12 - Smokey the Bear

Jon was just getting out of the shower when he heard someone banging on the door.  Cassidy had left a couple of hours ago and, since then, he’d gotten a fair handle on one song and consumed at least a pot of coffee.  Breakfast would probably be good at some point, but today, as most days, it just didn’t seem worth the effort. 

He slung a towel around his waist and made wet tracks from the bathroom through the bedroom, and progressed into the living room, crossing to the door of the suite.  A quick check of the peep hole confirmed his initial suspicion.    

Obie.  Of course.  Who else would it be?

“About damn time,” his buddy groused when the door opened and he invited himself into Jon’s room.  “I’ve been standin’ out here for ten minutes.”

Jon rolled his eyes and turned back toward the bathroom, suggesting as he went, “Try sending a text next time.  If I don’t answer, don’t show up.”

“Yeah, yeah.  So, I’ve been thinking…”

Dangerous territory, Obie’s mind.  Last time he’d been thinking, Jon found himself in a rural Tennessee dive bar. 

That didn’t turn out so bad, now, did it?

“You need an engraved invitation to tell me?  Talk already,” Jon called from the bedroom, scrubbing a towel over his wet hair and reaching for the jeans he’d worn yesterday.

“I’ve been thinking about Cassidy.”

Thinking what?  Jon hoped it wasn't anything like he was – and had been – thinking because he wasn’t done with her yet.  It turned out that her happy was contagious, and he’d like to acquire a more lethal dose before he broke ties with the sassy and unfiltered Ms. Starr. 

Hence, that whole weird ass conversation before she left. 

It was the first time in his recollection that a bed partner hadn’t at least hinted for a return invitation, even though he seldom issued them.  It sure as fuck was only time he’d had to browbeat a woman into accepting the offer. 

Back in Jersey, he’d thought of her as only one of a million women who wanted to share his company.  He couldn’t have been more wrong if he’d called her a man.  Cassidy Starr was uniquely distinctive in every sense of the word from the time she’d offered that “gettin’ to know you orgasm” right until the minute she demanded to understand why he wanted her to come back. 

And the way she flatly stated her “hoo-ha ain’t all that special”.  Jesus.

Jon zipped his pants while shaking his head.  “What about her?”

“I think she might be something special.”

Welcome to the club.

He scooped up a white t-shirt from his bag and proceeded to the doorway that connected living room to bedroom, pulling it over his head along the way.  This was a conversation he’d prefer to conduct face to face, and he used a wide stance to fill the doorway.

“Elaborate.”

Obie perched at the end of the couch that Cassidy had used to put on her shoes.  “I wasn’t kidding about a duet on the new album.  Her voice gives you a depth you haven’t had since…”

He didn’t finish his sentence, because he didn’t have to.  Jon mentally filled in the blanks without having to strain a single brain cell. 

Since Richie left.

Every single fucking day he woke up thinking, “this is the day” – the day when he was no longer bitter about Richie’s abrupt and ill-timed choice to eliminate Bon Jovi from his life.  Jon was ready for that day to come.  Honest to God he was.  He didn’t want to harbor resentment toward a man who’d been as close to him as any other person.  It wasn’t healthy and it made him feel like shit, but he just wasn’t able to let it go yet.

Unfortunate as hell, but it wasn’t a fact that could be disputed any more than the damn bottle of antidepressants Jon now required in order to function on any meaningful level.  The Catch-22 in that particular scenario was that, in order to make him functional, the drugs dulled his mind and stole his previously admirable command of the English language. 

So he could either lie listlessly in bed and compose motherfucking sonnets or endeavor to make a living by stringing together “see Spot run” lyrics.  How were those for choices?

Shitty.

“So you want me to sing with her.  On an album.  And then what?”  He was infuriated every time this affected his life in yet another new way, so blatant sarcasm dripped from his words.  “I’m supposed to bring her on tour with me, too?”

Both of Obie’s hands lifted defensively against Jon’s acidic reaction.  “All I’m sayin’ is listen to the playback.  We recorded two takes, both completely off the cuff, and they’re better than most of the shit playing on the radio right now.”

Fuck.

The new guitarist, Phil, was doing fine on backup vocals with Sambora gone.  Anything he wasn’t comfortable with, Dave was more than happy to jump in and cover.  They were keeping all the bases covered.  They sounded solid. 

But was solid enough to keep them afloat?  Fans had gone ape shit over the duet he and Richie had always worked into the live shows, especially “I’ll Be There for You”.  Was that going to leave an irreparable hole in his live show, or did he need to plug the hole with a new duet partner? 

Fans would likely cry sacrilege over anybody else singing harmony on “Diamond Ring” or “I’ll Be There for You”, but could they eventually get past it and appreciate whatever… depth Cassidy supposedly brought to Jon’s voice?

Jesus Christ.  Jon couldn’t manage to write a fucking song.  Why the hell did Obie think he was in a position to make a life-altering decision like this? 

Because you’ve kept the writer’s block a secret.  He doesn’t know there’s anything but business as usual.

“She’d sure look good on stage,” Obie threw out as if he was helping Jon make a decision.

He was not helping.

Jon rubbed his face with both hands, and then pushed them into his hair.  “Shut up already.  I’ll listen, but that’s it.” 

“Okay, fine.  That’s all I wanted.”  His friend stood, pushing a hand into his pocket to retrieve a flash drive and toss it to Jon.  “Mixing and editing won’t be done until I get home this afternoon, but here are the raw tracks.  Call me after you hear ‘em.”

The piece of metal and plastic felt like hot lava in his hand, and Jon immediately let it fall to the table.  “It’ll be later.  I’m meeting with Clay Adams in a little while.”

“Oh yeah?  What’s that all about?”

For the first time since allowing Obie into his room this morning, Jon smiled.  “He’s going to sell me part of the Titans.”

As long as Clay’s family approved, but that was a minor detail.  Jon would meet the mother, aunts and brother today to charm them and iron out the fine points of the deal.  He had no reason to assume everything would go other than smoothly, and the final sale should be recorded by the end of the week. 

He’d dreamed of it for so long that the prospect of being an NFL owner carried an excitement like no other.  The only thing that even came close in his antidepressant, anti-writing world was knowing that the next time he had sex with Cassidy… he’d be an NFL owner.

###

Cassidy checked the dashboard and found that it was six forty-five.  Perfect.  She had plenty of time to stop for gas and still make it to Jon’s hotel by the promised meeting time of seven-thirty. 

A quick left turn had her in the Kroger station, where it took only minutes to bump the Jeep’s gas gauge up to half of a tank, and she then slid under the steering wheel for the drive to Nashville.  A quick flick of the wrist gave her some music for company, and Cassidy merrily sang along to Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance”.   

Gaga had just requested leather studded kisses in the sand when Cassidy caught sight of the blue flashing lights in her rear view mirror.  A closer look found the markings of a distinctive tan and navy Tennessee State Police SUV.

“Damn, double damn, hellfire and damnation!” The hair on the back of her neck stood at attention, and her stomach knotted with a fear like she’d never known before.  If she’d eaten anything today, it would have been spewed all over the vehicle’s interior in that instant. 

This was it.  They’d found her.  She was about to be carted off to jail like those dumber-than-dirt domestic disturbance rednecks on the Cops TV show.  They would cuff and stuff her, and she would have to use her one phone call to let Jon Bon Jovi know she wouldn’t be having sex with him that night. 

Swallowing the bile and hysteria that tried to rise in her throat, Cassidy tapped the Jeep’s turn signal and eased toward the side of the rural road with a prayer.  “Lord, God, Jesus and anybody else that might be listenin’, can ya help a girl out here?  I know bein’ persecuted for the sake of righteousness is supposed to get me blessed, but do Ya think we could skip the persecution in favor of the blessin’?  Please?  In Jesus’s name, Amen.”

A trembling hand finally got the gearshift pushed into Park and the engine turned off, leaving Cassidy to take a huge, gulping breath.  She held it for as long as she could, letting it out in a slow, gradual hiss as the trooper exited the cruiser.  Topping his head with the traditional Smokey the Bear hat, he unsnapped the fastener on his holster and slowly approached her driver’s door.  One hand hovered over his gun as he did. 

Please don’t let him shoot me. Calliope will die of embarrassment.  If you have no pity for me at least have mercy on her, Lord?

It took a couple of shaky attempts, but Cassidy had the window rolled down by the time he came to a halt just behind her left shoulder. 

“Hands on the wheel, ma’am.”

Smile and be friendly, you ding-a-ling.

“Evenin’, sir.” Cassidy put her hands on the steering wheel, as instructed, and cordially greeted the mid-thirties law enforcement officer who was built like a brick shithouse.  He must have been six-and-a-half feet tall and nearly that wide with his bulging muscles.  “I didn’t think I was speedin’, but I got a little wrapped up in the radio so, if I was, I apologize.”

“No, ma’am, you weren’t speedin’,” Smokey agreed in a strong voice, and she noticed that his name was Robinson.  Smokey Robinson.  Ha.  “I’m gonna ask you to get me your license and registration, but let’s do it nice and slow, please.”

Turning her megawatt grin in his direction, she schooled her features into a mask of apology.  “I would love to do that, sir, but I lost my wallet on Sunday evenin’ after fellowship at church.  I’ve been working double shifts the last couple days and haven’t had a chance to get down to the DMV for a replacement yet.  I do have a temporary registration in the glovebox, though.”

He nodded his approval for her to retrieve it, and Cassidy leaned over to fish the little piece of paper from the glovebox.  She vehemently willed her hand not to tremble as she passed it through the window even as she frantically tried to keep herself from hyperventilating. 

Libby is damn near a pathological liar, and she’s your sister!  You can surely pass off this slight fabrication!

“Cassidy Starr?”

“Yes, sir,” she affirmed jovially.  “Just like Ringo.”

Mr. Trooper didn’t think that was quite as cute or interesting as Cassidy had hoped.  Neither had Jon for that matter.  She was going to have to come up with a different tag line to go with that, her hyperactive mind decided. 

“I’ll need your proof of insurance, as well, ma’am.”

This time she summoned a look that was a step beyond apologetic.  One that leaned toward embarrassingly apologetic.

“I’m so sorry, Trooper Robinson, but I always carry my insurance card in my wallet and, as I mentioned, that was lost just a couple days ago.  I’m afraid my work schedule hasn’t allowed me to get to the State Farm office either.”

The muscles around his chiseled mouth curved down into a frown.  “Where did you purchase this vehicle?”

“Oh, just right up the road here in Belle Meade,” she supplied, striving for utterly casually indifference with her smile firmly in place.  “Jerald Doochin’s place.  You know Jerald?  He’s a real nice fella.  Made me a good deal and was real honest.”

His frown didn’t turn into a smile, but the frown looked a whole lot less frowny.  “Glad to hear you say that, Ms. Starr.  Jerald is my wife’s cousin, and he does try and do right by folks.  He must’ve missed seein’ the burned out tail light on this one, though.  That’s why I pulled you over.”

Blessed.  Are.  The.  Righteous!!!  Thank Ya, Lord!!

“Oh dear.”  A damsel in distress maneuver was called into play, and Cassidy brought her fingertips to her chin.  “I surely had no idea.  You think Jerald might fix that if I took it back to him?”

“I’d say so.”  Robinson finally broke down and offered a friendly look, if not a smile, before passing the temporary registration back to her.  “We’ll just call this a warnin’, but you get that tail light fixed.  Your temporary tags are also expired, but you’ve got a couple more weeks before it’s a movin’ violation.  Make sure you get that taken care of, too, Ms. Starr.”  He tipped the brim of his hat.  “Tell Jerald that Cousin Wes said ‘hey’, and you have a nice evenin’, ma’am.” 

If she didn’t have a strong bladder, Cassidy would’ve wet her pants with relief the second Trooper Robinson stepped away from the Jeep.  As it was, her head went light and spun like that teacup ride at the Georgia State Fair, making her wonder whether she was fit to continue the drive to Nashville.

You better get fit, because the only thing that’s gonna top this feelin’ is the mind blowin’ sex waitin’ for you at the end of the trip!