5 - Merchants

“You mad at me?” Cassidy asked with quiet amusement when pausing in the open restaurant door that Jon held for her. 

“About nearly dying in a Prius?  No.”

The flat sarcasm made her want to grin, but she bit it back in favor of a neutral, “Good.”

Making him angry hadn’t been her intention in bypassing a limo service for Uber.  It was meant to be funny.  However, when the driver turned out to be an “uber” fan, she knew there was a chance her fun could become a dark cloud over the evening. 

Jon was always – always – gracious with the fans, but to be trapped in a car with one for a half-hour was a test of his patience she hadn’t planned.  Good old Elliott would never know that Jon’s back teeth were grinding by the end of the ride, but Cassidy did and felt badly. 

Their short time together was ticking away, and she realized how heavily it weighed on his mind when he muttered something about staying home and turning off the phones.  If manners hadn’t dictated having dinner with their friend, she would’ve happily agreed to house arrest.

But manners had dictated, so she was stepping the first foot across the Merchants threshold.

“Just don’t do it again,” he murmured with a subtle tap to her backside before her second foot had hit the foyer’s checkerboard tile. 

“Okay, I'll try Lyft for the trip home.”

His quiet bite of laughter took the sting out of, “Better yet, how ‘bout you just let me take care of it?” 

There was no chance to debate the issue before he stepped up to cast a smile upon the hostess and explain that they were meeting a friend.  The pretty brunette returned his smile and, after consulting her book, directed them toward the elevator that would take them to the upstairs dining room. 

When the doors slid closed, Cassidy immediately bent to unzip her ankle boots and trade them for the red-jeweled stilettos that she still wore at every opportunity.  They were the best birthday present she’d ever gotten, and Jon smiled down at them with the same fondness she held for them in her heart.

“I’d like to keep this dinner short,” he stated quietly. 

She straightened from her task and tucked discarded boots into the bag dangling from her shoulder.  A quick shake of the head had her ponytail settling back into place, and she tucked a hand in the crook of his elbow. 

“Fine by me, baby doll.  I’m sorry about work today.”

“We do what we have to, Dix.  No apology necessary.”

He was a slave to his job often enough to understand and not bear a grudge.  She gave his arm a quick squeeze of appreciation, and as the elevator doors slid back, murmured, “Love you.”

Twinkling blue eyes cut down to her as they stepped into the dining area.  “Back at you, baby.”

Their relationship might not be ideal from some people’s perspective, but it was pretty darn good in Cassidy’s mind.  So what if they didn’t have rings and a piece of paper?  The world was filled with unhappy people who did.  Love and mutual respect were more important.

“Well, fuck.”

Nobody else would’ve heard the quiet swear, but since she was only about a foot away, she registered it quite plainly.  Her gaze darted around the dining room to see what might have prompted the cursing but found only a couple of people looking up from their meals.  There was half-hearted interest on those faces, but nothing that warranted such a huff.

“What?”  His chin ducked toward the back of the room where David was sitting with another man.  “Obie’s here.”

Obie was Jon’s best friend and the man who first came in search of Cassidy.  Without him, they wouldn’t have met, and she certainly wouldn’t have a finished album waiting in the wings. 

“Okay?  And?” 

“And I wasn’t expecting him.  That’s all.”

“Hogwash,” she whispered as they came within hearing distance of the dining companions that were both rising to greet them.

As expected, Jon didn’t reply.  He just released Cassidy into the arms of David, who wrapped her into a tight, warm hug before dropping a kiss against her cheek.

“It’s about damn time,” he complained when passing her to Obie for a similar show of affection. 

Cassidy had spent enough time with these men during the production of her album that she considered them not just friends and co-workers but family of sorts.  It didn’t matter that she hadn’t seen either for a couple of months.  David’s quarreling felt as familiar as an old shoe, and Obie’s bony hug was akin to that of a favorite uncle.   

“Fuck off,” Jon responded blandly, taking a seat and pushing out a chair for Cassidy. 

The table was arranged so that two people occupied each side, and she slipped in next to him and apologized across the table, “It’s my fault.  I ended up havin’ a full day at work instead of a half one.  I’m awful sorry to keep y’all waitin’.”

“No worries, Dixie Chick,” David assured, raising his empty cocktail glass at a passing server.  “I’ve been enjoying the distilled hospitality while we waited.  I highly recommend the ‘Roughin’ It Old Fashioned’.  Got no fucking idea what sorghum bitters are, but they’re swimming in enough whiskey that I won’t care after the next one.”

Cassidy chuckled and told the waiter, “The Old Fashioned would be perfect, thanks.”

Obie chose the signature tequila cocktail while Jon opted for a wine that earned David’s mockery.   

“You drink like a pussy compared to your girlfriend.”

“It’s cool.  She's a closet lesbian.”

When David’s mouth popped open to retort with Lord only knew what, she shushed him with a pointed finger.  “I’m not defendin’ or discussin’ my heterosexuality, so before you even start, just find yourself a new topic.”

“Fine,” he relented with woebegone puppy eyes.  “That ruins all the fun, but I guess we can talk about….  Uhh…. Well, there’s always….  Damn.  Everything else is dull in comparison.”

“I got one.  Why didn’t I know Obie was joining us for dinner?”

It was on the tip of Cassidy’s tongue to scold Jon for being rude - well, more rude considering that whole off-color lesbian commentary, but she stopped herself.  These men knew more about him than she likely ever would.  His bluntness likely wasn’t going to offend them, and if it did, they wouldn’t be shy about making it known.

“Nice manners, fucker.”

Jon ignored Obie’s sarcasm and cast pointed eyes to the other man at the table.  “Well?”

“Because I ran into him in the hotel lobby.  He’d been trying to get in touch with Cassidy today, too, and since he didn’t have dinner plans, I invited him along.”

“Jon, why are you so wrapped up in Obie bein’ here?”

Because Lema promised me he wouldn’t say a word about tomorrow’s show, but he’s just fucked up enough to bring along somebody who will. 

“Just curious,” he downplayed while fiddling with the silverware on his napkin.  “You ever been to California, Dixie?”

From the expression on her face, she wasn’t buying his story, but Jon’s girl was mannered enough to play along.  “Can’t say as I have.  Why?”

“The band will be in California the day your album drops.  If you wanna fly out, we can make a party of it.  These two have put in enough hours that I’m sure they’ll want to celebrate the milestone.”

“Yeah, absolutely!”  Score one for David’s enthusiasm.  “I just think it’s a shame you’ve let it sit around and collect dust since before Christmas.  You could’ve gone gold already.”

“I can still go gold,” his always-serene girlfriend reminded.  “And y’all know why I chose the release date.”

Obie snorted and shook his head, “Yeah, yeah.  He released an album for your birthday, so you wanna release one for his.  New love and all that happy horseshit.”

Jon found Cassidy's gesture to be incredibly and unnecessarily sweet.  He’d said as much when opening the handwritten Christmas card revealing it as his gift.  He’d also mentioned – not ungratefully – that it seemed more like a birthday present than Christmas.  At that, she’d merely donned a Mona Lisa smile and assured him there was still something special tucked away for his birthday.

“She’s a sentimental gift giver. Get over it.”  The staunch defense was rewarded by the soft clasp of fingers around his, and he gave them a squeeze.

"Of course she is."  Obie’s hand flapped Jon’s protectiveness away like a pesky fly.  “What I wanna know is the setlist for tomorrow night.  What are you singing, Cassidy?”

Motherfucker.  I knew Lema was using Obie for his entertainment.

Even so, Jon could’ve played it off so that she never understood the true meaning of the question.  Because she looked right at him with questions marks in her eyes.  She wanted him to translate.

Too bad that before he could pull his public relations persona out of his ass to do so, David shoved backward until he sat two feet from the table.  Chair legs scraped the floor loudly enough to draw attention from neighboring diners, and if that hadn’t been enough to make a scene, he flung both hands were up in the air like a robbery victim while his eyes went wide exaggerated innocence. 

Real subtle, jackass.

“I’m not singin’ anything.”  Confusion was evident both in her voice and the gaze she cast upon David.  Jon was screwed.    

“You’re an asshole, Bryan.”

“Hey, man, it wasn’t me!”

“No, but you brought him along to do your dirty work.”  Jon couldn’t even really be mad at anyone but himself.  It was his convenience that had put it off for far too long.  There was no one else to blame. 

“What in the world are y’all talkin’ ‘bout?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Obie sighed.  “You didn’t tell her?”

“I haven’t had the chance.”

“Yeah, right,” his friend guffawed, knowing full well that there had been months of opportunity.  “Well, sorry your dipshit boyfriend didn’t man up and delivery the news personally, but you’re opening for Bon Jovi tomorrow night.  I’d suggest doing your radio single, that last track on the album, and maybe ‘In These Arms’?  Whaddaya think Dave?”

“Absolutely,” came the immediate agreement. “Then, just to give this guy a kick in the nuts, bring him out for a duet.  That’s what I suggest.”

Both men were doing a commendable job of ignoring Jon’s stink-eye, but the one Cassidy pinned on him would not be ignored.  Her irises were no longer powder blue but arctic and they were slit to shards of ice that she stabbed him with.  She had never yelled at him before, but then again, he’d never seen that particular shade of pissed on her either.

This must be the look she had when setting fire to her grandmother’s house.

Yeah.  Jon was royally screwed.

“Dixie…”

“Don’t,” she cut him off with eerie calm.  “We will talk about this when we get home.”

“But…”

“When we get home, Jon.”  He was figuratively bleeding out from the look she sliced him with.  “In the meantime, you’d better order me another drink.”

It didn’t matter to him that the first one hadn’t yet arrived.  Jon’s hand went in the air to summon a waiter, willing to order a fucking distillery if that’s what it took to put a smile back on her face.

A real one.  Not the barracuda huntress version she just turned on David.