13 - Just Between Friends

“Coffee.  Tell me you have coffee.”

Jon laughed at the dark-haired man who was on his doorstep, guitar in hand and black-as-night sunglasses shielding his eyes.  It didn’t matter that it was indoors.  Eight o’clock in the morning was too early for Richie Sambora’s day-sensitive eyes, no matter what the setting.

“Don’t I always?” Jon questioned dryly, stepping back so that his old friend and songwriting partner could gain entrance. 

Richie was a caffeine junkie from way, way back – not  that Jon was any stranger to its addictive lure.  The pair of them had likely consumed more coffee than a small village of Colombians since they had hooked up in the early eighties.  Nowadays, Richie was liberal about where he got his caffeine fix - a can of Red Bull could start his day as easily as Starbuck's.

Full lips dropped into a frown as he leaned his guitar case against the foyer wall.  “You’re in a good mood, but look like hell.  Dammit, Jon.  You’ve got my ass on a red-eye and you’re out fucking all night.  Bro…”  He shook his shaggy head in disgust.  “That’s just not right.”

The two men wound their way into  the kitchen, where Richie tossed his eye protection on the counter.  His eyes did look tired, Jon noted.

“I stopped and got you donuts on my way home, so quit your bitchin’.”

“Pastries are not the same as pussy,” Richie declared from the depths of the cupboard where the coffee mugs were kept.   He had spent enough time in Jon’s home – and more specifically, his kitchen – to fix his own damn coffee.   It was in his best interest, anyway.  The housekeeper only came a couple days a week unless the kids were scheduled over, and Jon did well to fix his own coffee.

The cabinet door slammed shut and Sambora shot a pointed look over his shoulder before reaching for the carafe.  “Not even when you eat one from the other.”

Jon’s smirk was villainous as he climbed onto a stool to reclaim his half-empty cup.  There was no doubt in his mind that Richie spoke from very personal experience.  The other man had probably performed every sexual feat known to man, and a few that were only known in secret tribal circles.  Bohemian took on a whole new meaning when it came to Richie.

“I might have to prove that one to myself.”

Long fingers waved in the air with silent support as Rich took the first deep swallow.  “By all means,” he encouraged when he was able.  “Everybody should try it.  Think this chick will let you?  Your coffee still sucks, by the way.”

Once Richie settled himself on the other side of the counter, Jon lifted a condemning eyebrow.  “I’m overlooking the coffee bashing.”

“Pfft!  Like I care about your fucking barista pride.  I wanna know about the pussy.  I hauled ass across the country on your fuckin’ whim.  I deserve to know about the pussy.”

Jon spun his mug in a circle by pushing his thumb on the handle.  There was no way to convey how insanely good his night of carnality had been.  Besides, it had been way too many years since he’d told locker room tales.

Well there was that year after the divorce.

That was months ago, though.  He wasn’t crass enough to talk about his sexual exploits with his best friend.

Not in full detail anyway.

“Remember the girl from Jamaica?”

“Sure.  The one you banged during that storm.”  Richie nodded enthusiastically.  “Wild blonde with big tits, as I recall.  Never did figure out why you didn’t hunt her down, if she was all that.”

Jon winced.  Okay, maybe he did say that.  He shouldn’t have, but maybe he did.  You could count on Sambora never to forget a sex-capade.  You could also count on him to repeat it without any trace of couth or political correctness. 

If this thing with Sheridan turned into an actual fling, she couldn’t talk to Richie.  Ever.

“Yeah.  Well, I found her.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.  You remember Karl Fenning?”

“Sort of.  Reporter from… Circus?”

“That’s him,” Jon confirmed with a nod.  “He writes fiction books now, and invited me to his launch party Sunday night.  She was there.  Turns out she’s friends with Karl’s wife.”

“Outstanding!”  The guitarist’s palm climbed into the air, awaiting Jon’s high five.  When it was somewhat reluctantly given, Richie leaned his forearms on the countertop, remarking off-handedly, “So you’ve spent the whole week getting reacquainted with Stormy Rain.  No wonder you look like hell.”

“Nah, not all week, just last night.”  He smirked into his coffee cup.  “It was eventful enough to be a whole week, though.”

After she rode him across the finish line in their second time, they dozed a bit.  He was awakened by her sharp little teeth working his nipple.

Jon had pushed his hand through her hair, looking down at her in the darkness with a sleepy smile.  “I ain’t no mama cat, hungry Kitten.”

“And I’m not hungry for what a mama cat can give me,” had been her unconcerned reply before going from biting to licking.  The next hours had been discovering secret hot spots and erogenous zones. 

He now knew she liked her kisses soft and wet until she was on the verge of release.  Then she wanted them as intense as her orgasm.  She knew that he had an oral fixation – breasts, fingers, tongues – anything he could lick, suck or bite made him feel that much more the alpha male. 

She went wild when he bathed the inside crook of her elbow with his tongue.  He went wild when she used her nails on the skin in the crease where his leg and groin met.

She squirmed against him when he whispered dirty things in her ear.  He got stiff as a post when her dirty talk dripped over him like sweet honey.

“And her name’s not Stormy Rain, dumbass.  It’s Sheridan.”

“Well, well, well…”  Sambora mused with a smart-ass grin.  “Tropical Storm Sheridan must be something else.  She kept your stodgy ass up all night and you remember her name.  I’m thinkin’ I gotta meet this girl.”

Richie would either embarrass the hell out of Sheridan or fuck her in the coat closet.  That wasn’t happening in this lifetime or any other.  Jon wasn’t finished with her yet.

“Not happenin’.  Finish your damn coffee so we can get to work.”

❧ ❧ ❧

“Happy birthday, sweetie,” Suzanne greeted when Sheridan arrived at their favorite lunch spot, Mezzaluna on the Upper East Side. 

Small and understated, the food was always delicious.  More importantly for the birthday girl, they had quite possibly the best tiramisu in the world.  Until last night, Sheridan would’ve classified it as better than sex.  Today…?  Well, it would still be the best dessert in the city.

“Thank you.”  Sheridan returned the warm hug and quick kiss, pulling off her coat and draping it over the back of the chair.

“Pretty sweater.”

The close-fitting cream turtleneck had been about the only option this morning, short of a scarf.  There was no other way to hide the smattering of love bites along the column of her throat.  Not that she was complaining.  She just didn’t have any desire to share her late-night souvenirs with anyone else. 

Curling her fingers around lightly around her neck to make sure the collar wasn’t gaping, Sheridan smiled briefly and busied herself with the specials on today’s menu.   A cup of soup with a glass of Pino Grigio would do nicely, since she planned to have dessert. 

After their orders were placed, she asked about Madison and found out that the little girl was doing much better after a few days of medication.

“Sunday night was miserable,” Suzy declared with a dour look and a delicate sip of wine.  “But by Tuesday, when the antibiotics kicked in, she was little Miss Mary Sunshine again.  I can’t stand it when she’s sick.  It’s the only thing I can think about.  Which reminds me…”  The wineglass’s base hit the marble tabletop with a melodic ‘ting’ and she hunkered forward with a sly smile. “…that I never asked about your ride home Sunday night.  How was it?  How was he?”

React, but don’t overreact.  She knows you too well.  

Lifting a carless shoulder as she slid her diamond pendant on its chain, she channeled her inner Thespian to say, “We didn’t have much of a chance to talk since it was a short ride, but he seems like a nice guy.  He held both the club door and the car door for me, so he has manners.  Other than that, I can’t say much about him.”

You deserve an award for telling the most creative truth ever.

“Huh.”  Suzanne slumped back into her seat, disappointed.  “Karl always said he was just a nice, regular guy, but I thought that was only to keep me from asking to meet him.  I really thought he would have at least a little of that sexy rock star attitude.  That magnetism, you know?”

He’s got more than a little.

That topic wasn’t up for discussion, though.  If Sheridan told of Jon’s ‘sexy rock star attitude’, she would also have to tell of her own ‘slutty ho bag attitude’.  Not a chance in hell.  Sheridan hadn’t been this bad in college.  She certainly wasn’t going to advertise that Jon Bon Jovi had been gasoline thrown on the fire of her mid-life crisis.

Instead, she shamelessly tipped her chin toward the small gift bag on the table, knowing full-well it was for her.  “What’s in the bag?”

“Hm?  Oh.”  Suzanne had gotten lost in her thoughts – no doubt lustful ones about Jon.  Her coppery hair swung as she shook her head and rejoined the conversation.  Dangling the merry little bag by its string handles made the metallic curly ribbon shine in the light. “Your birthday present of course!  It’s not exactly a surprise, since it’s the same thing I get you every year, but do you think you could humor me and actually use it this time?”

Sheridan laughed.  Every year, Suzanne got her a spa gift certificate – for the woman who barely had time to shave her underarms, much less pamper herself.  She knew it was Suzy’s way of encouraging her to relax, even for an hour, but the thoughtful gifts had gone unused in the last few years.  Things were different now, though.

To that end, she went through the motions of crossing her heart.  “I have a lot more time on my hands nowadays, so yes.  I promise to use it this time.”

Wonder if I have time to use it between lunch and dinner??

Next post: Thursday, October 25