89 - Penalty Flag

Richie slid into the back of the hired car, a happy grin on his face.  New England just couldn’t beat his Giants in Super Bowl.  He appreciated the post-game hospitality the Patriots had shown them, courtesy of Jon’s friendship with the owner and coach.  Richie even managed to be sympathetic on the loss, but damn if he wasn’t riding him a little Giants’ football high.

And it was made all the better by the company he was keeping. 

He and his best friend had been a little awkward at first, until Sheridan had stepped up to give Richie a hug and kiss on the cheek.  When she released him and stood back, she then tapped her husband on the elbow and scrunched up her forehead to convey some kind of secret spousal message.  After that Jon relaxed a little, which meant Richie relaxed, so things were...  good – all the way around.  It was the lightest and most carefree he’d felt in weeks and hadn’t needed a drop of booze to create that feeling. 

“Well that shindig was the bomb, but your fucking Patriots still lost,” he chortled as the couple settled across from him in the back of the vehicle.   

“I live in fuckin’ New York.  The Giants are as much mine as they are yours, dumbass.”

“Yeah, but you’re not blowin’ the coaching staff in New York. I’m still hyped.  Let’s stop in the bar at the hotel and catch the highlights again.”

“Fuck you.”

“Oh God,” Sheridan interjected with a laugh, unfurling the scarf from around her neck.  “If he’s blowing anybody’s coaching staff, I’d really rather not know.”

The cold Indianapolis night had her cheeks pink, and Richie could appreciate why Jon didn’t keep his hands off of her all night.  Ass, hand, hip, back – he wasn’t picky about where or how he pawed Stormy Rain.  Once, to his amazement, Rich even caught a glimpse of him rubbing her belly like some goofy lovesick daddy-to-be.  His buddy was definitely into the new wife. 

And Richie was man enough to admit he was jealous of the easy intimacy the two shared.  Or maybe, more specifically, of the aura of contentment Jon carried.  It had been a long time since he’d felt that tranquil contentment with anybody other than his daughter. 

He was also man enough to admit – at least to himself – that he actually liked Sheridan.  She’d gone out of her way to smooth any awkwardness that had arisen when, after the way he’d talked about her, she could just have easily chosen to be a bitch.  Richie probably deserved as much for jumping to conclusions without proof, but her efforts had made it a really good weekend of football and friends.  He appreciated it and, someday, he might tell her that.

“Never fear, baby.  A dick will never pass through these lips.  Ever,” Jon guaranteed her, digging in the pocket of what Richie called his Stay-Puft Marshmallow jacket.  Burnt marshmallow was probably a better term, though, since it was black.  Withdrawing his phone Jon checked messages and frowned.

“Something wrong?” Stormy asked, raking blood red nails down the thigh of her hubby’s jeans. 

“Jeri’s been trying to get in touch with me.”  He tapped the screen and lifted the device to his ear, face still creased into a frown and muttering, “She knew where I was tonight.  Why would she keep calling during the Super Bowl?”

Sheridan sighed with resignation and sank back into the seat, eyes fluttering closed when the back of her blonde hair hit the headrest.  She’d looked tired before they went to the post-game party, but she hadn’t uttered the first word of complaint, cheerfully going with the flow of events.  Now, however, she looked positively wiped.  It reminded Richie of Heather’s fatigue during the early part of her pregnancy.  ‘Nap’ and ‘bed’ had been her favorite words. 

“You okay, Stormy?”

“Mm.”  A sleepy mouth curled upward at the edges and her eyelids opened scant a fraction.  “Just winding down.  I’m not used to partying like a rock star.”

“Jeri, what’s up?”

Richie glanced at his friend, whose full attention was focused on his call, and then back to Sheridan.  “Baby wiping you out, huh?”

“Little bit.”

“Yeah, well that’s nice, but I don’t care that you can tell Sheridan and I love each other from the pictures taken at the game.  And it better not be why you’ve been blasting my phone for the last three hours.”

Sheridan’s sleepy smile got fuller as her eyes drifted shut again.   That didn’t last long, though.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”  Jon’s head snapped around and he hit Sheridan with the Category 10 Stink Eye.  Whatever had just been said to him had taken him from content to full-on infuriated, and he was sharing that unhappiness in spades. 

So much for being smitten with his Kitten.

“What are they saying?” he demanded of his assistant, his eyes never wavering from the woman at his side.

And the woman in question no longer looked sleepy.  Her back was ramrod straight, face pale, lips were flattened into a tight line.  She might have been trying not to vomit or have a stroke.  It was hard to tell which.

“Sounds like the pap-rats are at it again...” Richie said under his breath.  Sheridan didn’t look away from her husband, who was glaring daggers and grunting into the phone, but she dipped her chin once in agreement.

This was not going to be a good scene.  No matter what had happened, Jon was off-the-charts pissed.  Richie had seen it now and again throughout their years as friends and co-workers, and it was never a pretty sight.  He only hoped it didn’t turn into the blame-game he’d seen Jon revert to so often. 

Thoughtfully, Richie wondered if that’s maybe where he had picked up the need to assign blame to someone for the media jackal’s loose lips.  It was frustrating as hell to be furious and have no one to direct it to. 

He looked again at Sheridan, who was stoically waiting for the call to be finished.  Jon had directed his eyes out the darkened car window and her eyes had fallen to her lap, where she was absently toying with her wedding ring. 

She looks like she could fall over from exhaustion, but she might be taking another kind of fall very shortly.  Again.

“Yeah, Jeri.  Nah, that’s okay.  There’s nothing to do but ride it out.  Again.  Thanks for the heads-up.”  He tapped the screen and continued to cradle the phone in his hand as he turned to his wife.  “Would you like to know what that was about?”

“They got some good pictures of us at the game?” she guessed cheerfully, forcing a smile.

“Not exactly, Stormy Kingston.”

Sheridan’s smile wavered a bit and Richie leaned back into his seat as the car continued to wind its way closer to the hotel.  That tidbit had piqued his curiosity. 

“Who’s Stormy Kingston?” he asked interestedly. 

“Stormy Kingston writes porn articles for Cosmo,” Jon explained, the stink-eye revving back up and pinning his female counterpart to the wall of the car.  “Which I told her would come back to bite us in the ass.  Well, guess what, baby?  It sunk its fangs into my left cheek tonight.”

Wooden Sheridan came to life, countering, “It’s not porn, it’s just erotic fiction.”

“Bullshit.  That’s a politically correct term conjured up by horny women to make reading it acceptable.  The goddamn media is practically calling my wife a porn star and speculating over my ‘prowess’!  I told you – I fucking told you! – that I didn’t want you to publish that shit, and this is exactly why! “

“It…  It can’t be that big of a deal, Jon.  If anyone should be embarrassed, it would be me when my parents catch wind.”

Light eyebrows slammed down over lethal blue eyes.  “Oh, you think so?  What about my kids?  You don’t think they’ll be embarrassed?  What about the people who work at my Soul Foundation?  At the Soul Kitchen?  All the people affiliated with my philanthropical work?  They shouldn’t be embarrassed that the CEO has a fucking Playboy bunny flaunting her shit in front of the world?  And what about me, Sheridan?  You think I should laugh it off?”

Sheridan’s guilt-riddled eyes batted several times in rapid succession and skimmed toward Richie, who was still trying to get a read on the situation. 

“Can we discuss this later?”

Jon emphatically shook his head .  “No, we cannot discuss it later, because God knows who is waiting at the hotel to catch a picture of Jon Bon Hefner and his Anna Nicole Smith.”

Her chin jutted out stubbornly and eyes that had been on the verge of tears became hard with determination.  “I’m not airing our dirty laundry in public.”

“Ha,” he snorted, bringing an accusing finger within inches of her nose.  “You already published our dirty deeds!  It doesn’t make a good goddamn bit of difference who knows it now.” 

She didn’t flinch and didn’t retaliate.  Richie could tell it was a concentrated effort, but, other than a nervous gnawing at her bottom lip, she was holding her poise as much as anyone possibly could.  Sheridan Bongiovi earned a mark of respect in his book for not knocking the hell out of the husband who was doing his best to cut her to ribbons. 

Call it white knight syndrome or a byproduct of his ma’s raising, but Richie couldn’t idly sit back and watch the carnage.   You didn’t treat women – pregnant women, at that – with anything but kid gloves.  It wasn’t his place to decide right or wrong, but he did feel like he was within his rights to keep things from being needlessly ugly. 

“Jon, man, take a deep breath.  Don’t be a prick when you don’t have to.”

“Me?”  The ire took a new focus and Jon swung his head toward Richie.  “I think I’m entitled to be a prick.”  He swiveled his face back to Sheridan, again aiming his finger at her.  “Don’t ever doubt me again when it comes to anything in the public eye.  I have just a little more motherfucking experience with it than you do!”

Her features were drawn as she pushed the finger away.  “Stop swearing at me.  We can talk about this in private.”

“I’ll stop fucking goddamn well swearing at you when you acknowledge that I’m right!  What you’re going to do now is call that damn photographer you buddied up to and find out why I keep finding my personal business life in print.”

The car was rolling up to the hotel entrance where there were, indeed, a few photographers hanging around the front door.  Waiting to prey like the vultures they could be.

“Dude, maybe we should bypass the bar so you two can go upstairs and talk.”

“No,” Sheridan insisted, re-tying the scarf around her neck.  Her shoulders were stiff and, by the pronounced lines around her mouth, Richie would swear the girl had aged about five years in the last five minutes.  “Jon could probably use a drink.  I know I could use a minute without being screamed at.”

“Hell, yes, I need a drink,” her husband grumbled, zipping up the marshmallow coat and pulling the collar up around his ears.  “But don’t think we aren’t going to finish this and lay out some goddamn ground rules.”

It hit Richie’s soft spot the way her eyes dropped to the floor, mortified at being addressed as though she were a willful subservient.  She wouldn’t even glance in Richie’s direction anymore, even when he tried to get her attention, hoping to offer a silent show of empathy.  He’d been on her end of this kind of conversation before.

Taking a deep breath as the handle clicked and the door swung open, she looked straight ahead and spoke through teeth that were gritted in the veneer of a smile. “Shut up, Jon, and smile for the cameras.”

(FYI...next post is scheduled for Saturday)