Chapter 147

“So, Jon—what was it like to work with Nashville producer, Dan Huff?”

Exactly the same as the last two fuckheads that came in here and asked the same question. Christ, did any of them have an original thought in their fucking head? “It was amazing. He’s worked with all the greats of course, and the fact that he’s a musician first, really helps the process. Not so different than rock and roll at all.” He sat back in his chair, crossing his arms. “If you did your research, you could even pedal back to the eighties and Giant. The man’s a legend.”

Richie shot him a tight smile with a warning beacon in his tired, dark eyes. “Between Dan and John Shanks we were in great hands for the album.”

Richie babbled on about production and writing in Nashville and the rest of the nicey nice shit that he just couldn’t even attempt to spew out for the fifth interview in a row. He stared at the carpeting until the boring pattern blended into a smudge.

“Coffee, Mr. Bon Jovi?”

He blinked, giving a forced smile to the harried girl that had been working the press room. “Yeah, black.” He glanced down at her tiny gold tag. “Thanks, Melissa.” She blushed, handing over a heavy mug, which he wrapped his hands around gratefully. Summer was making itself known, but he still felt like an ice block most of the time.

Another tray came by and he waved away the array of danish. His stomach was already a mess, no need to help the process with sugar shock. Sipping his coffee he tried to tune back in, but that scent—her scent—blindsided him. He sat up straighter, twisting to look around the room.

“Jon?”

“Huh?” He turned back to Richie. “What?” He looked at the interviewer. He couldn’t even pretend to know or care what the guy’s name was.

“He was asking about the recording of Cowboy.”

“B-side,” Jon said absently. “Wrote it when we were doing that Round in—“ he cut off. “What the hell is with the pear smell?”

A girl with a deer in headlights look halted. “I’m sorry. It’s just a fruit salad plate. The pears are Asian.”

He looked down at the little blonde with her perky blonde ponytail and earnest blue eyes. The tray was heavy with fruit, but the wide circular swag of sliced pears hand him stand and hit the exit in three long strides. He heard Richie making excuses for him again and asking for a ten minute break. “Jesus. Fuck.”

When would this stupid shit end? Wasn’t it enough that he dreamed about her every night? The freakin’ scent of pears haunted him when morning ripped through the room at 6am for the last fifteen days of interviews and acoustic spots. Now he had to have it follow him here? He was working dammit. Ignoring the no smoking sign he braced his forearm on the wall and sucked in a calming, lungful of smoke.

“Jonny…” Richie said quietly, pointing to the rather obvious sign.

“What? Are they going to make me go home?” He held the smoke inside of him until it burned. “ I wish.”

“I wish too.”

Jon sneered at him, blowing what was left of the stream into Richie’s face. “Don’t worry, you’ll be rid of me soon.”

“Not soon enough, ass face. Suck it up and start paying attention. This shit is boring, but it’s necessary. You, of all people, know that.”

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose, the smoldering cigarette leaked blue smoke around the little corner he’d taken up residence in. Staring at the Styrofoam cup littered with his butts and stagnant, nicotine fermented water, he dropped his half smoked cigarette in. It hissed and poppped before sinking to the bottom. God, he needed a drink.

He turned his attention to the window and the frenetic pace of Chicago that lay beneath him, clogged in noontime traffic. At least he was pretty sure it was Chi-town. He just got in the plane when his cell beeped at him and told him what time to show up. He traced a fingertip over the vertical blinds, watching the shadowed patterns dance on the floor.

“Do you need meds or somethin’? Get laid. A fuckin’ lobotomy?”

Jon shot Richie a sideways glance. Tessa is what I need. Then looked back outside. “Tell them I’ll be right in.”

“I’m not your fucking assistant. Jesus, Jon. They don’t want to fucking talk to me. This is your deal. I chime in with the charm and make you look good, remember?”

“You mean I make you look good.” He cracked a half-smile. He knew his friend meant well, but he was hanging on by his fingernails here. The night she’d left him was almost as bad as the night he’d found her broken in the middle of her store. Not knowing what else to do, he’d packed and left his father a note. He couldn’t stand to look at his mother—he’d yet to talk to her—and called in his pilot. He’d been at Richie’s house until the promos started.

“No, you’re the straightman—remember that, ass face.” Richie clamped a hand on his shoulder. “I know you miss her, but either go get her or come back to the land of the living. David’s going to string you up by your balls if you tank one more joke and Tico’s going to replant your head in his kick drum if you don’t cut it out.”

Jon’s brow raised. “T?”

“Yeah, T. Jesus. You weren’t this bad after Dorothea asked for a divorce.”

He pushed his hands through his newly shorn hair. “I knew that one was coming.”

“You knew this one was coming too.”

His brows beetled down as he swung around. The heavy fall of silver and diamonds that hung at his neck twirled forward. Stuffing the skull back into place he smoothed down the brown vest he was wearing. Richie’s face was impassive. “Fuck you.”

Richie folded his arms over his chest. “You kept hiding her. What’d you think would happen? Then the baby happened and neither one of you did right by each other.”

The swift slice of pain in his chest warned him that he was right, but what the fuck was he supposed to do now? He’d drag her up on stage and tell a room full of reporters that he loved her if that’s what it took. “What the hell would you know? You only date women looking for the cameras.”

“Watch it, Jonny.” Richie’s voice went low and soft with warning. “I’ve made allowances for your behavior for weeks now. Hell, you’ve been staying in my house so you can hide.”

“I won’t be back after the junket,” Jon said jamming his hands into his pockets.

“Oh shut up. That’s not what I meant and you know it. Either you start to get over this woman or man up and go get her back. Either way, grow a pair and deal. We’ve got two acoustic radio shows to do this afternoon and I’m sick of carrying your ass.”

“Rich—“ But he just held up a hand and stalked off. “Son of a—“ Jon slapped at the blinds until they snapped and swayed against each other and the window. Digging out his phone, he flicked through the menu until he found the picture he hadn’t quite been able to delete.

His white dress shirt, her naughty grin, and shadows that played havoc with his imagination. Her creamy skin and fiery hair was enough to put a normal man down, but the look in her eyes was there, even in the grainy picture. He’d happily trade a million dollars to see that look in her eyes again. Spur of the moment and playful—she’d snapped that picture to torment him. She didn’t even know how unbelievably sexy she was. After all he’d seen in the twenty-five years of the underbelly of the music scene, it had nothing on Tessa when she was in a playful mood.

A flash of light purple lace and a hotel room in Nashville attested to that. Her soft voice saying, “I love you.” He closed his eyes, shifting his jeans. Each morning he hoped it would be a little bit better than the last. Christ, he just couldn’t get her out of his head. He didn’t want her out of his head.

She made it abundantly clear he wasn’t wanted. The healing had to start somewhere. And obviously she couldn’t do it with him there—in her space. Even if everything in his core was dragging him back to Jersey, he knew he had to stay away. The apartment in the city would be ready for him soon, but even that could be too close.

He could get to her with a few hours.

Could he really stay away from her?

The thought of relocating to California was nauseating. He didn’t mind a visit, but he had no idea what called to Richie about the area. Not to mention his family was on the east coast and they loved it just as much as he did.

He flicked through the email waiting for him on his iPhone and sighed. After the interviews and radio spots he’d bury himself in the Soul Foundation. At least they needed him—anything to keep him from focusing on what he couldn’t have.