Jon could say.

“Not no idea, but I’m not exactly overflowing with them.  If you’ve got a suggestion, spit it out.”

At the small table for four, each chair occupied one side of the table and Richie was seated at his left.  The guitarist leaned into him, speaking conspiratorially, “Bro, if being married to Heather taught me anything, it’s that all women love diamonds.  You can’t go wrong with ‘em.”

“Not all women love diamonds.  Dorothea liked her ring, but that was about all the interest she had in them.”

Richie took another healthy swallow of his Corona.  Was this his second or his third?  Jon should have been paying closer attention. 

“Yeah, well, your ex-wife was the exception, not the rule.  Have you seen the diamond earrings Stormy Rain is wearing?  Mark my words.  Your girl digs diamonds.”

Thinking back, he could recall seeing a diamond and ruby tennis bracelet, a diamond pendant on a white gold chain, the ring she wore on her right hand and at least a couple pairs of diamond earrings.  Sambora might have a point.

He was just about to admit that when a cougar-like growl had both of their heads swiveling. 

Tre-fucking-mendous.

Two women in their late-twenties or early-thirties had recognized them and were zooming in for the kill, like a couple of well-endowed jackals.  In true California style, both were blonde bombshells and completely comfortable in sharing their assets with the world. 

“Well, well…” Blonde Number One purred, leaning into Jon.  “If it isn’t the fine men of Hot Jovi.”

❧❧❧

Fluffing out her hair and tucking a bit of it behind her ear, Sheridan put a hand in her purse, blindly searching for her lipstick.  There was something about LA that made her a little insecure.  All the too-skinny, artificially enhanced women made Sheridan and her original, unaltered equipment look very much out of place.

With a determined shake of her head, she put that nonsense out of her head and tuned out the statuesque brunette standing next to her at the mirror.  Jon hadn’t shown any signs of being dissatisfied with her equipment, and he’d seen his share.  That was reason enough not to care about Boobjob Brittany.

Her time would be better served plotting ways to get him to commit to that biography. 

Ian had been her first boyfriend, and they married right out of college.  There had been that brief breakup during her freshman year of college where she had a little fling with a bad boy, but he had come onto her, not the other way around.  Sheridan had never been given a reason to seduce a man. 

This might be fun, even if he never agrees to the book.

Honestly, the biography didn’t interest her.  He interested her, and so did writing, but she didn’t have any desire to write a dry biography about his life.  Fiction would allow her to explore her creativity, and with the recent igniting of her libido, erotic fiction held a particular appeal. 

She still had contact information for a publisher that she’d gotten friendly with over the years.  Bridget Stowasser had specialized in contemporary romance and erotic fiction at one of the big companies.  Although Sheridan heard that she’d left her publishing house to pursue another field of interest, she would likely still be able to provide some guidance.

Wonder if Jon would be willing to work out some of the scenes with me?  Or provide some inspiration for them?

He already did that. 

A chill raced down her spine when she recalled his plan to do body shots with her.  Definitely inspirational.  They’d not had tipsy sex yet, and staying in Richie’s house, it wasn’t likely that they would tonight.  But soon…

Stiff nipples dug into the white lace of her bra.  If sober sex was earth-moving, what it would be like when their inhibitions were loosened by a little alcohol? 

Senseless.   With a little tequila, I will fuck him senseless.

Tucking the lipstick back into her bag, she discreetly rubbed her thighs together.  It didn’t do anything to ease the tingling between them and, as a matter of fact, the tingling intensified into a faint throbbing.  She’d spent enough time in the ladies’ room. 

Let’s get this dinner over with so I can practice my powers of persuasion.

Slipping the shoulder strap of the small, leather purse onto her shoulder, she pulled on the heavy wooden door’s handle and took a quick step back.  Yet another airbrushed beauty waltzed into the bathroom, nearly knocking Sheridan out of the way with the pair of lead zeppelins in her bra.

With a patient sigh, she schooled herself to smile politely before continuing out of the bathroom.  She stepped from the alcove where the restrooms were located and looked toward the table.  Walking closer, Sheridan could see that the waiter had delivered their food.  She could also see that Jon was being force fed something other than the enchiladas he ordered.

Two artificially reconstituted young women decked out in Daisy Dukes, spiked heels and clinging, low cut blouses were hanging all over Jon and Richie.  Blondenstein was sitting in the chair next to Richie’s clinging to his arm and gushing.  Her friend, Blondezilla, hadn’t taken the liberty of seating herself.  No, she wouldn’t be that presumptuous.  She was tastefully pushing her exposed cleavage toward Jon’s face. 

Sheridan was relieved to see that he wasn’t impressed with the tacky display of whore-ism.  Fan encounters were to be expected if she was going to be a part of his life.  She got that.  She had endured it quite happily outside of Demonico’s, in fact.  It wouldn’t bother her in the least to endure it a thousand times more if the fans were respectful.  But this…? 

No.  Hell, no. 

The terse lines around his polite grimace told her that wasn’t any happier about it than she was.  That was a green light in her book.  If he wasn’t happy about it, she wasn’t going to hesitate to call the girl out on her flagrantly inappropriate behavior. 

Sidling up to her vacated chair, Sheridan spoke casually.  “Sweetheart, it might be perfectly acceptable to smash a man’s face in your tits at your dinner table, but you’re not going to do it at mine.  Take a step back and let him breathe.”

The girl’s face didn’t even register surprise – or any other emotion for that matter.  Was that because of a recent Botox injection?  Regardless, she did step back about two inches.  It was enough for her to see the spark of challenge in Jon’s eyes.  He wanted to see if she could handle the insistent little fan.

Oh, don’t doubt that I will come out as the victor in this little pissing contest, Rockstar.

“Who the hell are you?” Blondezilla demanded peevishly.  Blondenstein still clung to Richie’s arm and just blinked vacant brown eyes at Sheridan, content to let her friend speak.  Richie quietly smothered a grin and narrowed his eyes, waiting to see what Sheridan’s response would be.

“Me?”  She held a hand to her chest innocently.  “I’m nobody.  Just a woman who believes that a having a celebrity encounter still counts even if the celebrity doesn’t encounter my cleavage.”

“Ladies,” Jon interjected smoothly.  “Thank you for stopping by, but our food is going to get cold.  You’ll excuse us, won’t you?”

Sliding into her seat, Sheridan didn’t pay either of the Blondesy Twins any more attention and smoothed her napkin into her lap as the two were ushered off with autographed napkins.  Her sangria glass had been magically refilled in her absence, she saw.  Lifting the rim of the heavy glass to her lips, she let the sweet, fruity blend trickle down her throat before gently setting it back on the table and curling her fingers around the dinner fork.

“You gonna let her get away with that?” 

Flicking her eyes to Jon’s friend she saw that he was leaning his elbows on the table, long fingers curled around the neck of a cold Corona.  There was no censure in his words, merely bland interest.  He plucked the lime out of the mouth of the bottle and set it aside.

“What did I ‘get away with’?”  She asked curiously.  “Good manners?”

Jon’s lips were twitching with amusement when he reached for her hand.  “Kitten.  Fans are gonna come up to the table when we go out.  It happens.  You’re gonna have to learn to just go with it and not cause a scene.   I’ve been doing this a long time, and can handle it.”

Sheridan paused, fork in the air, and cocked her head to one side.  “I have no doubt you can ‘handle it’, but let me put this in perspective, if you will,” she offered congenially, eyes narrowing only slightly.  “If you don’t want my face in anyone else’s trousers, you won’t have yours in anyone else’s cleavage.”

Jon laughed quietly and lifted his glass in salute.  “Touche, Baby.  Touche.”