Four - The Hook Is Set

The whole thing would have never happened except for Tiffani.

On the cab ride back to the hotel, he felt as if he was still in the middle of a dream. Was that him who had done all that talking?

He kept shaking his head over and over at the impossibility of what she had suggested.

Yeah, right. The press would have a fucking field day.

Paying the cab driver absentmindedly, he went through the door of the hotel and headed for the bar.

He waved off the bottle of liquor the bartender held up in question and ordered a glass of wine. He sat sipping slowly, turning the glass around and around in his hand. A pleasant lassitude enveloped him as the red liquid cooled his throat.

“Hi love.”

His body stiffened slightly at the voice in his ear. Without turning his head, he answered.

“Hey.”

A finger curled itself in his hair, lightly rubbing along an ear.

“You here all by yourself?”

Another swallow, another signal to the bartender.

Breasts pushed against his arm, perfume tantalizingly near.

He turned to her.

“Yeah, here alone.”

She was pretty.

He was drunk.

It wasn’t until later that he got a good look into her eyes.

He saw the same thing he always saw.

She would do anything.

Anything.

Because of who he was.

Fuck.

Three - He Doesn't Run

He had joined her on the couch and they talked.

Or rather, he had talked.

Blame it on the wine and a never empty glass.

When she had refilled his glass the first time, he had been involved in a detailed explanation of his current point and hadn’t paid much attention.

That changed when the first bottle was empty and she asked him to uncork another, handing him bottle and opener.

He was the one who had finally turned on a dim light, no longer content not to see the eyes and the smile that went with the voice that was softly drawing him out.

His first thought was elegance.

From the effortlessness of her hair to the perfect polish of her toes, she exuded elegance, refinement, that quintessential je ne se quois that some women seem to possess, defined in their very dna.

He could not pinpoint her age and categorizing a woman was something he was very good at.

Opening the second bottle, he inclined his head in question.

“My friend, the host of this little soiree, knows my penchant for quiet. He is very thoughtful.”

He’d let that slide as his eyes were still taking in the details of her. He had by then clearly seen her eyes and the intelligence there held him.

“Who are you?”

She smiled and slowly shook her head.

“Non, non, let us not go there now. Do you wish to be who you are, or who you are right this moment?”

He smiled at that. She was right. At this moment he did not want to be who he was.

He raised his glass.

“Touche.”

“See how easy that was, mon bel homme?”

Laughing low in his throat, the tone somehow mocking and rueful at the same time, he looked at her.

“Did you just call me beautiful?”

“Oui.”

“I shoulda left the light off.”

“You think I refer to your face? Merde! Americans!”

She made a disgusted moue with her lips and her feet hit the floor.

Startled, he raised a hand to her arm.

“Wait…where are you going?”

“Bah! I think we have talked enough. You are no longer here.”

Confusion hit his eyes.

“Wait…I…” He sighed and shook his head. His eyes met hers.

“Please don’t go.”

She looked at him for a long moment.

“Tres bien, very good. Do not let that other man come back.”

Amazingly, for the rest of the evening, he didn’t.

Two - They Meet

What struck him first were her eyes.

A green so wildly true he thought of fresh heather and Ireland's deep forests.

Heavy kohl surrounded the green, making them seem to flash in their intensity.

Her hair was pulled back in a low chignon and heavy gold hoops were the only jewelry she wore, except for a large gold band on her left hand.

He had worked his way past several rooms in the house, making the rounds through the other party guests.

The aggressive nonchalance of most of those attending caused him to fill glass after glass of the shiraz he was drinking, until finally the wine gave him his own version of detachment.

This seemed one of those nights where every conversation was essentially meaningless. He could have phoned in his attendance for all that it mattered and he wished again that he had declined the invitation. He’d only been in London for 10 days and he wondered how was going to make it through this night, let alone a month here.

If he had to talk to one more “English flower” with more lineage than brains …

He shook his head as he walked deeper into the house, the sounds of music and trilled laughter fading.

The wall of windows he could see through an open door drew him and he strode across the carpet until he was standing in front of them, searching out the night and blessing the quiet.

He heard a low chuckle and then a woman’s voice.

“You are much too young to be so bored.”

Not English. French.

Wincing as he discovered he wasn’t alone, he turned, a fake smile already drawing his cheeks up.

The dim light didn’t allow him to see her fully, but the woman seemed unconcerned to be sitting in the near dark. She was half curled on a couch, her feet drawn up beside her.

His chin raised as he swallowed another sip from his glass.

“I’m not bored.” And yet even he heard the defensiveness in his own voice.

The woman laughed softly again.

“My mistake then. Please, continue on your way.” She raised a hand dismissively and turned her head.

He hesitated. There were no other rooms. It was rejoin the party or stay here, even if he wasn’t alone.

“Okay, so I’m bored.”

Again he heard the intriguing laughter.

“Good. You admit it. Now we can talk.”

"Floating" It Out There

Nights like this reminded him why he still did it.

He'd had to work for it.

And then it happened.

The approval.

Despite the risk.

And there was risk. Make no mistake. Everything was on the line. His entire life was in the balance and yet...he couldn't make himself stop.

It had started simply because he was bored.

How stupid a reason was that?

Fucking bored was the truth, though. Jesus, who woulda ever thought you could get tired of pussy? Every color, shape, size, flavor was his for the asking. Hell, he didn't even have to ask. It was thrown at him. Everywhere he went, every single day of his life. All he had to do was crook a finger and they would do anything...anything...to be in his bed.

And if he smiled...fuck...they'd hit their knees faster that a puppy peed on the floor when it's tail wagged.

It was fucking boring.

No matter how he acted, they thought he was perfect.

How long had it been since he had been wanted just because he was a man?

He grinned and laughed low in his throat.

How long?

Half an hour ago.

Reality Sets In

Went the next day to an orthopedist.

In a wheelchair.

My constant companion for the next two months.

There are five ligaments in your ankle. In the right foot, I ripped all five ligaments 80 percent. The left ankle had a third degree sprain.

So, let's see what my Bon Jovi quest cost me:

1. My husband and two daughters were playing a pool tournament in Vegas two weeks after I got injured. I was supposed to go. I missed seeing my daughters play in a national tournament for the very first time. (It was hubby's second time.)

2. I had to move out of my two story house for two months and live with my mother in her one story house. Without my husband.

3. I lost my job. And the second income we needed.

4. I lost my insurance.

5. I lost an entire year of my life in recovery. With no therapy (no insurance).

6. I almost lost my house through foreclosure.



So - Jon, Richie, Tico, Dave, and Hugh:

Do you think just two front row tickets on next year's tour would be too much to ask?

Whaddya think guys?