33 - Mysterious Friend

Richie’s eyes flickered open, then fell shut again on a groan.  He recognized the oatmeal-for-brains feeling paired with cotton-mouth, and just like every other time he experienced that combination of symptoms, he cussed himself.

Dumb sonofabitch.  How is it that you let one drink ‘to relax’ turn into half a bottle?  Again.

Honestly, he couldn’t even claim addiction.  Stupidity was the real reason he’d overindulged last night, along with a healthy dash of self-pity and a touch of jealousy.  

Seeing Jon with Sheridan had set something off in him that he’d managed to stifle since his divorce. 

Beautiful, sexually satisfying women had paraded in and out of his bed without any more than a casual kiss goodbye for years now.  That was the way he wanted it – completely emotionless.  It had seemed even more ‘right’ when Jon split with Dot and picked up the same lifestyle and philosophy. 

After yesterday – particularly dinner last night – he could see that was no longer the case for his buddy.   Sheridan wasn’t a hookup.  Of course, Richie knew that going in, but seeing it in person… 

He wasn’t saying that Jon was ‘in love’, or that Sheridan was.  Not at all.  They barely touched one another, and there was just that one sizzling second between them that hinted at a rabid sex life.   Jon didn’t keep on his superficial face with her though.  He was at-ease and comfortable, talking about regular everyday shit, and Sheridan seemed just as relaxed.  Richie hadn’t seen him that way with any woman besides Dot or his mother.  Ever.

Hence, the jealousy.  Jon and Sheridan didn’t wonder about after dinner, or who was going to wake up where the next morning

He missed that.  Yeah, he could talk to anybody about anything and enjoy himself – even with a mindless fuck doll.  But he didn’t get to be himself with those women.  There was always some semblance of pretense.  No kicking back and talking about poor fan behavior, because most of them were fans.  

Bottom line, he missed having a partner and Jonny was in the early stages of finding one.  While happy for his friend, it was enough to make him host a whiskey-themed pity party to forget how alone he was. 

It was also enough to make him act like a boorish ass with Sheridan.

He groaned again, rolling over and squinting his eyes at the bedside table.  Ten o’clock.  With the blackout drapes his room, you wouldn’t know if it was morning or night, but he knew he couldn’t have slept twenty-four hours. 

There was a bottle of water sitting next to the clock, and he silently thanked Grace as he pushed up against the pillows and twisted off the cap.  No doubt she had found evidence of his ‘oopsy’ last night and brought the water to help with the hangover.  No doubt, he would have to endure her condemning glares throughout the day, but he was kind of used to that anymore.

Every time he slipped, she was there to look down her nose at him.  She didn’t really say anything, just played the part of a silent conscience – and a reminder of his ex-in-laws.  She had served with Bill in the Marines, and wanted something to keep her occupied in her retirement.   That was about the time he got divorced, so he brought her in part-time as a favor to Heather’s dad, whom he was still friendly with.  There was certainly no obligation to maintain employment, and sometimes he wondered why he kept her, but ultimately it was less trouble than finding somebody new.

Gingerly shaking his head, Richie scooped up the four Tylenol that had been left with the water and gulped them down before heading for the shower.  He had to get up and see what kind of rifts had been dug between him and Jon – and Sheridan. 

She had been pissed last night.  She hadn’t said as much, but he knew it from the set of her shoulders and the unforgiving pucker of her mouth.  Not that he blamed her.  He guessed.  He hadn’t intended to be offensive.  When the booze was flowing, his mouth flapped a lot – mostly without supervision.

Although… she should probably learn to lighten up.  When the boys got together, there was way more offensive shit than that thrown around.  Life with the Jovi clan got crude and raunchy.  That’s just how it was.  If she was going to hang around, she may as well get used to it.

Welcome to the land of overgrown boys, Stormy.  Buckle in and put on a body condom.  It’s gonna get sticky.

❧❧❧  

The shower helped, as had the water and Tylenol.  Comfortably dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, Richie was now ready to go in search of coffee.  The enchanted blend of exotic beans that Grace brewed so well would chase the last of the cobwebs from his head.

He had one foot on the top step when he changed his mind, turning toward the other end of the hall instead.   It was unlikely that Jon was still in bed, or even in the room, but it would be nice if were.  Richie remembered most of the parental counseling from last night, and that he hadn’t tolerated it well.  Apologies were best delivered in private when at all possible.

As he neared the door, he heard Jon’s voice.

“Yeah, I just got up…………..  Dot, it’s only ten-thirty in LA, and it was a long fucking night with Richie.  Step off, okay?................  I’ll tell you about it when I pick the kids up.  Which is why I called.  How are the kids?  Romeo in particular.”

Richie silently retraced his steps back to the staircase, frowning all the way.  Some things never changed.  Jon was still going spill all the family secrets to Dot.   Richie actually didn’t mind it too much.  Hell, in thirty years she never told anything out of school as far as he knew, but he wasn’t real keen on being the latest clandestine story in the circle.

Then get your act together.

Vaguely, he wondered where he could find himself a respectable girlfriend who would still dig all his free-wheeling bedroom antics.   It would give him a reason to stay out of the clubs, and occupy the time when Ava wasn’t home.  Both would seriously limit his want to drink.

“It’s good to see you up and around before noon, considering that you have house guests and a hangover.”

Yeah, she’s doing the pissy house mother thing.

“Good morning, Gracie, darlin’.”  Keeping it light was the best defense for the older woman’s combative tone.  “You got any of that fabulous coffee of yours hot and ready?”

“In the pot,” she told him brusquely while rapidly working a large knife against the cutting board.  A pile of vegetables fell swift victim to the shiny, oversized blade that she wielded like a professional chef, slicing and dicing to make vegetable trays for that evening’s party.   

Richie had told her not to worry about it, that the caterers would take care of everything, but she was old school and insistent.  It only took one piercing stare from those steel gray eyes to let her have her way on ‘homemade’ trays and dips.  Like it made a shit to him.

He poured rich, steaming coffee into his ‘To Do’ mug.  ‘Cup of coffee’ was checked off of the short, two-item list.  ‘Blow job’ was not. 

Allowing it to flood his mouth, then slide down the back of his throat, Richie leaned against the counter and hummed appreciatively.  “Best cup of coffee anywhere, Gracie-girl.  Thanks.”

She flicked him a sharp look and offered a non-committal ‘hmpf’. 

Thinking of that token apology, he took another invigorating swallow and inquired, “You seen Sheridan?”

That earned another haughty ‘hmpf’. 

What?  Grace doesn’t like Sheridan? 

“She’s been trying to get in touch with some publisher for the last half an hour.  I finally sent her to your office after I got tired of hearing her tell everybody and their brother that she had a project proposal while trying to track the woman down.”

Project proposal.  He was reluctantly impressed, as Richie assumed that meant Jon had been convinced to go forward with the biography.

She must have a wine-flavored pussy.

Regardless of how she had enchanted his friend, he still owed her a sober apology.  A token one, at least, just to keep the peace.  That thought in mind, he meandered toward his home office, with a muted, “Thanks,” for the housekeeper.

Approaching the open doorway quietly, he could hear her voice humming with enthusiasm.

“Bridget, I’ve spent all morning trying to find you at that gossip rag.  I have some news that I think – hope – you’ll find interesting.  The only thing I ask is that you keep it under wraps.  For now, at least…”

Curiosity tugged at him, but Richie had enough respect for his guest’s privacy to execute a silent about-face and slowly returned to the kitchen.  Grace was still assassinating vegetables, but Jon was here now, pouring himself a cup of coffee.  Richie grinned at the mug his friend had pulled from the cabinet.  ‘Addicted to Coffee and Sex.  Life is Good.’

“Rich.”  The curt greeting wasn’t particularly friendly when his friend tipped his chin. 

It had been a while, but apparently the rules never changed when it came to having a girlfriend.  If she was pissed, her man had to be pissed, too, even if she was pissed at her man’s best friend.  He never stopped to consider that Jon was ticked at him for any other reason.

That’s okay.  I know how to work Jon.

“Mornin’, mornin’,” he crowed, refilling his mug.  Caffeine had begun to sing through his system, and the headache was mostly gone.  The two factors combined to make him feel less bleary and much more stable than the last time he slid onto the kitchen stool now under his butt.  “She conned you into it, huh?”

Confused blue eyes regarded him as though he might still be drunk.  “What?  She, who?”

“Sheridan.  The biography.  Gracie told me she’s been trying to get in touch with a publisher this morning.”

An arrogant smirk that Richie was all-too familiar with took up residence on the chiseled face of his front man.  “Fuck, no,” he scoffed.  The mug hit the counter he was leaning against with a quiet ‘thunk’ and played harmony to another ‘hmpf’ from Grace.   “She gave a helluva persuasive presentation, but it ain’t happening.  Ever.  Sheridan knows that.” 

“What does Sheridan know?” 

She sashayed into the room with a smile, dressed similarly to both men in jeans and a t-shirt.  Whereas Richie’s was black, and Jon’s bore the Patriots’ logo, hers was simple pink babydoll tee.  She stepped into Jon for a quick kiss before parking herself next to him along the counter, curiosity radiating from her.

“That I’m not doing a biography.”

She leaned into the arm that Jon curled around her waist, a puzzled frown marring her pretty features.  “Of course I know that.  Why is that even a question?”

“You’ve been trying to contact a publisher this morning.”

Richie had been silently watching the exchange, sipping his coffee and minding his own business, but he had to admit a mild interest in the answer.  The brief snippet of conversation that he’d accidentally overheard made it seem like she was going to share a juicy secret with whomever had been on the other end of her call.

The big knife paused on the cutting board, and Grace’s nosiness joined the fray.

“Oh, that.” 

Was it Richie’s color-blind imagination or was the skin in the vee of her neckline turning a deeper shade of pink than her shirt while she shifted her weight from one foot to the other?  And was her smile a little too bright when she informed them all, “Bridget’s just an old friend.”

Maybe it was his imagination, but it still left him with a very unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach.