47 - The Writing on the...

The eyes boldly meeting his were evergreen dark with the shadows of what he strongly suspected was hurt.  She wouldn’t shrivel up and cry like a little girl.  Sheridan had too much pride for that, but when you added in the defensive way that she held her leg to her chest…  There was no doubt she was smarting from his ‘innocent’ question. 

Jon fucking hated it. 

In a rare moment of weakness, he’d let himself be bullied into pursuing the ‘obvious’ source of this leak.  The two people in the world that had jointly comprised his other half for the past quarter of a century were determined that Sheridan was at fault, and they’d practically demanded her head on a platter.

And you came over here to give it to ‘em.

God help him, he had.  Despite the fact that, deep down in his bones, he’d known it wasn’t true.  From the first minute Richie suggested it, he couldn’t fathom that kind of betrayal from this woman.  No, he hadn’t known her all that long, but there were certain ways in which she was so much like him.  His best qualities – including integrity – were mirrored in her.

With her gently thrown gauntlet, “Now… is that enough?” echoing in his ears, Jon pushed all the bullshit aside.  He was going to make this decision the same way he always made all of the important judgment calls – he trusted his gut.

“It’s enough, Kitten.”

Relief didn’t flood her features.  Righteous indignation didn’t bubble out with a hearty slap to his face.  Her expression and posture didn’t change at all, as a matter of fact.  Evergreen eyes were still shadowed.  Guarded.  As though she were waiting for another undeserved accusation to be hurled her way. 

It didn’t make a tinker’s damn what anybody else thought.  That reaction was enough to tell him his gut was right on the money.  Again. 

And that he was an insensitive jackass.  Again.

He would make it right, but he wasn’t going to grovel.

Sneaking his hand across the short expanse of cushion that separated them, he curled his fingers around her ankle and walked them up the inside of her baggy pant leg until he found bare skin.  She stiffened against the touch, but it didn’t deter his thumb from softly petting the side of her calf.  “You think you could help me figure out how this happened?”

Cosmetically dark, sooty lashes blinked once.  Sheridan remained quietly reserved when answering the question with a question of her own.  “Are you staying for dinner?”

Dinner.  Shit.

“I can’t.  I’m supposed to be picking up dinner for the kids,” Jon apologized with genuine regret, continuing his gentle ministrations on her calf until the set of her shoulders softened the tiniest bit.  “I’ll call you tonight after the younger kids are in bed.  Okay?”

“Sure.”  She eased her leg away and let it slide to the floor, glancing at him from the corner of her eye as she gracefully rose to her feet.  “I’ll probably order something in myself, and then do my gift wrapping.”

Jon watched her fiddle with the elegantly printed tubes of paper on the dining table.  She pointlessly tried to straighten them when they were already aligned with military precision. 

He hated like hell that he couldn’t stay.  That he didn’t have time to spend with her until ‘they’ were back to the same place they’d been before he walked into her apartment this evening.  From his perspective, that place was bordering on the verge of something special, and he hoped this…  stupidity hadn’t screwed that up.

“Kitten?  Are we okay?” 

Lifting her face, she smiled absently when he sidled up beside her, capturing her hands and slowly pivoting her.  The hairy black socks she wore slipped easily on the wood floor until she faced him, distant eyes gradually coming into focus.

“Jon, can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”  He made a move to brush over the arch of her cheek with his knuckles, but she drew back.  Just enough to let him know she was still stung.  He let the rejected hand fall to his side without comment.

“When you speak to Richie, or Dorothea, again… and they insist that it has to be my fault, because there’s no one else…   Are we going to revisit this scene?”

“No.”  Jon spoke in a clear and definitive voice, without hesitation.  The hand that still held hers wrapped itself a little tighter.  “You said you didn’t, and that’s the end of it.” 

“You’re sure?  Because I don’t want to be bounced up and down like a yo-yo in our relationship, worrying that you’re going to change your mind and turn on me again.  If you need to leave, please do it now.”

He didn’t want to leave at all, not until he could fix this and she knew, without question, that he was on her side.  But that wasn’t a luxury he had tonight.  It was one of the few times in his life he wished he didn’t have to take care of his children.

Dammit, I don’t have time to make this right.

Jon scrabbled for a way to put a quick, temporary Band-Aid on the situation.  Even though they were limited on time, he didn’t want to leave her still feeling  hurt and  uncertain about them.

Because, if there was anything good to come out of this mess, it was his renewed certainty that he wanted a long-term relationship with Sheridan.  She hadn’t burst into tears, she hadn’t thrown a screaming fit and called him everything but a white man...  and she hadn’t been responsible for the leak.  He knew that without a doubt.

If he only had that black velvet box from Piaget in his pocket, this would be so much easier.  Glancing at the dining table’s surface, he struck upon an idea that might suffice until Christmas.

“You told me this weekend that you were mine.  Did you mean it?”   

Her answer was slow to come, but it was firm and sure when it did.  “Yes.  Do you regret making me?”

Maintaining a firm grip on her hand, so she wouldn’t withdraw it, Jon bent at the waist and leaned toward the table to snag the black Sharpie that was lying there.   He stuck the capped end between his teeth, leaving it to dangle there while he pushed the black velour sleeve up to the middle of her forearm.  When the inside of her wrist had been exposed, he bit down on the marker cap and pulled the writing end free.  

“What are you doing?”  Flicking his eyes up to her face, Jon saw that it was crinkled with confusion.  She squirmed in a feeble effort to reclaim her wrist.

He spat the cap in the direction of the rolls of wrapping paper, bringing the felt tip to hover over the delicate veins that shone blue under the translucency of her skin.  “Marking you as mine.”

Taking more time and care than he usually did, he deliberately scrawled his signature – not his autograph – across her wrist.  It was awkward since he didn’t normally write so small, but he wanted it to fit in the width of her arm.  With an extra loopy ‘H’ in ‘John’ and a matching ‘G’ loop in ‘Bongiovi’, he succeeded and gingerly dotted each ‘I’ so as not to stab her. 

He slowly lifted her wrist, bending his head over it.  Shaping his mouth into a small oval, Jon blew a gentle puff of air across the ink-darkened flesh.    He watched her carefully from beneath hooded lids, and slow, second puff further ensured that the marking wouldn’t smudge. 

She was staring at him and breathing through slightly parted lips.  Heated green eyes were free of any shadows.  The only thing lurking in the lightened shade of moss was an expression he’d gotten quite adept at interpreting – the first stirrings of arousal.

We’re still good.

Relieved at the confirmation, Jon pressed his lips over the poor man’s tattoo until he felt her pulse throbbing an uneven rhythem against them.  Only then did he move to stand upright.  It could easily be covered by a wide bracelet or watch band, if she wanted, but it wasn’t going anywhere for a while. 

Maintaining eye-contact, he needlessly murmured, “That’s permanent marker.”

“Permanent marker isn’t permanent on skin,” she returned on a near-whisper.

With a gentle tug on the wrist that now bore his name, he settled it into the small of his back.  It left her arm curved around his waist and Jon completed the circle by hooking his wrists behind her – careful to point the marker away from her shirt. 

“It’ll do for now.  You’re mine, Sheridan.  That’s your proof, whenever you need it.  I protect what is mine, and I won’t tolerate your name in the same sentence as this shit again.”  He was as sincere as he knew how to be, and he hoped she got that.  Questioningly, he lifted his brow.  “Do you understand me?  Do you believe me?”

Her free hand snaked up his chest until it could comfortably cradle his jaw.  Jon turned his face into the palm, pressing another kiss there as she said simply, “Yes.”    

Thirty minutes later, after bidding Jon good-bye with their only proper kiss today, Sheridan was still sitting on the sofa, staring at her phone.  Not a single gift had been wrapped.  Not a single thing had even been taken from the bags in the closet.  Everything she needed to do sat untouched while she wrestled with her conscience, undecided as to what to do. 

There was no question of what she wanted to do, but was it ethical?  Did she have the right?  And would it matter in the long run?  Had the (irreparable) damage already been done?

You’re neck deep in this now. Ethical or not, you know you have to.  Now own the decision and do it.

Snatch the iPhone up and seeking out the recently added contact information, she tapped the button before she could change her mind.  She took a deep breath, tucking her legs under her while she waited for the call to go through. 

“Hello?”

Sheridan put on a bright smile, as though the caller could see it and greeted her with all the sunshine she could pipe into her voice.  “Hi, Bridget! It’s Sheridan.  I hate to impose upon you again, especially so soon after the first time, but I have a really big favor to ask.  Huge, in fact…”

Those of you who read Focused on You may be expecting this....
We deeply regret having to inform you that this story is taking a BRIEF hiatus.  Brief, as in one week.  Life is crazy right now and we are writing just to make deadline rather than crafting a story worthy of your loyalty.  That's not what we want this to be.  Rest assured that we are not taking a break from actual writing, but we need just a bit of time to get our collaborative efforts back on the same track.  We'll get caught back up and be back to twice a week again, promise!

If we had our choice, we would rather not do this, but right now it doesn't seem to be avoidable.  We can only hope you understand and realize you're going to reap the benefits. Thank you for your continued support, comments and readership!!!

♥blush  & Audra

Next posting:  Monday, February 4.

46 - Do You Really Have to Ask?

Sheridan pushed in the door, letting her shopping bags hit the floor with a cacophony of rattling paper and plastic.  Her feet hurt.  Her nose was cold, her stomach was churning at the odd combination of pastries, cappuccino and pizza throughout the day, and she was freaking tired!

Madison had enough energy for both her mother and Sheridan, pulling them along and convincing them to take her ice skating at Rockefeller Center  until the tree lit up for the night at five o’clock.  Given that the girl was reasonably good on skates – thanks to three years of private lessons – the women at least got to sit on the sidelines and watch rather than having to strap those thin blades to the soles of their feet. 

Not that Sheridan could do it anyway.  She had no physical coordination whatsoever.  After the second time she cracked her tailbone trying to ice skate, she admitted she would never be able to do it, and stood aside to admire those who could.

Self-awareness did not make for warm toes, though, and she was eager for a hot shower and fuzzy socks.  Once she thawed out, she would break out the gift wrap and ribbon that she’d picked up at Macy’s.  It would be nice to finish up most of her wrapping tonight, since she had nothing else on her agenda.

Hanging her coat up, she was just reaching into the pocket for her phone when it started vibrating and singing out its generic ringtone.  She flipped it around to check the screen, and found that it was Jon calling.  She hadn’t gotten around to assigning him a special ring. 

With a wide smile, she pulled out a dining chair to sit in and answered cheerfully, “Hey!  I didn’t expect to hear from you.  What a pleasant surprise.”

His voice was the opposite end of the happy spectrum from cheerful.  Jon’s “Where are you?” was terse and abrupt.

“I…”  Sheridan was thrown for a little bit of a loop, and stuttered as a result.  “I just got home, why?”

“I’m coming over.  I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”

“Okay,” she said, perplexed.  But she was addressing her agreement to no one.  He’d hung up without waiting for a reply. 

Frowning, she put the phone on the table.  Ten minutes wasn’t enough time for a shower, she realized with a distracted frown, unable to fathom what could be prompting Jon’s behavior.  Had something else happened with his ex-wife?  Or his youngest boy?

She still had no idea when she padded down the stairs after changing into a soft black lounge outfit and matching fluffy socks.  The bags commanded attention, as they were strewn in front of the doorway, so she shuttled them into the closet while she waited for Jon.  It was a distraction from the worry that was starting to build inside her.

He should be here by now, shouldn’t he?

But he still wasn’t by the time all the bags had been transferred. 

So, after ferreting out the wrapping supplies and dumping them on the dining room table, she went to the kitchen drawer to locate the rest of the things she would need to package up her gifts.  Nervous energy had her aligning everything neatly on the table, from largest to smallest.  Tall paper rolls, then ribbon, gift tags, scissors, a black Sharpie and tape.  

That accomplished, she was busily checking the clock when the door buzzer sounded.

“Thank God,” she muttered, anxiously moving toward the door.  Sheridan was reassessing that sentiment when she saw that Jon’s face looked as somber and serious as his call had been.  The man who always carried a markedly youthful appearance was looking every day of his forty-nine years.  And then some.

It drove all sense of propriety and social convention from her head.  Instead of a proper, more traditional greeting, “What’s wrong?” was the first thing that came toppling out.

“Can I come in?”

Let the man inside, Sheridan.

“Of course,” she acquiesced, taking a hasty step backward so that he could brush by and shrug out of his jacket.  There was no warm greeting in his eyes.  No welcome kiss.  A chill of trepidation went up her spine as he used a dining room chair as a coat rack, and then strode a determined path to the sofa.

“We have a problem.”

Taking in his ramrod straight back sitting on the edge of the cushion, his hands draped in loose fists over his knees and the pronounced lines in his face, she couldn’t say that his proclamation surprised her.

“I kind of got that impression,” she said quietly, sitting next to him.  “What’s going on?”

He dipped his head, the wheels visibly spinning as he channeled that politically correct, public figure persona she’d seen only from afar.   When he found the words he was looking for, there was little doubt that his approach was carefully and purposefully chosen. 

“The media jackals are trying to sink their teeth into a story.”

Her first thought was of his children.  More specifically, the trouble he’d been having with Romeo.  What else could possibly be so grave? 

The impulse to comfort him came without conscious thought, and Sheridan scooted closer, placing a gentle hand over the waffled material of the black Henley covering his shoulders.

“What is it, sweetheart?”

He didn’t withdraw from her touch, but he didn’t soften under it and made no attempt to reciprocate.  Nor did he look at her.

“They found out about the fall Richie took in his kitchen on Thursday night.”

Sheridan’s hand fell away at the flatly issued statement.  That particular news surprised her.  It was unexpected on multiple levels.

“What? How?”

Now he turned to look at her, eyes piercing and hard as the set of his shoulders.  “That’s what I wanna know.”

She was so busy trying to come up with a possible scenario that she missed the undertone of accusation in his clipped statement.  How could this possibly have happened?  It wasn’t like there had been a crowd of people at Richie’s house that night. 

“But…  You and I were the only ones there,” she mused aloud.

“I’m aware of that.”  Her eyes snapped up.  That undertone was coming through loud and clear now.  “Did you talk to anyone about it? Maybe even mention it just casually to…  I don’t know…  your friend at the gossip rag?”

In an instant, she found out exactly how much power he had to hurt her.  That… insult was more painful than anything she could recall in recent memory.  The only thing that even came close was the morning he walked away without a backward glance.

Evidently, we haven’t moved as far beyond that moment as I wanted to believe.

Sheridan’s voice was purposefully soft – and maybe a bit incredulous – when she restated the question the way it was intended.  “You’re accusing me of leaking a celebrity’s highly sensitive, personal information to the media.”

“I’m not accusing,” he corrected mildly.  “I’m asking.  Richie told me he overheard you talking to your friend.  You had news she’d find interesting, or something like that.”

“But you – both of you – automatically assume that I have to be responsible.”  She’d gone emotionless now, by way of the cold block of ice forming in the center of her chest. 

“I didn’t automatically assume anything.  I told Dorothea about it yesterday, so she was the first one I called after I talked to Richie.”

Dorothea.  Of course the woman who had been a coveted part of the Bon Jovi underworld would be instantly declared blameless.

Sheridan laughed humorlessly, slumping back into the sofa cushions with a disbelieving shake of her head.  “I’m sure she was more than willing to pin it on your new girlfriend.”

His silence was all that was necessary to confirm that suspicion.

“So you think I did this?  You think I violated your confidentiality and threw a poison dart at not only your livelihood, but your friend’s?”

Jon shifted so that he could see her over his shoulder, disregarding her inquiry in favor of his own.  “I’d like for you to answer my question.  Why did you call that woman?”

“And I’d like for you to answer mine.”

“Sheridan, don’t be juvenile,” he huffed, turning around more fully to face her.  “Just tell me what the fucking phone call was about.  It shouldn’t be that hard if there’s nothing to hide.”

His face was creased with anger, frustration, exasperation…  all of those damnable negative emotions that could drain you dry.  And then there were his eyes.  They glittered with pain. 

Pain that I’ve done this to him, or that he has to ask me at all?

“Jon,” she began softly, bending her leg.  When her heel was planted in the cushion and her arms were wrapped protectively around her knee, she reminded him, “You were the one who left, and then came back asking me to trust you.  Asking to earn my trust.  Part of the reason I told you about Madison was to offer you the proof that you had it.  My full trust.  I’d just seen a facet of your life that was very private, and I wanted to show you that I trusted you as much as I thought you trusted me.”

“Is there a point to this?”

Her nostrils flared with a silent sigh and she lifted her eyes to lock into his.  “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then tell me about the call, so I can let it go.”

Here it was.  They had circled the block and returned to the busy mid-town intersection of Sex and Relationship.  They’d been riding along Sex Street in the beginning, but she thought they’d made the turn onto Relationship Road when he came back and asked for her trust.  Somehow, though, they had found their way back onto the street that didn't require trust, only lust.  Now, with their turn signal blinking as they got closer and closer to Relationship Road again, she knew it was going to take mutual trust to turn that wheel.   Without it they had nothing but a series of hot, one-night stands.

The magic question was… did they have it? 

There was only one way to find out.

Sheridan tipped her chin, never breaking eye contact.  “I could, and I will if you need me to.  I’ll tell you everything if that’s what it takes to clear my name, but honestly…?  I’d like to think you trust me enough to take me at my word.  I didn’t do anything wrong.”  Cocking her head to the side, she asked softly.  “Now…  Is that enough?”

45 - Feces, Meet Fan

Richie strummed another chord or two and picked up the pen again. He was in a good place today. The words were flowing. The music was flowing. They were melding together in a cathartic salve to soothe his tattered soul.

He was convinced that if he could get this album finished, the ghosts would finally be exorcised.  Work - this work - would be the final step in his personal road to redemption.    There was a light at the end of the tunnel and he was getting steadily closer.

And finding the inner fortitude and strength to put the songs in front of producer and get the tracks down...  It would give him something to fill the void besides booze.  Once he got this off his chest he could live life clean and fully present. 

He set the guitar aside for a moment and, returning the pen to the center of the pad that lay on the coffee table, Richie swept his hand to the right.  Long, string-imprinted fingertips gently grasped the glass stem of his wine glass. A rich red vintage swirled in its bowl, and then swam past his lips.

Wine relaxed him. The words came more fluently if he had a glass while he wrote.

The fragile base clicked against the teak surface of the table, and he scooped up the phone that was also lying there, face-down.   It had been on silent, as was his habit when writing, and he pushed the button to wake it.

“What the hell?” 

He had six missed calls from his publicist and a text – all in the last ten minutes.

[2:30 PM]RHONDA: Call me.  NOW!

What could be so damned important? 

He held the phone at arm’s length so he could read the names in his contact list, scrolling until he found Rhonda Valentine.    With a single tap, he initiated the call and leaned back into the sofa, crossing his legs so that his right ankle was resting on his left knee and waited for it to ring.  He didn’t think it had a chance to do that when she answered.

“Where have you been and what have you been doing?  Better yet, who was doing it with you?”

The normally unflappably thirty-something’s voice was terse.  Or perhaps annoyed.

“Hello to you, too, Darlin’,” he drawled, putting on his game face.  Never let ‘em see you sweat unless it’s on the stage.  It was a motto that went way back..  “What’s the problem?”

“TMZ has called here no less than three times in the last half an hour wanting confirmation that you fell off of a stool in a drunken stupor, injuring your back and driving you into rehab again.”

Mother.  Fucker. You’ve got to be kidding me!

Only two people knew about that, and one of them was his best friend and boss.  Jon would never breathe a word of it.  Ever.  But his new girlfriend…  had called a gossip rag from Richie’s fucking house.

That bitch!

“Well?”  The pitbull on his payroll demanded.  “Is it true?  What happened?  I have to know so I can figure out how to spin this, Richie.”

He was beyond furious.  A woman who was a guest in his home went and blabbed a private incident?  What the hell kind of nerve did she have?  All because he was slightly inappropriate?  Because that wasn’t a blip on the inappropriate radar in their world.  If he’d been inclined, Richie could have bent her over the counter, fucked her senseless, and still made it fly with Jon.  She should consider herself lucky he’d jacked off before coming to the kitchen.

“I had a house guest who might have misrepresented an incident,” he informed her tightly.  “I slipped in my kitchen.  Period.  It didn’t even require medical attention.  Anything they’ve heard has been blown completely out of proportion, and I’m sure as hell not going to rehab.  Get a lid on this Rhonda.”

❧❧❧

“Jon, it’s not good,” Jeri told him gravely.  “TMZ has been calling your PR people trying to confirm a story about Richie.  Something about hurting his back in a drunken fall in his kitchen and that he’s headed back to rehab.”

Sonofoabitch!  Richie, you schmuck.  Why can’t you keep your ass sober??

He didn’t need this now.  Hell, he never needed this.  Every… damn… time...  he got one of these phone calls, it sent his blood pressure skyrocketing high enough to dwarf the Statue of Liberty.

Call-waiting beeped in his ear before he could form a more coherent thought, and he jerked the phone away from his head to squint at the screen.  He felt the furrows trench into his forehead as deep as the Grand Canyon and the frown lines around his mouth set in concrete. 

Sambora. 

His anger married itself to a sinking feeling of dread.  There were only so many places this information could have come from, and he kind of doubted Richie leaked his own backslide.

Slapping the device back against his ear, he used a velvet glove over his voice of steel. It wasn’t her fault, after all.  “Jeri, you know the rule.  No comment.  Ever.  I gotta go.  Thanks for the heads up.”

He swiped a resigned finger over the right button to switch calls and braced himself.  God only knew how Richie would react.  Anger, casual indifference, or devastation – any and all were possible, depending on his mood when the news broke.

“You brought that bitch into my house when you don’t even know how to keep a leash on her?”

Apparently Richie assumed Jon already knew what he already knew.  It was a fair assumption.  He usually did. 

“Calm the fuck down, Richard.”  He kept his voice flat and uncolored by any semblance of emotion as he paced the wall of windows in his living room.  Going into defense and killing each other wasn’t going to undo anything.  “You don’t know that Sheridan did anything, so don’t go slingin’ shit, when you’re the one who fell in it.”

“I don’t know?  How the hell could I NOT know?  You wouldn’t tarnish the damn band image, and she was the ONLY other one who knows about it.”

Jesus H. Christ.

He perched on the arm of the sofa, disheveling his hair with a restless palm, his knee bouncing agitatedly.  Why couldn’t life just be simple for once in his damn life? 

“No.  To be fair, Dottie knows about it.” 

Also to be fair, that was about as asinine as Jon calling TMZ personally.  Dorothea had gone decades without breathing a word to anyone about anything.  She couldn’t be pissed enough to take a lifetime code of silence and shatter it with one bitchy blow.  Could she?

“Well, she’s sure as fuck never cared before,” Richie concurred with the unspoken rationale.  “Why would she start now?  No.  It was your fuckin’ girlfriend who tried to sell me out.  I heard her on the phone with that gossip rag while she was still in my damn house.”

“What?  What gossip rag?  What the hell are you talking about?”

The call to the publisher?  Was that what Richie was talking about?  Frowning, Jon realized Sheridan never offered any further explanation after saying the woman was an old friend. 

“She was in my office on the phone.  I heard her.  Told the chick she had some interesting news for her, but that she wanted her to keep it under wraps for the time being.”  The bitter chuckle rankled in Jon’s ear.  “Gee, wonder what the hell that could’ve been?”

Jon scrubbed a hand over his face, pained eyes scrunched together to block out the shit storm flying around him.  Blowing a sharp breath out, he forced his eyes wide and his blood pressure down.  “Let’s not forget Grace is not exactly out of the loop here.  Reality is, you don’t know jack.”

“I know Sheridan keeps your balls in her tampon case.”

There was no way he could engage in that debate without creating an irreparable rift in their friendship.  Richie was upset and emotional.  As usual, Jon had to be the one to man-up and take care of business instead of wallowing in the gutter.  He didn’t get the luxury of defending himself.  “I will get to the bottom of this, and in the meantime…”

“Yeah, I got it, Boss,” the normally congenial guitarist sneered, loathing dripping from his voice.  “Keep my fuckin’ mouth shut.  I’m not a moron.”

“S’not what it looked like when your drunk ass it the floor.” The Jersey in him couldn’t resist the one-line zinger, but he stood and seamlessly shifted back to his Godfather persona.  “This will die a quick and painless death if we don’t feed it.  I’m hanging up.  I’ll call you back when I know something.”

Jon crossed the arm holding the phone over his middle and placed the fingers of his other hand thoughtfully against his lips.  His mind raced as the lights of New York City did their best to break through the early evening darkness that had just settled into the bustling metropolis.

He didn’t want to believe Sheridan could be responsible for this.  She was so…  responsible, honest, compassionate, caring…  All the positive traits he liked to think that he, himself, possessed. 

But she doesn’t have your negative traits does she?  Temper, arrogance, impatience.  What negative traits does she have for that matter? She’s almost too good to be true.

There was at least one instance of dishonesty – or lie by omission.  She’d concealed that egg donation thing from her family and husband.  Was she simply omitting all of her bad qualities? 

She told you.  Doesn’t that count for something?

“Dad?”

He whirled around, commanding his facial muscles into a more neutral expression.  “Yeah, Jess?”

His oldest son gestured toward the staircase and the eight foot evergreen monstrosity that had been delivered about an hour ago.  “Do we have to wait until after the tree for dinner?  What are we having?”

A reluctant smile twitched at Jon’s lips.  Sometimes life came down to basics.  Starving teenage boys were basics. 

“Go find something to snack on, and then start putting lights on the tree.  As soon as I call your mom, I’ll run out and pick up some dinner.  We’ll start with the ornaments after we eat.”

“Can we have pizza?”

He snickered.  “Pizza?  Again?  Don’t you want something different for a change?”

“No.”  Jesse clearly had no idea why that would even cross his mind. 

“Go see if you can sell Steph on it,” he conceded with a sigh, knowing the other boys would be thrilled.  “Lemme make my call and I’ll stick my head in before I leave.”

“I can just call for delivery, you know.”

“Yeah, but I have an errand to run, anyway.  It’ll be just as easy to pick it up.  Now go.”

As the exasperated teen made his way back to the lower-level bedrooms, Jon slowly strode past the unadorned tree, carefully taking the stairs two at a time until he reached the top and got to his office.  Closing the door behind him, he took the few concentrated steps that would put him behind the big wooden desk.  He hoped it would remind him to stay calm and detached during this conversation.

Jesus, this is gonna suck.

A root canal would be preferable to making this call, but it was preferable to the alternative of calling Sheridan first.  He didn’t want to think this was possible.  He didn’t want to believe it.

So he would start with Dorothea.  She stayed pissed at him lately, anyway.

The phone rang once in his ear.  Then again.  And again.

Answer the damn phone so I can get this over with.

“Hello?” she picked up on the fourth ring.

“Dottie.”  He didn’t waste time with pleasantry bullshit.  “Have you seen TMZ?”

“No.  I didn’t watch that when I was married to a celebrity.  Why would I watch it now?” The snarkiness was so familiar that he barely registered it as anything other than her normal tone of voice. 

“They’re trying to confirm a piece on Richie.  If they haven’t run it yet, it’s just a matter of time.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!  What’s he done now?” she sighed with disgust.

“Nothing that you don’t already know about.  They somehow got wind of the fall he took in the kitchen this weekend…  The one I told you about yesterday.”

A thick, heavy silence grew long enough to bridge the distance from SoHo to Jersey.  It was stretching to the verge of being pointedly uncomfortable when she finally spoke

“I know…” she uttered with a deceptive and eerie calm.  “That you aren’t implying they heard it from me.”

“I’m just covering all the bases.”

“Oh really?  Did you cover the base that you’re fucking?  Your girlfriend?  I can only assume that if you were in bed there, that she was too.”

“Dorothea…”

But she wasn’t stopping to listen until she’d said her piece.  “I have never, in almost thirty years, spoken a word to anyone about the shitty trouble you guys can get yourselves into.  Sounds like she didn’t make it thirty minutes.”

“Don’t start!   I’m just ask-“

“No, you’re just insulting me,” she interrupted sharply.  “I realize you aren’t my husband anymore, but-  Christ, Jon!  Don’t you have any respect at all for me?”

He let his head fall back and his eyes closed in a rare silent prayer for strength.  This was what he’d been dreading.  It wasn’t that way.  Deep down, he knew she didn’t do it, but the alternative…

“Of course I respect you,” Jon assured her evenly once he’d checked his frustration.  “I respect the hell out of you.  That’s why I called you before I made any assumptions.”

She snorted loudly and rudely in his ear.  “Yeah, well, you’re a better person than I am.  I’m making plenty of assumptions.  And, whether you will admit it or not, you know they’re the right ones.”

44 - Shop 'Til You Drop

Jon stepped out of Bergdorf Goodman onto Fifth Avenue, laden down with several more bags than the Abercrombie & Fitch, Ugg and Louis Vuitton ones that he’d gone in with.    Christmas shopping was in full-force with the Bongiovi clan. 

God, I hate shopping.

Stephanie had chosen a handbag and necklace for his mom, along with a pair of rain boots for herself, a sweater and jeans for her mother and a furry scarf for his sister-in-law, Desiree.  Jon and the boys had picked out leather gloves and a favorite cologne for his dad, along with an iPad case for his brother Tony, and a cashmere scarf for Matt. 

They were going to FAO Schwarz next, to grab a bite of lunch and find gifts for his niece and nephew.  With enough smooth-talking, his sons would likely end up with a couple of things as well.  Then they would stop in the Apple store before heading to their last stop at Macy’s – for Christmas ornaments. 

But there was one other store he needed to visit to complete his personal shopping list…

“Steph, why don’t you and Jesse take your brothers to the café at the toy store for lunch?  I’ve got a quick errand to run and I’ll catch up with you guys in a few minutes.”

“Sure, Daddy,” she agreed amicably, pulling her knit cap down over her ears.  One mittened palm was expectantly presented.    

He passed the bags off to his sons and brought out his wallet to find the credit card they could do the least damage with.  “I’ll be there in about half an hour.”

“Where are you going?” his Bohemian Barbie doll of a daughter asked with an impish grin, as though she had some idea of his secret agenda. 

Where was he going?  Piaget.  Jon had spotted a sign in the window of the store as they’d passed by on the way from Abercrombie to Bergdorf’s.  It had snagged his interest.  Now he was going back to find out if it was a sign of the perfect Christmas gift for Sheridan.

“Nunya.”

Being familiar with all the stores in this area, her pretty forehead wrinkled with confusion as Jake and Romeo hit each other with the bags in their custody.  Jesse was checking text messages and looking impatient. 

“What’s that?”

“That, my darling daughter, is nunya business.”  He dropped a kiss on her cheek and reclaimed the heaviest of the bags.  “You guys hold onto the rest of them.  FAO Café.  That’s it.  No place else, understood?  Jake.  Romeo.  Stay with your brother and sister.”

The fruits of his loin gave the requisite grumbles of assent and Stephanie, the cheeky girl that she was, stuck her tongue out at him in mock annoyance before they ambled off in the opposite direction.

§§§

“Excuse me,” Sheridan apologized, stepping aside as the two teenagers and two younger children piled into the FAO Café.  She was on her way out after a pleasant pastry break with Suzy and Madison, but had somehow lost her shopping partners.  Scouting the little restaurant over her shoulder, she hadn’t been paying attention when the youngsters pulled on the door.

The lone girl of the group – a teenager with striking blue eyes – smiled in acknowledgement and herded, what Sheridan assumed, were her younger brothers inside.  “Thank you,” the other teen said politely when Sheridan held onto the door.  There was something about his sheepish smile that made her smile back.

“Don’t leave without us, Aunt Sheri!” Madison called, skirting her way around the boys who were somewhere around her age.  “Mommy had to go to the ladies room and made me go with her.  We told you, but you didn’t hear.”

The fiery little leprechaun danced to a stop at Sheridan’s booted feet, her own pink fur-topped footwear adding another scuff to the well-worn black leather of Sheridan’s.  Suzanne was right behind her, towing a shopping bag with the FAO Schwarz logo and looking only mildly exasperated.

“We did call after you, but your head was someplace else,” she accused mildly.  “Just like it’s been all morning.”

With a wrinkling of her nose, Sheridan shrugged her purse higher onto her shoulder and pushed through the glass door that would put them on the sidewalk of East 58^th Street, juggling her assortment of parcels.  There were bags from Abercrombie and Fitch, Ugg, Schwarz and Bergdorf’s.  Combined with an assortment of aromatherapy potions, they were all the gifts for her family. 

Suzanne, Karl and Madison, were getting a Disney cruise that set sail right after Christmas, so the only person left on her shopping list was Jon.  She still had nothing for the man she couldn’t stop thinking about.

“Don’t forget we’re going to the library,” Madison interjected, oblivious to the fact that her mother was waiting for some sort of response from her aunt.  “There’s a new Bug Girl book I want to get.”

“Of course I didn’t forget!”  Guiding her feet in the right direction for the 58^th Street Library, Sheridan was forced to admit to herself that she hadn’t exactly been the most present-minded today.  It was a miracle she’d successfully accomplished so much shopping with the way her mind was in turmoil. 

It’s just a token Christmas gift.

It was, but it wasn’t.  Sheridan wanted her gift to be personal, but she didn’t want it seem she was forcing anything. 

“Oh, hey, can we stop in here for a minute?” Suzanne asked, pausing under the evergreen awning that read ‘Spanierman Gallery’.  “They’re supposed to be shipping a painting to my mother in Florida.  Since we’re here, I’d like to make sure it’s gone out.”

“Sure.”

Madison jammed her hands into the pockets of her pink winter coat and frowned unhappily up at Sheridan, her big green eyes pitiful.  “I don’t like this place.”

“You’ve been here before?” Sheridan asked.  “Did you help your mom pick out something for Grandma Kate?”

“Mm-hmm.  It’s boring in there.”

“We won’t stay long,” Suzanne declared in the classic no-nonsense mommy voice.  A bell jangled lyrically after her gloved fingers twisted the shiny brass door handle.

Sheridan gave the little girl a nudge with her elbow.  “Come on.  You can show me around.  I’ve never been here.”

Youthfully thin shoulders slumped and she expelled a sigh, the size of which defied the capacity of her seven-year-old lungs.  The heat enveloped them as they trooped inside, as warm as the décor of the gallery itself.   

“There’s rooms,” Madi explained dutifully, leading Sheridan into one of them as her mother went to talk to the young lady at the desk.  “This one has a funny little bench couch that I sat on when I got bored.”

The ‘bench couch’ was actually a settee, but she saw no reason to correct the child.  Bench couch worked just fine.

“They got rid of those ugly flower pictures.  These ones aren’t so boring.”  Still, she plopped herself down on the bench couch and swung her feet as though the world were coming to an end.  Kids just naturally hated doing grownup stuff.

Sheridan set her bags down on the empty cushion and pointed to one of the beach-inspired paintings that graced the walls.  They carried traditional themes, but were executed with a slightly abstract blur to them.  “See those trees?  Do you know what kind of trees they are?”

“Palm trees.”

“That’s right,” she praised, wanting to see if she could draw a spark of enthusiasm by talking about the beach.  The trip was still a surprise, so she had to be careful.  “And where do you find palm trees?”

“The beach, but what’s that supposed to be?”

Smothering an indulgent smile, she turned to the driftwood frame that the girl indicated.  When canvas came into focus, Sheridan went a little weak in the knees from the speed with which she was transported back in time – to a stormy Jamaican night.

“What are you doing?” Jon asked quietly, his arms sliding around her waist after finding her on the terrace dressed in nothing but his shirt.    

She had awoken after a short nap, thirsty and requiring a bathroom.  Both needs taken care of, she was in the midst of fumbling her way back to the bed when a brilliant light caught her eye, drawing her like a magnet.  She drifted to the sliding glass door in a near zombie-like trance, fascinated with the light show that was taking place over the water.  The rain had stopped, but the lightning was still dancing like fireworks over the Caribbean. 

The sliding glass door opened easily under her touch as she was drawn outside for a closer look at Mother Nature’s light show.  She had no idea how long she’d been there when Jon joined her, but it was long enough to appreciate the heat of him at her back. 

“Watching the lightning,” she returned, shivering at the tickle of his hairy thighs against the swell of her bare bottom.  “The way it lights up not just the sky, but the whole sea…  It’s breathtaking.”

“Nah, that’s just lightning.  You’re breathtaking.”

With that, he leaned down to sink his teeth into the curve of her neck while working the shirt up to her waist.  Clearly comfortable in his own body, he hadn’t bothered with clothes, and his erection was already nudging at her entrance.  She rolled her hips in welcome about the time his hot palms enclosed her breasts, tugging at the nipples.

“Not me,” she murmured, ready for him again. “Us.  Sex between us.”

Not another word was spoken until much later, when they’d collapsed against the terrace wall, spent from competing with the brilliance of nature.  And winning.

“That…”  Sheridan had to clear her throat before she could answer.  “That’s lightning on the ocean.”

It was the general idea anyway, in a slightly abstract form.  The black and blue sky was split by a dazzling flash of light that tapered from white into a passionate shade of pink so hot it was almost red, searing into the ocean that held her spellbound.  That ocean was a turbulent maelstrom of color that could be blistering to the touch if you imagined hard enough, and scorching enough to ignite the force of nature that had burned between her and Jon that night on the terrace. 

“Sheri?”  A light hand touched her shoulder.  “Honey, are you okay?”

Sheridan shivered in the afterglow of her memory, a vivid smile dawning over her face. “Yeah.  Yeah, Suze, I’m great.”

She had just found Jon’s Christmas gift.

43 - Home for the Holidays

Sheridan checked the time on her phone.  Again.  This time it was nine-thirty instead of nine-twenty-eight, but there was still no text message from Jon.  She’d hoped for at least a quick text of thanks for the tiramisu.  Something. 

Stifling a disappointed sigh, she reasoned that he hadn’t seen his children in days.  They deserved his full, undivided attention and she was a mature woman, not some vapid, clingy girl who needed reassurance every five minutes.  She just missed him.

That’s what had prompted the Italian dessert delivery.  When Suzy had been unavailable, Sheridan coerced her sister into going out to dinner with the vague hope of cracking Riley’s code of silence about her conversation with Jon.  Both women had been in the mood for pasta, and Mezzaluna had been the obvious choice in Sheridan’s book.  The tiramisu on the menu had immediately stirred memories of her date with Jon at Delmonico’s, and she couldn’t resist sending it, just to let him know she was thinking of him.

Riley had given her a smug smile.

“What?” Sheridan asked defensively, cradling a glass of Pinot Grigio in her palm.

“At least I understand the new wine choice now.”

She frowned unpleasantly at her sister’s teasing.  “Shut up and tell me what you two talked about.”

“What?” was Riley’s laughing reply.  “He wouldn’t tell you?”

“Other than saying you invited him for Christmas, no.”

“Then I shouldn’t tell you either.”  Merry green eyes danced with mirth, but just as Sheridan was about throw a hissy fit, Riley amended her statement. “That doesn’t mean I’m not going to...”

It was all Sheridan could do to contain her delighted squeal.  Shoving her wineglass aside she propped her forearms against the edge of the small table for two and leaned beseechingly toward Riley’s side.  “Then tell me already!”

Her sister pretended nonchalance, picking up a breadstick and waving it casually.  “Oh, it was nothing really.  He just wanted to know what kind of jewelry you like, so he could pick out a Christmas gift.”  She bit the end of the breadstick off in one concise bite and beamed with satisfaction.  “Now you tell me…  Is he worthy of all the fantasies he inspires?”

A Christmas gift.  Oh, God, what am I going to get him for a Christmas gift?

“Definitely worthy.”

“I almost didn’t have to ask that,” Riley mused softly, extending an arm across the table and folding Sheridan’s hand into hers with a squeeze.  “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve seen you so happy that you practically glow?  Try never.  Any guy that can do that has got my vote, no matter who he is.” 

The entire rest of the meal, Sheridan searched anxiously in her mind for what to get a millionaire rock star boyfriend for Christmas.  Something personal, but not inappropriately so considering the short time they’d been together.

Sweater?  It would be fun to dress him, but as a gift it was boring.

Jewelry?  Was she edgy enough to choose jewelry for him?  Probably not, and a jewelry gift for a man carried more intimacy than a woman. 

Watch?  He was always wearing one, and it wasn’t too personal…  Maybe?

There was always something sex-related, but she didn’t want to go there.  Their love life was free and uninhibited all on its own.  There was no need for a special occasion to make it special.  Besides, she wanted him to have a ‘real’ gift. 

Arriving home with no more concrete an idea than she’d started with, Sheridan nonetheless had Christmas on the brain.  Her apartment didn’t reflect that though.  Other than her baking and candy last week, she hadn’t done a thing to commemorate the holiday in her home. 

To that end, she’d called maintenance to help her haul the miscellaneous boxes from her storage unit and put up her tree. 

Now white lights twinkled from the yet unadorned branches, their softly blurred reflection glowing in the glass panes of the terrace doors, and causing Sheridan to just stop and smile with appreciation.  Most people wouldn’t put their tree in the bedroom, but she liked to lie in bed and get lost in the sentimentality of it as she drifted off to sleep.  There weren’t that many visitors that came calling, anyway, so why shouldn’t it be where she could appreciate it? 

After bending to select a paper angel – handmade by Madison a couple of years ago – Sheridan couldn’t resist tapping the button on her phone again. 

Nine-forty.  No text. 

Stop moping and figure out what kind of gift to get him.

The screen had just gone black when it flared back to life with a shimmy against the mattress and proudly displayed ‘Jon’ at the top of the screen.

The angel fluttered back into the box of decorations and she scooped up the iPhone.  Falling back the bed,  she swiped a finger across it, grinning up at the ceiling.  “Hey, handsome,” she all but purred. 

“Hey yourself, beautiful.”  The sexily rumbled greeting was enough to tease her pulse into dancing a little faster. 

“How was your evening?”

“It was good, but it got even better when a delivery boy knocked on my door.”

“Oh yeah?”  She couldn’t stop smiling, and pushed a hand into her hair, securing it away from her face for a moment before allowing it to pool around her shoulders on the duvet.  “Did he bring anything good?”

“I dunno.  The kids liked the gelato and cannoli, but I haven’t tasted anything myself.”

A tiny furrow formed between her eyebrows.  “Why not?”

“Well, I have it on good authority that this tiramisu is sex in food form,” he explained in a lazy drawl.  “And seeing as you’re the only one I wanna have sex with… I waited.”

Shot through the heart, and you’re to blame.

“You’re a pretty smooth talker there, Bongiovi,” she tried to tease, put a little off-balance by his frankness.  Or bullshit.  Whichever was applicable.

“No smooth.  Just talking, Baby.”

Struck dumb, Sheridan blinked at the ceiling, feeling a little like she could float up there to dust the fan.  He hadn’t run screaming back to his single life after almost four solid days together.  He’d gone romantic. 

Holy cow.

“Well, I’m here now,” she quietly prompted.  “You’re free to enjoy it.”

“I will.”  His voice was just as quiet.  “But first I wanna know if you had tiramisu tonight.”

“I did.”

“And did you think about me while you were eating it?”

She felt a warm flush start to steal over her body as his questions went from casual to something more sensual.  At least that’s the way she perceived them.

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

She pulled at neck of the old Bon Jovi shirt she’d unearthed from a box in the back of the closet, fanning herself. 

“There’s not much to tell.  I was in the middle of a restaurant.”

“Not believing you, Kitten.  I taught you the game face.”

He had.  And she’d used it to the best of her ability tonight when eating that creamy, decadent confection of mascarpone, espresso and lady fingers.

“I thought about the way it tastes.  The way you taste.  I want to lick it from your lips,” she whispered. 

His hoarse response came as a sweet surprise.  “I miss you in bed with me.”

“Me, too.  I’ve gotten used to you hogging the bed.”

“I’m not hogging the bed,” Jon chuckled gently.  “I’m hogging you, trying to get close.  I have to push you to the edge before you quit scooting away.”

She’d be damned if she ever scooted again, she thought, eyes misting at his unusual tenderness.  Sheridan was on the verge of blurting out those three little words before the opportunity escaped.

“So what’cha been up to since I left you?  Besides dinner,” he moved on as though nothing out of the ordinary had just transpired.

Her eyes fluttered shut.  She took several soundless breaths to clear her head and form a coherent reply that didn’t contain the words ‘I love you’.

“Christmas tree.  I’m putting up the tree.”

“Where at?  In the corner of the living room?”

It felt so silly to be talking about such mundane things. 

“No, in the bedroom.  I moved the chair that you use as a hamper and put it in front of the terrace doors.”

“Now where am I supposed to put my clothes when I take them off?”

“Who cares?  I know I won’t once you have them off.”

His laughter warmed her insides, and easily curled her mouth into a sedate smile.  This… intimacy was almost better than the sex.  Would it still feel this good when he was gone on tour for weeks at a time?  Would they even still be together then?  Sheridan fervently hoped so.

“What about you?  Good day with your kids?”

His gusty sigh had her forehead wrinkling with concern.  “Yeah, it was.  There were some spots that weren’t quite so bright, but overall it was fine.  It’s always good when I have my babies with me.”

Her heart pinched at the unmistakable love and affection in those two words – ‘my babies’.  

“What spots weren’t so bright?” she asked gently. 

“My youngest, Romeo, overheard his mother and me talking about Richie about how the divorce got him in this situation.  Romeo got it in his head that we’re both gonna become alcoholics and go to rehab, abandoning him and his brothers and sister.”

“Ohhhh, the poor little guy.  Did you set him straight, I hope?”

“The doctor – that’s how I found out, he had an appointment today – said not to push it down his throat, but that it might be good to stay away from the booze for a while and reassure him that we’re not going anyplace.  Dorothea, of course, is pissed.”

“Why is she pissed?  It’s not like you did anything wrong.”

“Some days I’m responsible for the national debt and global warming in Dorothea’s eyes,” he grumbled.  “She was already pissed at me to begin with.  Now she’s worried about Romeo and taking it out on me.”

Never having met the woman, Sheridan didn’t want to take an instant dislike to her, but it was hard not to.  She certainly wasn’t coming across as all that likable in the way she was attacking Jon, and Sheridan got her hackles up on his behalf.

“Where does that leave you?  You’re worried about him too.”

“I’m gonna address it head-on.  I decided that, while I respect Romeo’s doctor, he’s my son and I’m not gonna let him think his daddy might vanish one day.”  Determination steeled his voice, making it all the more apparent when his gentler tone returned.  “So in the meantime, my sweet Kitten, that leaves me with tiramisu and you to distract me.”

“If that’s what you want, then it’s yours.”  With a final scowl, she let subject of Jon’s ex-wife fall into the recesses of her mind.  Sheridan wasn’t in a place to judge, and even if she were, it wasn’t doing Jon any favors.  “I’m here.  Now pop that tiramisu in your mouth and savor the decadence.”

“I will, Miss Impatient, but in my own time.  Don’t rush.  I realized this evening that we don’t have any plans to see each other.  That should be remedied immediately, don’t you think?”

She reluctantly smiled, rolling from her back to her left side and pulling a pillow against her chest.  “Of course,” she mock-gasped.  “What was I thinking?”

“Smartass.”

A soft giggle eked out.  “Just a little.  How long do you have your kids?”

“Until Christmas Eve.  I’ll take them back to Dorothea’s that afternoon and go back Christmas morning to open gifts with them.”

“And what are your plans for tomorrow?”

“Christmas shopping.  They’re delivering my tree, so I guess we’ll decorate it.  You wanna come help us decorate the tree?”

That sent a frisson of trepidation trickling along her spine.  They’d had one abstract conversation about meeting his children, and she didn’t know that now was the right time. 

You were ready to tell him you love him.  Are you waiting for that to change?

“I don’t know, Jon.”

“I told Stephanie a little bit about us when she figured out the desserts came from a woman.  She’d like to meet you.”

His daughter was about eighteen, if Sheridan recalled correctly.  Home on semester break from college.  She might not be happy about her father moving on, particularly if her mother was still bitter.  It could be awkward. 

It wasn’t that Sheridan didn’t want to meet them.  She did.  They were a big part of his life and made him happy in ways that no one but a child could.  Just… not now and not that way.

“I’d like to meet her too, but trimming the tree is very much a family activity.  I don’t want to intrude on that.  Don’t you think it would be uncomfortable for them having a stranger hanging their ornaments on their tree?”

“Dorothea kept all the Christmas stuff for them, so this tree will have all new ornaments.  We’re going to pick them out tomorrow while we’re shopping.  Technically, they aren’t their ornaments yet.”

“Jon…”  She couldn’t believe he didn’t get it.  When he spoke again, she realized he did get it, but wanted it to be different, anyway.

“Yeah, I know,” came the disappointed admission.  “You’re probably right.  But soon.  You’ll meet them soon?”

“Yes, soon,” she pledged, hugging the pillow tighter. 

“And I’ll meet your family.”

That, she noticed, wasn’t a question. 

“Yes, if you want to.”

“Doesn’t matter if I want to or not, Baby,” he chuckled.  “I promised your sister.”

She groaned quietly.  “Riley will survive a broken promise, I assure you.”

“Nope.  I’m a man of my word.  Now…”  There was a shifting and rustling at the other end of the line, followed by a squeak of Styrofoam.  “Let’s see about that tiramisu...”

42 - Little Loved Ones

“Jake, get off your brother’s head!”

It was after dinner and they had been in his SoHo apartment as an entire family for no more than twenty minutes.  His two youngest were already going at one another like wild animals. 

Welcome back to life as Daddy.  Makes ya kinda glad Sheridan didn’t make you answer that volunteer question, doesn’t it?

Because, if he’d said yes, he might be seriously reconsidering now. 

It was a far cry from his occasional rock star role, or his newly acquired stint as a boyfriend.  Things definitely found a different perspective when you were more worried about kids poking each other’s eyes out than fresh seafood and a run on the beach.

“The little monster stole my Nerf darts and won’t give them back!”  Jake complained, reluctantly obeying Jon’s order and climbing off the floor, but he got in one last shot by sharply nudging Romeo’s side with his sneaker.

“Hey!  No name calling – or kicking.  You know better than that, Jacob.”  He’d promised himself he would never use the dreaded first/middle name combination when scolding his kids, but Jon had no problem going with Jake’s given first name to put a little bulk behind his daddy-ness.

The thing was that, although Jake’s actions were unacceptable, Jon understood where he was coming from.  Romeo had been sullen and contrary ever since they’d all piled into the SUV at Dot’s house, and the attitude hadn’t improved any by the end of his counseling appointment. 

It had been enough to prompt Dr. Rennicke to take Jon aside and ask if anything unusual had happened recently.  A little self-consciously, he’d been forced to admit that he didn’t know of anything, but that he hadn’t been with his son for the past few days. 

When pressed for more information, the doctor had requested Jon’s assurance that he wouldn’t make a big deal out of it with Romeo before she would reveal anything to him.  When he agreed and promised to secure the same assurance from Dorothea, Dr. Rennicke folded her hands on her desk and regarded him curiously. 

“Do you or your ex-wife drink heavily?”

It had temporarily set him off balance, and Jon thought his curiosity was probably stronger than the good doctor’s.  “I’m not a teetotaler by any stretch of the imagination, but I wouldn’t classify my drinking as ‘heavy’.  Dorothea drinks less than I do.  Why do you ask?” 

“Well,” she appeared skeptical, looking over the tops of her dark-framed spectacles in a manner reminiscent of his high school guidance counselor when she found out that Jon wanted to be a rock and roll star instead of something more ‘sensible’.  He disregarded the instant dislike for the doctor that the memory evoked and concentrated on his son.  “Romeo has acquired an interesting notion.  He seems to believe that the divorce is going to result in a bout of alcoholism severe enough to send you into rehab, thereby leaving him abandoned and uncared for.”

After swearing softly under his breath, he told her that Romeo had likely misconstrued an overheard conversation about a family member. 

Being a problem solver by nature, the first thing Jon had wanted to do was tell Romeo that he had no reason to worry over what he’d heard Mommy and Daddy talking about.  That everything would be just fine, and he and his siblings would always be taken care of.  Always.

The second was to put the fear of God into him about eavesdropping.

He did neither.  Instead he was resigned to doing the one thing he didn’t want to do, and that was call Dorothea.  No doubt she was going find some creative woman-logic to twist an innocent issue and make it intentionally his fault.

That’s why he delayed it. 

He and a surly Romeo had come back to the apartment, Jake had been left under the supervision of both Jesse and Stephanie for the duration of the appointment.   It had only taken a minimal amount of arguing to decide on pizza and he herded the entire group toward their favorite local pizza parlor.  Two hours later, they were home again and, while Romeo had come out of his shell more, he was still being obstinate with the brother who was typically his favorite playmate.

Jon flipped his wrist around and looked at his watch to check the time, and found it was eight o’clock.  There was no way he could get away with forcing them into bed for at least another hour. 

But he could take the damn Nerf guns.

“Romeo, where are the darts?” he demanded, helping the little boy to his feet, courtesy of a firm grip on his elbow. 

Out came the lip and the damn stink eye that was made all the more fierce by the darkness of his youngest’s eyes.   Jon was grudgingly impressed, but the kid didn’t have the frown lines and perpetually furrowed forehead that his old man did – or an audience that could be intimidated by it. 

“Sell it to somebody who’s buyin’ kiddo.  Hand ‘em over.”  Keeping a firm hold on the small elbow, he presented the other palm which, after some grumbling and digging in his pocket, Romeo filled with a handful of foam projectiles sporting little suction cups on the end.  “Good man.”

Releasing him, he turned to Jake.  “Go get the guns and bring ‘em to me.  You guys can have them back tomorrow.”

“But Da-ad…” Jake protested on the verge of a whine.  “I just got the targets set up in my room.”

“You can go get me the guns, or I can get ‘em.  If I go, the next place I go – with the guns – will be the homeless shelter or Salvation Army to give them away.”  He arched an intimidating eyebrow to let his son know he wasn’t bluffing.

The little blonde version of himself turned with a grumble and was taking the first steps toward the room he and Romeo shared, when the door buzzer echoed loudly throughout the apartment.  Jake made an immediate U-turn, yelling, “I got it!”

“Hold it!”

His sneakers screeched to a halt on the hardwood floor and he swung a baleful glance at his party-pooping father. 

“You don’t answer the door and you know it,” Jon scolded the boy, passing the darts into his hands and moving toward the front door.  “Get the guns and go put them on my desk while I see who it is.  You’ve got two minutes.”

This is why I run.  If I didn’t, they would give me a heart attack.

“Yeah?” he spoke into the intercom on the wall. 

“Mr. Bongiovi, I have a delivery here from Mezzaluna Cafe.” 

He frowned and shook his head, not recognizing the name.  “I’m not expecting any delivery, Lou.”

There was a pause as, Jon assumed, Lou was quizzing the delivery person on his claim.  They’d been through this once or twice with overzealous fans.  If the delivery guy was a delivery girl, chances were that the only delivery being made was a willing woman.  Fans had done crazier things.

“The guy says the order was placed by someone with the last name of King.  Sorry for the trouble, sir.  I’ll tell him he’s got the wrong address and send him away.”

“No!  Lou, wait!”  A slow grin wiped all the daddy-fatigue away, and he anxiously wondered what Sheridan had sent.  Only a few hours since he’d taken her home, and he was already missing her enough to be grateful for whatever bit of her he could get.  “I’ll take it.  Send him on up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dad?”

He turned to find his eldest – his baby girl – padding into the living room in her mismatched socks and looking at him curiously.  “Who’s coming up?”

“Just a delivery guy.”

“Oh?”  She pinned him with eyes that were so much like his own it scared him sometimes.  “What kind of delivery?”

The doorbell interrupted, saving him from having to answer.  The kid was probably eighteen or nineteen based on the way he was craning his neck to check out Stephanie.

“Here ya go,” he said, never taking his eyes from Jon’s daughter.

Stepping directly into his line of vision, Jon accepted the small Styrofoam cooler, setting it at his feet while he fumbled for his wallet. 

“It’s all paid for,” the kid told him.

Jon didn’t pause, rifling through the bills for a ten and then pushing it at the young Italiano.  “Good.  Then take this and stop ogling my daughter.”  And he slammed the door in his face.

“Daddy,” Stephanie laughed, bending to retrieve the cooler, but Jon swatted her away.  “That was mean.”

“Ask me if I care.”

He tucked the little Styrofoam box under his arm and her quiet giggle followed him to the kitchen.  Unaccountably curious as to the contents, Jon briefly wondered if should he open this in front of his daughter.  It came from a café.  It shouldn’t be pornographic, right?

Sliding it onto the counter, he glanced over his shoulder to find that Stephanie was leaning against the refrigerator with her arms and ankles crossed, patiently waiting to see the unexpected delivery. 

Hell with it.  She’s eighteen.  If it is pornographic she can probably tell me what it is.

He eased open the lid and peeked inside.  There were five separate containers – a rectangle, a square and three round bowls – along with a thick piece of folded piece of paper.  The paper looked like it was a restaurant order slip, but it had his first name written across it in a flowing hand.  With a smiley face. 

He contained this grin to a mere smirk as he plucked the note out and replaced the lid.  Flicking the top half of the paper up revealed a short note.

“Having dinner with Riley (she still won’t tell me anything!) at my favorite restaurant and remembered telling you about the tiramisu.  I thought you should try it without me first, so you can truly appreciate the flavor.  Wasn’t sure your kids would care for tiramisu, so I’m sending a couple of other things, too.  Hope they find something to enjoy.  Miss you already… S”

“Who is she, Daddy?”

He re-folded the note and made a vain effort to play stupid.

“She who, Baby Girl?”

A knowing grin slashed into her pretty face and Stephanie shook her head.  “The woman who has you looking all happy and sappy.”

There were two choices here.  Jon could either play stupid, or he could be honest.  Considering that he wanted them to meet Sheridan at some point, it would be a good idea to get the kids used to the idea.  Stephie would probably be the easiest sell of the four – or the hardest.

A flick of his wrist sent the note skidding gently across the countertop until it made contact with the wall, and he crossed his arms in a pose that matched his daughter’s. 

“Her name is Sheridan.”

“Pretty.”  A well-groomed eyebrow arched daringly at him.  “Is she your girlfriend or just a girl friend?”

Once again, he mocked her pose.  “Girlfriend.  That okay with you?”

She lifted an ambiguous shoulder.  “I’ll have to see whether she’s good enough for my Daddy before I know if it is or not.  Where’d you meet her?”

“Jamaica.”  His heart melted just a little at the protectiveness.  This was why he muddled through the crap parts of being a parent.  It brought good kids out the other side, and he had the best.  Not that he was prejudiced or anything.  “She was staying in the suite next door.”

“You went to Jamaica in August.  You’ve been dating her that long without us knowing?”

A wry chuckle escaped.  “No, Sherlock Holmes, I haven’t.  I didn’t realize she lived in New York until a couple weeks ago.  We ran into each other at an event.  It took me almost a week to get her to go out with me.”

“Oooh… I like her already.”

Waggling a playfully threatening finger, he reprimanded her as she strolled toward him with a grin. “Sass?  All that money to send you to college and they teach you sass?”

“I already knew sass.”  Her slender arms encircled his neck and she stretched to kiss his cheek.  “I learned it from you, Old Man.”

They teased back and forth a bit before Stephanie went serious.  “When do we get to meet her?”

“I don’t know.  We haven’t talked about it, but she did send something for all of you.”  Lifting the Styrofoam lid, he invited her to peek in.  “The tiramisu is mine, but I also see blood orange sherbet, a couple different gelatos and some cannoli in here.”

“Bribery.  She’s smart.”

“Brat.”  Jon tapped her on the backside.  “She happens to be very smart, and that’s got nothing to do with bribery.  Go get your brothers and you guys can dig into this stuff.  I need to call your mom about Romey’s doctor visit, so I’ll get mine in a bit.”

Besides…  I want to wait to eat that “sex in food form” until I can talk to my girl and thank her.