11 - The Other Choice

There was no immediate and emphatic, “Yes.” 

There was no mega-watt smile as she leapt into his arms.  There weren’t even any tears beyond the ones that dried on her cheeks.

There wasn’t… anything. 

Cassidy just stared at his carefully chosen token like it was a goddamn cockroach. 

Fuck.  Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Jon’s history of proposing marriage consisted of an apathetic, “Wanna go to Vegas and get married?”  Not exactly the best track record. He’d never done this before with the candlelight, flowers and words of love, but Jesus.  He wrote love songs for a living.  This should’ve been within his skill set, yet it was obvious he had not a fucking clue how to propose a woman. 

 Either that, or she really couldn’t find a reason to say yes.   

“I think you’ll like the ring better once I tell you about it,” he offered uneasily.  Maybe it was his jewelry presentation that sucked ass instead of him. 

“The ring is beautiful.”

Or not. 

“Okay, then maybe I should explain why I described all this…”  He waved his empty hand at the ambiance.  “…as an apology.  It’s not the picture I was apologizing for, Dix.  It was for not giving you what you deserved a long time ago.  I know those fuckers in the media keep calling you my mistress, but I never thought of you that way, even before my divorce.  You were always…  Hell, I never could come up with the right label to explain who you are to me.  You’re just… Cassidy.”

“Jon, stop.”  Diminutive fingers covered the hand holding the ring and gently pushed, taking it down and out of sight.  “If I was a young girl, I’d hug your proposal to my heart and never let it go.  I’d dream that ring held a magical ‘happily ever after’ and never take it off.”

“But…?”

“But I’m not a young girl,” she told him with regret.  “Pretty words are nice, and they mean more comin’ from you that I ever imagined, but what are they gonna change?  What’s that ring gonna make different?”

Okay, so it was probably stupid to state the obvious, but damned if it didn’t come tripping off his lips, anyway.  “We’ll be married.”

“And?” She prodded with insistence.  “Will your kids suddenly be happy that we’re together?   Will we become more than ships that pass in the night?   Will you be content knowin' my legs are the last you'll ever crawl between?”

Goddammit, this is what you get for sitting on your thumbs for the last year.  She should already be wearing a damn ring.  Now she knows too much.  She knows you. 

Or did she? 

Jon’s Jersey attitude edged out the insecurity that made him feel like a pussy. 

This relationship began at a time when he was a shell of his normal self, and had progressed into a honeymoon phase.  For nearly two years, he'd been either needy, passive or content when she was around, content in the happiness that came along with it.   

She had no real reason to know that needy and passive weren't his core traits.  They were part of a phase that led to the contentment, but there was no mistake about it.  Jon was still the same tenacious son of a bitch he’d been since the day he was born.  Nothing had ever been handed to him on a silver platter.  She was the only thing in this world he hadn’t had to fight for.

Until now.  

Cassidy was about to get her first hands-on experience with his stubbornness.

“You want me to address those in any particular order?  ‘Cause I got answers for all of it.”

“Baby doll, I’m not even sure the answers matter. Libby’s been poisonin’ my mind lately, sayin’ marriage is what I want.  That it’s what I’m entitled to.  In all honesty, I’m not so sure it makes the best sense.  How ‘bout we just leave things as they lay?”

Her quiet sigh only fed his determination. 

“I love you too much for that,” he countered obstinately, hooking fingers around Cassidy’s bicep to keep her from walking away.  It was all or nothing.

Actually, it was all.  He wouldn't settle for less.

“Jon-“

“No.  I listened to you last night.  Tonight, you listen to me.”  

The words came out harsher than intended, a fact he realized when startled eyes flew wide.  He didn’t care enough to try and take it back, but he did let his hand slide from her bicep.  His mission was to eliminate her reservations, not bully her into marriage.

“Number one... my kids.  Coincidentally enough, I talked to Jesse less than an hour ago.  You can expect at least one apology call for the way they've treated you, and before you ask... no.  I didn’t say a damn word to any of them about being little shits.  It was your unwavering kindness that finally won them over, like I knew it would.  Jess was half-drunk on the whiskey you sent, which may explain why he was so willing to admit regret for his behavior.   He and I both like who you make me, in case you wondered.  So, we good on that?”

Rosy lips were parted with surprise, but no sound emerged from between them.  Cassidy merely blinked up at him and nodded. 

“Good.  Number two... there’s only so much I can do about us being ships that pass in the night.  Touring and all that bullshit are part of my life, but I’m damn sure done with coming ‘home’ to any house we don’t share.  You don’t want to move to New York?  Fine.  I’ll make Nashville home base and fly to the city as needed.  Anything else you need on that topic?”

The blinking this time was faster and accompanied by the knitting of a confused brow.  "You’re…. You’ll move to Nashville?”

“Yes.”

“My house or a new one?”

“As long as you call it ‘our house’, and you’re in it… I don’t much give a fuck.  Next subject?”

It might be his imagination or just the lack of decent lighting, but he thought she looked pale when bobbing her head once. 

“Number three... yours are the only legs I want to crawl between.  I love your pussy,” he informed her with zero tact or subtlety.  “But make no mistake… I’d be fine never sticking my dick in it again – or anybody else’s, as long as I have you.  Sex is just sex.  You’re everything.”   

Lord, are you there?  Because I’m mightily confused and sure could use a nudge in the right direction.  I know marriage is a holy institution, so you’re probably pro-ring as opposed to fanciful fornication, but just in case there’s any question, could you chime in here?

 “I know you love me,” Jon surged on like a steam engine at full-throttle, taking a breathless Cassidy along for the rest of the ride. 

She’d watched him purposefully crush his uncertainty with the weight of determination, and since then, he’d barely taken a breath.  He was no longer the man with candles and flowers, using pretty words to sway her.  He was dumping unrehearsed, unvarnished truth in her lap without apology.  

She would gladly accept both but refused to stand still for the implication she was trying to hide her feelings.  

“I never denied that.”

“Your heart belongs to me,” he clarified with belligerence.  “Along with every other damn part of your body.  You know it and I know it, so just let me cover two square inches with a fucking ring.”

Cassidy’s head swam with the notions of what Jon wanted, what Libby wanted for her, and what the world thought she should want.  The only thing she didn’t see swimming in the muddy creek of her thoughts was what she wanted.

That’s because it’s in your heart, not your head, silly girl.

But, MeMaw.  What if there comes a day when I don’t make him happy?

Child, he’s the one responsible for his happiness.  You’re only responsible for your own.

That thought and the way he leaned into her with such a dark presence had Cassidy flashing back to a long-ago morning in another hotel room.  She was pinned against the door, trying to comprehend why he wanted her to come back for a repeat of their one-night stand. 

“I’m not in the habit of explaining myself.”  The low voice wasn’t meant to be menacing, just potent.  “I want you.  You wanna know more than that, figure out a way to persuade me tonight.”

Oh, sweet Jesus.  Brooding Jon is sexy.  Happy Jon is beautiful.  This… This… aggressive Jon is panty meltin’.

His aggression was no less panty-melting today than it had been then and brought with it a much-needed reminder.  Something her dead grandmother knew better than she did.

Cassidy had never sought to make Jon happy.  Maybe she'd sought to make him smile a time or two, but that was later.  From the very beginning, he'd been drawn to some part of her that was just... her, with no effort required.  That meant she didn't save his life or resuscitate his happiness.  

He’d done that for himself.  Because, just like love, those were personal choices, and Jon knew how to make them.  

She had the ability and duty to identify and pursue her own happiness, instead of hitching her contentment to his.  Cassidy was only responsible for only her own choices, just like MeMaw said.    

I choose you.

Choices that included Jon Bon Jovi, the promise of forever... and a ring. 

“Tell me about the ring,” she whispered, reaching for the fist that still held it. 

The fierce set of his jaw slipped just a little, and his eyes were just a tiny bit wary, but he didn’t fight her.  Thumb and forefinger angled so that light glinted against the twisted gold band and each facet of the understated diamond that sat atop it. 

“The, uh…” 

He cleared his throat, and Cassidy caught a glimpse of returning uncertainty, but he didn't allow it to take hold.  Jon righted his jaw and pushed the ring out so she could get a closer look.  

“The band is actually one of my guitar strings twisted around itself.  It was on the Tak when you and sang together that first night in the recording studio.  I gave Tamara a piece of your Confederate gold that she melted and used to coat the string and setting.  The diamond is your grandmother's.  Libby gave it to me a while back, in case I ever needed it.”

This time the tears were more than a mist.  They were fat, wet crocodile tears that immediately raced down her cheeks.  

The man had millions of dollars and any number of jewelers at his disposal.  It would've taken no effort to acquire a "perfect" specimen of jewelry that would dazzle the world.  

But he didn’t do that.  

He took the time to visit a little no-name artisan shop in Nashville, where they would make her perfect jewelry.  Something more precious than a mine full of diamonds.  

Tamara's welcome at my house any time.

“What else did she make?”

"I hope I'm not jinxing the shit out of this, but..."  He leaned to one side, digging in the opposite pocket and displaying the contents in his open palm.   “Wedding bands.  More Confederate gold and tulip poplar, which she says is the Tennessee state tree.  The inlays are another one of my guitar strings.” 

They were gorgeous even through the fresh spill of tears, but not as gorgeous as the soul of the man holding them. 

The one who tucked all three rings in one hand so he could use the other to wipe away the rivulets of emotion.  “I was kind of assuming you’d say yes.”

She gave a watery laugh and held out her left hand.  “As you so eloquently pointed out, my finger belongs to you.  So put a fucking ring on it, already.”

He didn’t have to be told twice, and the twisted guitar string slid over her knuckle without hesitation. 

The metal hadn't had the chance to warm against her skin before Jon was crushing Cassidy to his chest, and breathing in her ear, “I love you, Dixie.  All you have to do is trust me.  I swear to God, I’ll choose you every damn day.”

A sob caught in her throat, clogging her ability to anything but cry harder.  She boo-hooed into the front of his shirt while clutching the back, as though he was the only thing that stood between life and death.  As though he was the one saving her.

And maybe he was, in a way.   

This was more than a simple engagement.  This was her happily-ever-after - complete with castles, clouds, Confederate history, a music career, love, laughter, happiness and the promise of forever.   

She might’ve even released the stranglehold on her beloved independence.  Just for tonight.

“Hey, Dix?” her fiancé murmured when the sobs had subsided to ugly sniffles. 

“What, baby doll?”

“About that duet…”

Cassidy knew her makeup was a sight and that she probably resembled a bereaved raccoon, but it didn't stop her from leaning back to give him a suspicious look  “What about it?”

“You know the words to ‘Diamond Ring’?”

Lord, it’s me again, just stoppin’ by to say thank Ya for every little thing You do.  Wouldn’t be quite fittin' to ask anything else of You when I have so much and others have so little, so I'm gonna give you a Glory Star vacation of sorts.  I’ll keep checkin’ in from time to time but for now, if You keep Jon safe... I’ll take the wheel on everything else.

In Jesus' name I pray….

~ The End ~

10 - In the Interest...

“You tired?”

Cassidy smiled up at the man whose hand slipped into hers the minute everyone else everyone else vacated the elevator.  Apparently, their room was on a higher floor.  Perks of being the boss, she supposed and leaned lightly against him.

“I’m still a little wired from the party plane.  Y’all play drinkin’ games every night?”

“Nah.  Commutes like that are usually pretty quiet because we’re all either reading or wearing headphones.  The party was for your benefit.”

“Well, it was very sweet.  Kinda sad we drank all the good whiskey, though.”

Jon’s palm pressed against hers as he chuckled, “Liked that, did you?”

“I would’ve bet good money that whiskey was whiskey and that price tags were for suckers.  Guess you rich folk showed me.”  A discreet chime indicated that they’d arrived at the correct floor, and Cassidy hitched her purse on her shoulder to shadow him out of the elevator car.  “But it still feels funny not carryin’ my own bag.”

“Stop worrying.  My tour director has some kinda voodoo that gets the luggage to the room before I do.”

“How is that possible?  It was still sittin’ in the van when we got on the elevator.”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” he blandly stated, dropping her hand to insert the key card.  “All I know is that it happens, and I pay him well for it.”

When he laid a palm against the solid wood and pushed it back for her to enter, it wasn’t only their bags that Cassidy saw waiting.

The suite was illuminated with the warm glow of candlelight.  On every available surface, there were clusters of candles whose flames leapt in the draft of hallway air.  The desk, coffee table, end tables, mantle and bar all were covered with fat pillars.  Their soft shine was reflected in crystal-cut vases overflowing with roses whose ivory petals were tipped in blush pink. 

“You gonna go in?” Jon prompted softly from beside her – still in the hallway. 

Tearing her eyes away from the scene set to romance and woo a woman, she met his watchful gaze.  “What is this, Jon?”

“An apology.”

An apology.  

The two words had Cassidy’s stomach knotting with dread. 

As requested, she’d let the subject of the photograph drop until they arrived in St. Louis.  Had pretended it didn’t exist, for that matter, because she didn’t want to be a party pooper.  She’d reveled in the attention and pride of Jon and his friends, choosing to deny that the catty woman from the audience was right – that mistresses should expect to be cheated upon.

She'd deliberately chosen to be naïve, but that option was no longer a viable one.  It was time to face reality.

“Must be a doozy of a story behind that picture,” she ventured.

“Yeah.”

The pain caught her by surprise and brought with a sharp breath wrapped in barbed wire.    

Welcome to the other side of the story, Glory Star. 

“Don’t look at me like that, Dix.”

Cassidy hitched her chin up a couple of inches, proud that there wasn’t a waver – or any other sign of emotion – when asking, “Like what?”

“Like I’m about to break your heart.”

“Aren’t you, though?” she inquired with forced cordiality while drawing away from the fingertips that lifted to touch her cheek. 

He let his hand drop, but for once, Jon’s eyes didn’t follow suit.  They darkened to a somber tint while holding hers, steady and sure.  “No.  But you could break mine.”

One blink.  Two blinks.  Even after a third, Cassidy didn’t know what to think or say in response to the notion that he might be the victim here.  That was so incomprehensible that all she could do was step across the threshold and wait for him to follow. 

The heavy door clicked shut as she hung her purse and jacket on the back of a dining chair.  She couldn't quite bring herself to face him, so she stayed there, letting the leather warm her frozen palms.  Shadow and candlelight fought for custody of a perfectly bloomed rose, but she stared without appreciating the beauty. 

“I was so fucking proud of you tonight.”  His voice wasn’t loud, but Jon was standing so close behind her that it felt as though he shouted the muted praise.  “We already knew you sound fantastic, but I didn't realize how comfortable you'd be up there.  Perfectly at ease, like you were entertaining that crowd in your living room.  They were captivated... and so was I.”

She couldn’t do this.  She couldn’t pretend that there wasn’t an elephant standing in the three inches that separated his chest from her shoulder blades.  As much as she wanted his review and critique, it took a back seat to their relationship.

“Who is she, Jon?”  Behind her, the air shifted as he took a breath to answer, but Cassidy threw up a halting hand at the last second.  “Never mind.  I don’t even care who she is.  What was she doing at my house?”

There was a rustle of fabric accompanied by a whiff of leather as he hung his jacket on the chair next to hers. “Come sit on the couch with me.”

“No.  You can tell me here as easy as there.”

“Could you at least turn around and look at me?”

Twice in the space of fifteen minutes, he’d purposely sought her eyes.  This, from the man who normally didn’t look anywhere in her general direction when spilling his guts.  That either meant he was about to lie to her face – or he was dead damn serious.

She spun on her ruby heel peering sternly up at him.  “If you lie to me, I will walk out that door and never come back.  You understand that?”

“No lies.  Ever,” he vowed, taking the dead damn serious route and gingerly folding her fingers inside his.  “Her name is Tamara, and she made these.”

Cassidy didn’t need to look at the lifted wrists to know Jon referred to her ever-present bracelets, made from one of his belts.  They were the only jewelry she wore besides earrings – and none of that was relevant to her question.

“I asked why she was at my house.”

His mouth pinched tight for a split second before saying, “Last time I was in Nashville, I commissioned her to do another piece of jewelry for Valentine’s Day.  It was ready a couple weeks ago, but I didn’t get the chance to pick it up until Friday.”

“I guess that’s your way of sayin’ you got me a bauble, but you’re still not answerin’ the question.”

“Give me a damn minute, would you?”

The request wasn’t coated in annoyance or delivered with a raised voice, so Cassidy nodded her concession.  “Since you asked nicely.”

A smirk flirted with the corners of his mouth, but he refrained from sharing the source of his amusement and renewed Cassidy's opinion from the previous night.  He was not a dumb man. 

“Your ‘bauble’, as you call it, was why I didn’t want you in the wardrobe drawer earlier.”

Having that explained was nice but unnecessary at this juncture.  He needed to get on with it already.  “Minute’s about up, darlin’.”

The smirk flattened, but he picked up the pace rather than quarreling.

“While I was at the shop, Tamara sold me on the idea of another commission.  I was expecting to get it next time I was in town, but she busted her ass to finish the next day.  Rather than asking me to come and get it, she and her husband delivered it to your house.  That picture was my gratitude for artistry that I hope like hell you'll love.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. ‘Oh’.” He arched a judgmental eyebrow.  “I didn’t expect you to be the jealous type, Dix.”

“And I didn’t expect you to have strange women at my house,” she countered without remorse, because that was the real issue.  The jealousy thing was just an anomaly brought on by Libby and that damn catty concert woman.  The sanctity of her home was non-negotiable.  “Remember my refusal to go to New Jersey because I didn’t want to disrespect Dorothea's home?  Well, I’m not gonna tolerate someone doin’ it to me, either.  I can forgive a lot of things, but sullyin’ my house isn’t one of ‘em.”

“Funny, I remember you encouraging me to sully quite a few places in that house.”

She scrunched her nose up at the lazy mockery.  “You know what I mean, Jon.  That’s a hard line you better never cross.  Understood?”

“Yeah,” he agreed a little too slowly for her liking before tipping his head to thoughtful angle.  One shadowed blue eye squinted as he took a slow half-step back. “But in the interest of there bein’ no misunderstanding….”

One hand dipped into his front pocket and took out a gray velveteen pouch no bigger than an a pair of postage stamps.  Deftly untying the knot, he stretched the opening and dumped the contents into his opposite hand. 

As diligently as Cassidy followed his movement, she couldn’t catch sight of what she presumed was her bauble. 

“Eyes up here.” 

Meeting his unwavering gaze for the third time since arriving in St. Louis, she found herself facing another round of “dead damn serious”.  This time, however, it was tempered by a glimmer of something softer.  Something that looked a whole lot like uncertainty. 

“Glory Star Cassidy.  Cassidy Starr.  Dixie Queen.”

The hair on her arms stood up straight.

No one ever used all her aliases in a single sentence.  For that matter, no one had ever used all her aliases, period.

Pay attention, you ninny!

“My sweet Dixie, I was a dead man when I found you.  Hollow and unfeeling, gutted of anything that constituted living.  The only thing I did was breathe because I didn’t have enough sense to stop.  Then I breathed in you.”

“Don’t you dare make my cry, Jon Bon Jovi,” she warned even as her misty vision turned his smile softer than she’d ever seen it.

“You were the air that I'd been missing," he insisted as the first tear fell.  "The happiness in your soul touched the blackest spot in mine, smudging away the darkness for light.  You healed the cancer that had eaten all the best parts of me and filled the empty holes with yourself.  Your smile, understanding and love made me not only whole again but better.  They're part of me now, and if you take them away...  Dammit Dix, I don't wanna die again.”

Another salty droplet skated down her cheek, quickly followed by two more.

Where was the brevity that she'd come to think of as his trademark?  Who was the man verbosely pouring out his heart?  And why in Heaven's name was he making her cry?

So you understand that his title - husband, lover or boyfriend - doesn't change what you have.  You have him.  That's all that matters.  It's all you need.

Jon blew out a concentrated breath, laughing without humor.

“I have no fucking idea why you should agree, other than I want you to.  But in the interest of there being no misunderstanding... you’re the only woman I want to sully ever again, Cassidy.” 

He lifted his hand and, tucked between the thumb and forefinger, was a diamond ring that blazed in the candlelight.

“Will you marry me?”

9 - Party Flight

“All right, you loud fuckers quiet down!”  David ordered, filling the last shot glass on the private plan that was soaring toward the Midwest. “I know this isn’t the liver-pickling poison of choice for some of you, but tough shit.  Our girl likes the hard stuff, and this night is all about her.”

A low-key grin tipped Jon’s lips at an angle, and a glance across the table found it mirrored on Cassidy’s bemused face. 

He’d rather have her at his side, but she made it perfectly clear before boarding that she didn’t want everyone thinking of her just as a tag-along girlfriend.  Jon was going to put her onstage, she wanted the Jovi gang to treat her as a peer. 

That’s why Dave was sitting next to her and winding up for what would like likely be an outrageous toast.

Their friend was often over-the-top crazy, but tonight Jon welcomed the insanity.  The beautiful guest of honor on this Bon Jovi flight deserved to have a crazy man toasting her with expensive booze.  She deserved a hell of a lot more than that, but her contented amusement would suffice for this hour-long flight. 

“Dixie Queen,” the self-appointed master of ceremonies launched. “You knocked it out of the park tonight.  Every woman in that damn arena wanted to be you.  Some because you were born to perform and have the voice of a goddess.  Others because you’re boning their pretend boyfriend.”

There was an explosion of predictable laughter, because this gaggle of jackasses still had teenage mentalities.  They didn’t need to dwell on sex.  Not with his girlfriend being one of only two women on board. 

“Get on with it,” Jon ordered dryly from the side of his mouth, and Cassidy readily supported him. 

“Please.  I’d rather talk about singin’ than who I’m sleepin’ with.”

David deliberately twisted his head to waggle bushy eyebrows her direction.  “And I appreciate your discretion, country cutie.  It keeps Jonny from trying to kick my ass.”

A collective “ooooh” filled the cabin, but Jon didn’t rise to the bait.  Things always rolled off him more easily when Cassidy was around, but tonight he wasn’t even tempted to bite back.  Why would he be?  She’d taken a written profession of love and performed it for him in front of thousands.  Only a moron would question her commitment.

Although after that goddamn picture from today, she could easily doubt his commitment. 

He cursed himself for that again.  Years of being an unsuspecting photo subject had given Jon a sixth sense about cameras.  It didn’t matter if they were telephoto lens Nikons or attached to cheap cell phones.  He always knew when someone was snapping pictures. 

When he’d folded Tamara into his arms today, though….  Well, emotion had him oblivious to whomever was documenting the moment.    

You better figure out how to spin that, so you don’t fuck up everything.

Swearing silently, he vowed that this would not be a problem.  He preferred to avoid the subject altogether, but if he had to, Jon would spin it like a damn merry-go-round.  Cassidy was too important to let something like this ruin things.

“Well, that was a dud.”  Dave’s sigh was laden with disgust at Jon’s non-reaction, but as he shook it off easily.  “No matter.  This is about Beauty, not the Beast.”

“And I’m sure the Beauty wants her shot of bourbon, already,” the normally quiet Tico pointed out. 

“The minute I heard her sing, I knew she was an angel,” the curly-headed toastmaster waxed poetic, refusing to be rushed.  “The thirty minutes it took her to learn guitar and piano told me she was a virtuoso.  The eighteen jobs she juggles speak of relentless determination.  The arsonist tendencies say she’s fearless.”

Because everyone had heard the story at least a dozen times, they chuckled with appreciation at the arsonist crack. 

Matt was brave enough to toss out over the ruckus, “Are we sure we shouldn’t be calling her ‘Fire Bug’ instead of ‘Dixie Queen’?” 

When Cassidy hiked an eyebrow at Jon’s bodyguard brother and flicked an imaginary lighter, the laughter only multiplied. 

Although he was smiling, Obie wasn’t quite as entertained by the side-commentary and complained, “Shut the fuck up and let the loudmouth Jew finish.  I’m having a proud papa moment here, and you people are pissing all over it.”

“Wow.”  Dave’s eyes were as wide as the woman’s who sat beside him.  “It’s kind of a turn-on when you’re defending me, Obie Wan.”

“Stick it in your ass.”

“Okay, okay!  Erection averted.  Damn, that was close!”  There wouldn’t be a shot in hell of getting everyone quiet after that, so David lifted a sincere voice above the masses.  “All of those things I just said plus her charm, sweetness and smile are going to make for a kick-ass music career.  This is only the first step, so enjoy it before you get drunk, stumble and break a leg, sweetheart.  To Cassidy!”

“To Cassidy!” the group of a dozen men echoed and turned up their shot glasses to drain them with a gulp. 

The woman of the hour, however….  She chose to sip from her shot glass, allowing the taste to fully permeate her tongue before thoughtfully narrowing dark-lashed eyes.    

“Well, I believe this might be better than what The Liquor Barn has to offer, so thank ya David.” 

With that, she threw back the slug of bourbon and grinned.  “And thank y’all.  You’re very sweet.  Even the bully who pushed me onstage.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to make room for another shot.  Pour me another, would ya?”

She patted David on the shoulder when she rose, and the glass was refilled before ruby stilettos found the bathroom in the back of the plane.   

Jon watched her go and set his glass on the table with a smirk.  Even if the rest of this night went to hell in a handbasket, he’d achieved something positive by being a “bully”.

“I wouldn’t have thought being publicly serenaded would agree with you so well.”

Cutting his gaze from Cassidy’s ass to the man seated beside him.  Jon started to ask Tico what he meant, but Dave decided to supply his own answer.

“Dude, that woman can do no wrong.  If she took the entire front row out with an assault rifle, this guy would just order a clean-up crew and tell her what good aim she has.  He is absolutely pussy-whipped.”

Jon could admit to that, but it wasn’t her pussy that had him whipped.  It was her, and it had been from the beginning.  The same initially captivating aura of happiness still held the power to calm, heal, and just make every-fucking-thing better.  

“If she took out the front row, I’m sure there’d be a good reason for it,” he justified with a grin and checked his watch before drawing the phone from his pocket.  It was after midnight, meaning it was now his eldest son’s birthday.  “I gotta call Jesse.”

Under orders to offer birthday wishes from all those sitting around him, Jon tapped the icon that would dial his son.  There was no worry about waking the boy.  For a twenty-two-year-old, the night was just starting. 

“Hey, Dad.”

“Hey.  Happy birthday.”

“Thanks.”

He’d expected there to be club noise in the background, but Jon didn’t hear much of anything.  “You out celebrating?”

“Nah, we’re going out tomorrow night.  Just chillin’ at home tonight with a couple of buddies at a good bottle of whiskey.”

“Whiskey?”  That was a surprise.  Jesse had been up to his eyes in nothing but rosè wine for the last few months, trying to get a business venture off the ground.  That aside, Jon thought the kid was more of a vodka drinker. 

“Yeah.  Cassidy sent it for my birthday.”

Whiskey made perfect sense in that case, but he didn’t think she’d ever sent his kids birthday gifts before.   It had him asking, “Did you mention whiskey when you saw her over the holidays?”

“No.  I was kind of overwhelmed with wine at the time.  Guess that’s why she sent this.”

“I’m not following you, Jess.  How does wine lead to whiskey?”  Jon was beginning to understand why the woman accepting a shot glass and perching her ass on the arm of Phil’s seat sometimes found brevity frustrating.

She tossed back the bourbon and delivered a lazy wink his way as Jesse explained, “The card said to stop and enjoy the roses along with the rosès.  It’s Four Roses Bourbon.”

That’s my Confederate fortune cookie.

“Ah.  Is it any good?” he asked with a smile that carried through the phone.

“Yeah.  You’re with her now, aren’t you?”

Snapping his eyes from the curvaceous redhead laughing with his friends to darkness outside the window, Jon diverted, “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know.  Because you sound different – you are different – when she’s around.”

Cassidy and his kids got along okay, but there wasn’t a lot of natural affection.  The two oldest – Jesse and Stephanie – had been resentful, viewing her as the reason for their parents’ divorce.  The younger boys had followed their lead, even though he’d repeatedly said not to blame Cassidy for something that was already broken.

They claimed to understand, but – while they were never unkind – they hadn’t gone out of their way to welcome Cassidy into the Bongiovi fold. 

It had him responding to Jesse’s observation with a cautious, “That a good thing or a bad thing?”

The pause was long – long enough to reach the verge of discomfort before finally answered with a quiet, “Good.”

“In that case, yes.  She’s on the plane to St. Louis with us.” 

A deep breath filled Jon’s ear.  “Later, I’ll blame this on the booze, but I have to tell you we haven’t been very nice to her.  And I feel bad about it.” 

“Anything specific you wanna confess to?” 

The incident Jon had in mind took place when he’d been stuck at the studio on a day when Cassidy was in New York.  There was a movie playing that the kids were all going to meet for and, not wanting her to be left all on her own, he suggested that Cassidy go with them.  The idea wasn’t met with a great deal of enthusiasm by anyone in the group, but they all agreed. 

When he got home, the apartment was unexpectedly empty, so Jon texted Cassidy to find out where everyone was.  She hadn’t known where the kids were, because they’d “accidentally” gotten separated after the movie.  She also didn’t have a key to his apartment or want to bother him at the studio, so she spent the afternoon and evening wandering the city alone in a “grand adventure” that she was grateful to experience. 

It turned out that the younger kids went to their mother’s and the older two went to their respective Manhattan apartments – all without checking on Cassidy, since nobody had her cell number.  He hadn’t wanted to believe they would ditch anyone in an unfamiliar city, but the whole thing smelled fishy to him.  Cassidy swore the whole incident was nothing but an innocent mix-up and insisted that he not say a word to them. 

So, he hadn’t said anything.  He sent a group text stating that he would kick all their asses if he found out it wasn’t an accident, or if it happened again. 

“No confessions,” his son declined to incriminate himself.  “But I’m sorry.  We all are.”

“I’m not the one you should be apologizing to.”

“I know, and I will.  I just wanted to tell you we’re done being immature assholes.”

“Nice to know,” Jon commended dryly while sending up a silent prayer of thanks.  He’d known they would come around eventually.  “Since I hope she’s going to be around for a long time.”     

“Okay by me.  I like this mellow version of you.  Means you’ll live longer.”

A melodic laugh caught Jon’s ear, and he turned his head to find Cassidy’s copper head tipped back with mirth at whatever shit Dave was talking.  Rosy cheeks were flushed with delight and top-shelf bourbon, while stars danced in her eyes.  That happy aura of hers was glowing brighter than a lighthouse and, as always, its beam touched a spot deep inside him. 

“At this rate, I might outlive you, kid.”

8 - Post-Show....

“Oh Lord, you reek!”

“I told you,” Jon laughed as Cassidy’s nose wrinkled up like an accordion. 

He had indeed warned her that he stank after a show, but for some reason, she’d assumed he was exaggerating.  Assumed that the allure of a hot, sweaty man would negate biology and chemistry.  Millions of women fantasized about getting up close and personal with muscles that glistened under sweat – specifically those of athletes and rock stars.

She had fantasized about it with this rock star.

But fantasies aren’t scratch ‘n’ sniff.

“I’m sensing this isn’t a turn-on for you, Dix.”  There was teasing in his voice as Jon stepped back to finish unsnapping the denim shirt that was already half-open. 

“I…” 

The texture of concrete imprinted her back and palms.  He’d shoved her against the wall upon flipping the dressing room lock, and Cassidy had been eager to wear that pattern on her skin while licking the salt from his.  Then she’d inhaled.  

You’ve just had a once-in-a-lifetime experience, girl.  Make a memory to go with it. 

She extended a hand to the man who was now bare-chested.  Light shone against the perspiration gliding down his sternum, and she followed it up to the column of his throat. 

“C’mere and let me taste you.”

“Baby, it’s okay,” he told her with a crooked grin.  “I’ll shower.”

Watching him swallow, she thought his neck appeared thicker than normal, although it was probably just the necklace he’d worn for the show.  A short choker with the St. Lorraine’s cross, it emphasized the muscular column of his throat, whose sheen taunted her in the fluorescent lighting.

“No,” she said firmly and dropped the extended hand, deciding that If he wouldn’t come to her, then she’d go to him.  “I wanna lick your neck.”

He stayed perfectly still with arms held out to his side, thereby giving Cassidy complete control of this… experiment.  All she got was the soft warning, “Do what you want, but make it quick – and lemme know whether to get invested.  I don’t want to get left with blue balls.”

“Right now, I just want a taste.”

Pushing her fingertips up his sternum brought the sensation of both heated flesh and cool dampness.  Droplets transferred from his silver chest pelt to her fingertips and she tried not to acknowledge that she was playing in sweat.  Rather, she pushed higher to brush the trip of her tongue over his pulse. 

It wasn’t as salty as some of his other bodily fluids, nor was it a turn-off.  If they got sweaty at the same time, she would probably like it.  For now, though, she took a step back. 

“Okay, I’m good.”

He quietly guffawed and shucked out of the work shirt.  “Chicken shit.”

“Not chicken, just selective.”

“Lots of girls get off on that, yanno.”

There was no missing the teasing in his voice, but she hitched her eyebrow up just the same.  “Lots of girls don’t have the option of a shower with you.  I do.”

“Valid point.” 

Flipping the stage belt open, he pulled it free from the loops and passed it into her outstretched hands.  This one was more than simple leather of her bracelets.  It had patterns of flattened rivets that caught her interest, and Cassidy wrapped it around her hand into a coil she could tuck into the pocket of her overnight bag.

“Nuh-uh, ya belt klepto.  I need that onstage tomorrow night.  Give it back.”

“I’ll make sure it gets to the dressin’ room,” she waved him off, zipping the pocket and changing the subject.  “Y’all were great tonight, but I’m kinda sad I missed so many shows over the years.  Libby says it’s a good thing I did.  Divine providence and all that.”

“She and Wes have a good time?”

“Mmm-hmm.”  Watching him strip off his socks, she would swear that even they were wet.  “Said it would’ve been better if you and I had sung together, but she was real proud of me and knew MeMaw would be, too.  I swear I think she had tears in her eyes.”

He crammed his clothes into the laundry bag hanging on the wardrobe, saying, “She’s not the only proud one around here tonight.  I’m pretty sure the guys wanna get you drunk on the plane.  Dave ordered some kind of special whiskey.”

Cassidy tried not to search for meaning in the fact that Jon hadn’t said he was proud.  He was still in concert mode or disappointed that he wasn’t getting laid this minute.  She was pretty sure it had nothing to do with her performance.

“I’ll be curious to see what he’s got, but you and I have missed enough time together this weekend.  Believe I’ll stay lucid for the rest of it.”

“Good.”  He stopped to drop a kiss on her mouth en route to the shower.  “We’ve got some talking to do, and I’d rather you remember it.”

“What kind of talkin’?” she called after him.

There was the hiss of water hitting tile, and while he waited for it to warm, he stepped back into the main room with a stern, “Your ‘bonus track’, for one.  I don’t like that being-kept-in-the-dark bullshit, especially when everybody around me isn’t.”

With a grin at his bare, retreating backside, Cassidy dropped onto the sofa.  Birthday surprises didn’t count, nor did Christmas.  He could just get over that, and soft cocoa leather squished when she reclined into it and lifted her voice.    

“I don’t like bein’ kept in the dark, either.  How ‘bout we not do it again?”

“Fine by me.”

Not even how you feel about bein’ a mistress? 

Nope.  Absolutely not.    

So what if Libby found herself seated next to a catty woman during the show?  So what if the woman loudly proclaimed that mistresses should expect to be cheated on by the men who’d made them mistresses?  So what if she proceeded to call Cassidy naïve, stupid and a mediocre talent?

The only thing to take away from that little tale was how Wes kept Libby from getting into a brawl.  Cassidy knew the unkind remarks were nothing but sour grapes.  Letting a jealous and petty woman get inside her head would be a flashing neon sign of insecurity.

Cassidy Starr was not insecure.   

She didn’t like the feeling, and quite frankly, it was a destructive neurosis she couldn’t afford.  Her relationship with Jon wouldn’t survive the first tour leg if she let some shrew plant a seed of doubt.  That independence he’d been fussing about last night was the solid foundation of what they had, and Cassidy would preserve it at all costs.

It seemed like the water had no more turned on that he was flipping it off again, and she talked logic to escape foolishness. 

“Tell me about this duet you’re plannin’ for St. Louis.”

“What about it?”

“What makes you think you need one?”

“Not need.  Want,” he corrected, towel drying the head that popped out of the bathroom.  “Grab me the hairdryer, would ya?”

She rose and headed toward the travel wardrobe without breaking conversational stride.  “Okay, then why do you want one?”

“Stop!” The sharp demand froze Cassidy’s hand inches from the top drawer, and she looked over to find him straddling the threshold between the two rooms.  “Hairdryer’s in the bottom one.” 

“Pardon me.  Didn’t realize your stage socks were so personal to ya.”

She deliberately bent to the bottom drawer and withdrew the dryer. 

“I don’t give a fuck about my socks,” he laughed when accepting it.  “It’s a matter of efficiency.  Faster I get ready, better chance there is of a non-sweaty quickie.”

Casting a doubtful look at his back, she pushed away the niggling feeling that something wasn’t quite right. 

That concert shrew is tryin’ to take root in your head, girl.

She shook it off, and again tried to pursue his intentions for her vocal cords.  “You have a song in mind for this duet you want?”

A flick of the power switch had the hand-held appliance forcing a gust of heat into his hair – and temporarily quelling any chit chat.  

“We’ll talk about it later,” he shouted over it, leaving Cassidy to nod and head back to the sofa. 

With nothing better to do, she unzipped the pocket on her overnighter withdrew the phone she hadn’t checked since before going onstage.  A flick of the button revealed that there were several waiting text messages.

[8:10PM]VERLA JEAN:  Girl!  You are a-may-zing!  And that song for Jon made me want to cry.  Kelly Clarkson couldn't have done any better.  I’m real proud to call you a friend and neighbor.  Thank Jon for the backstage tour before the show!

With a half-cocked smile, she sent off a quick reply of thanks and promised to pass the message to Jon.  It had pleased Cassidy when he offered to have one of the crew play tour guide because she just knew Verla Jean would spend decades telling people how a rock star personally invited her backstage.  

[8:14PM]CALLIOPE: I hate having missed it, but Libby sent me a video that I’ve shown everybody at the hospital.  Mama, you looked and sounded beautiful!  Maybe next time I’ll get more than twelve hours’ notice so I can switch schedules with somebody and see you live. Hint, hint! Call me when you can.  Love you big! 

She wished her daughter could’ve been here, too, but there would be more opportunities.  Many more, judging by the crowd response tonight, and she told Calliope so as well as sending love.

[10:36PM]DAVID: The flight to STL is only an hour, but we’re gonna party hard and fast with a $1k bottle of bourbon.  When you headline, I’ll get you the GOOD stuff.

Thousand-dollar bourbon?!  He bought thousand-dollar bourbon and wasn’t calling it “the GOOD stuff”?  

Mind.  Blown. 

All Cassidy could do was fire off a message saying The Liquor Barn was a hell of a lot cheaper and calling him a luxury lush.  Inside, she was ashamed of her intrigue at tasting something so extravagant, but there was a little something to celebrate, after all.

[10:42PM]OBIE: You killed it kid!  You’ve got 1,000 new album pre-orders, 3,000 new downloads of ‘Dixie Queen’ and everybody’s clamoring for ‘Love is a Choice’.  That’s your next single.  My trip to Tully’s would’ve been worth it, even without the fried pickles!

A thousand albums?  And three thousand downloads?  From a twenty-minute stint on stage? 

Hell yes, there’s something to celebrate!  Pass the high-falutin’ hooch, please!

Cassidy shimmied her backside against the sofa cushions and squealed, “Jon!  Turn that damned thing off!”

“What’s the matter?”

“Look!”  She shoved the phone at him.  “Obie says I’ve sold a thousand new albums tonight!  And three thousand ‘Dixie Queens’!” 

His smile was easy, without a flicker of surprise when confidently predicting, “You’ll triple the albums by morning.”

Triple that number seemed awfully optimistic from her point of view.  She’d only had a hundred or so this morning, so one thousand was already exorbitant. 

“What makes you think so?”

“Because you’re that good,” was the simple answer that accompanied the return of her phone.  “There’s a new message from Libby.”

Guilt niggled at her.  Yes, she’d told Jon she trusted him.  Her mind had even known that he had decades of experience in the music industry.  Her heart just hadn’t fully believed his support stemmed from anything beyond their personal relationship. 

“I’m sorry for doubtin’ your business savvy.”

He looked up from buttoning his jeans.  “It’s okay.  Just don’t doubt yourself.”

“Alright.  I’ll try.” 

His lazy wink said everything else that needed saying.

When Jon turned to grab a black t-shirt, she lifted the phone from her lap and swiped the screen, curious about what Libby had to say.  They’d seen each other a half-hour ago.

[11:05PM]LIBBY: I just have to tell you again how proud I am.  You’re going to be a star, and not just in name.  I love you! 

One corner of Cassidy’s mouth tipped up.  What looked to the outside world like sass and spite was nothing more than the way they showed their love. 

She was about to send an emoji heart when another message arrived from Libby, along with a photo.

[11:07PM]LIBBY: This is making its way around social media.  FYI.

The picture was of Jon with a gorgeous brunette.  She wasn’t one of those put-together supermodels that required a team of cosmetologists to make it happen, either.  The forty-something woman had good genes and a natural beauty, which shone from within his arms as she smiled with unmistakable joy.  

The photographer had taken the photo from the side, so Jon’s face was hidden by a mane of chestnut hair, but the bend of his fingers indicated that the embrace was a tight one.

There had been dozens of pictures like it since his divorce, most of which speculated that he had a new woman in his sights.  Reality identified nearly all the women as friends or acquaintances, and the remainder were fans.  None of them were more than friendly attention and a warm hug.   

Libby knew that, so why was she wasting time sending this hogwash?

[11:07PM]LIBBY: I guess you recognize her, since that’s your front porch?

Hold the bus.  It was her front porch. 

That was her cheery red door with the Valentine wreath that Libby made.  And Jon had on the same t-shirt and sweater he’d worn to the arena this afternoon.  The sweater he was just slipping his head into. 

There’s a simple explanation.  All ya gotta do is ask.

“Jon?  Who’s this?”

The explanation came faster than expected, because the instant his eyes hit the image, they flooded with guilt and fell shut.  It happened so fast that it could’ve been a figment of her imagination. 

Maybe it was, because when his lids parted again, there was nothing but an impassiveness to match his, “Business acquaintance.”

“You didn’t mention invitin’ anyone over to the house today.”

In fact, he’d never invited anyone to her house, saying it was a sanctuary for him.  For them. 

“Hadn’t had a chance.  And stop looking at me like that,” he ordered, turning to take out clean socks and his street boots.  “I’ll tell you all about it when we get to St. Louis.”

“Why not now?”

His butt hit the cushion next to hers with a disgruntled, “It’s a goddamn picture, Dix.  Like a thousand before it.”

“Which you always tell me about when I find one int’restin’.  Like the guy in the Superman suit, the woman who read your tea leaves out of the garbage, and the Cher impersonator.  Why is this one different?”

Stamping his newly socked and booted feet on the floor, he stood and went to the top wardrobe drawer.  “It’s not different.  We have a plane to catch.   Let’s go.”

She watched him palm his phone out of the drawer, giving her his back while cramming it into a pocket.  Cassidy was still confused by what was happening here.    

“Jon...”

“Dixie,” he sighed, shrugging into a leather jacket.  “I swear to God, I will tell you everything about it – in St. Louis.  Now let’s go.”

You told the man he had your trust.  It’s more than just a word, no matter what your intuition tells you.

He’d never lied to her before.  There was no reason to believe he would start tonight.  Not when there was so much to celebrate. 

“Did you know David bought me a thousand-dollar bottle of bourbon?”

A genuine smile creased his cheeks, chasing away the gruffness as he unlocked the door with a scoff.  “Yeah.  He’s saving the ten-thousand buck bottle for your solo tour. ”