5 - 4 in the Morning

Cassidy blew out an exhausted breath and tossed her rag into the hamper.  All of the fourteen floor-to-ceiling windows that made up the outer walls of the little cabin she currently called home were now sparkling like diamonds.  She should be proud of the fact, but disgust was a more apt description of her current state of mind.

Her disgust had nothing to do with the layer of dust that had been at the top of each window.  No, she was disgusted because was four in the morning and she couldn’t sleep

When the bar closed at midnight, she’d locked up, made the fifteen minute drive and two minute hike to the cabin, and then crawled her exhausted body into bed.  All she’d wanted was a good night’s sleep after a very long day – with maybe a smutty dream of a gray-haired rock star thrown in for good measure.  Was that too much to ask? 

Evidently so, because rather than conjuring up steamy subconscious sex with Jon Bon Jovi, her mind opted to replay every non-sexual detail of her day in a repetitious highlight reel.  It had finally gotten to the point where she’d been forced to make the choice between lying there and going nuts or doing something productive.

So she cleaned windows – while her mind continued to replay every detail of her day. 

Chicken wings, fried pickles, Chihuahas, microphones and fat bottomed girls continued to dance in her head even now.  It was three hours later and she still couldn’t escape those silly images – or the recollection of the newly dumbest decision she’d ever made.  That was likely the real culprit keeping her awake.

It had all gone well after Jon had removed his sunglasses – at first.  She made a toe-curling connection with the prettiest blue eyes to come out of the eighties and introduced him to Clay.  Then the two of them took up residence one of the tables for a nice long chat and a couple of beers, which made the conversation flow a little more freely. 

He became a completely different person the moment she’d introduced him.  No longer was Jon quiet, introverted, or soft-spoken.  A switch had been flipped, turning him into Mr. Personality.  Laughing, making small talk and, by all appearances, having the time of his life. 

It was truly a sight to behold.

Cassidy had become so totally enraptured by the aura of delight that surrounded him, that she made the mistake of trying to carry on a conversation with Obie that she’d only heard bits and pieces of.  To compound her lack of social attention, she found herself committed to something she’d had no intention of committing to – because she was embarrassed to admit being too wrapped up in Jon-gawking to register what his friend was saying.

“I don’t know about tomorrow, but definitely the day after.  No later than Monday,” he’d assured her, one slender finger swiping away at the iPhone screen in frantic search of something.  “You work every day, or what?”

“Hmm?”  She slid her gaze to him, forcing herself to focus on something other than Jon’s bright grin.  “Most days.  Tully makes me take a day off every coupl’a weeks.”

His finger stopped moving and owlish glasses were pointed curiously at her face.  “What?  You don’t have a life other than this place?  Not that it’s any of my business.  I like working with obsessive personalities.”  He tossed his head in the general direction of Jon.  “Obviously.”

“Mm.”  She gave him a bland smile before oversharing, “I need the money.”

“Ah.”  He went back to the phone that had just dinged with an incoming message.  “Money’s a great motivator.  So today’s Thursday.  I should take my car home, but I’ll fly back down.  I’ve got us booked from noon to midnight Monday.  That work for you?”

That was the exact moment she realized she’d missed an important piece of this friendly little chat.  Cassidy frowned at Obie, having exactly zero idea of what he’d booked and for whom.

“Noon to midnite?”

“Yeah.  I’m not a morning person and I figured, working in a bar, you probably aren’t either.  Gimme your phone number and I’ll text you the address.  You do have a car, right?”

Never in her life had Cassidy been at a loss for words, but she’d felt notoriously like a big mouth bass whose lips flapped open and closed in a futile effort to pull something from the air that would help it live.  Apparently, she was part of the ‘us’ that was booked from noon to midnight.

But what exactly is it that I’m booked FOR?  Hellfire and damnation, Cassidy.  What have you gotten yourself into now??

“I think maybe you’ve made a mistake,” she speculated with an easy grin, fully prepared to charm her way out of whatever this was.

Obie’s eyebrows drew together in confusion.  “You mean after all that ‘sure’ and ‘great’ you didn’t agree to record a demo for me?  Couldn’t you have clarified that before I pulled a hundred strings to get the studio time booked?”

Her bucket of charm was suddenly sopped dry, leaving her with only two things: the desire not to make an embarrassed ass out of herself and a sense of obligation to the man whom she’d evidently put to a great deal of trouble.  A man who worked with famous musicians.  Who wanted to make her famous.

Yeah.

So Cassidy had agreed to do the demo, even if it did tie for first place in the ‘Dumbest Decisions Ever Made’ category.  Six weeks ago, it would’ve been the dumbest decision she’d ever made.  Or not.  Things would’ve been different if this had happened first, but she wouldn’t be here without that, so….

She sighed from the very bottom of her toes, still disgusted with her overactive thoughts and underactive sexual imagination.  It looked like she was going to be scrubbing the bathroom next, where the whole embarrassing, yet G-rated, scene would likely replay in her head.  Again.  For the five million, seven hundred sixty-two thousandth time.

Lord, could you maybe keep me from drownin’ in the toilet if I pass out from exhaustion?  Because that’s right up there with Elvis dyin’ on the pot.  I’d just rather not go out like that, if it’s okay with You.  In Jesus’s name, amen.

###

Jon threw his notepad across the Roanoke, Virginia hotel bed and swore under his breath.    

“Damn Obie and his fuckin’ road trip.  Why didn’t he just have the car shipped to Jersey?”

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t his hot rod friend that he was pissed at, but since Obie was probably safely tucked away in his own hotel room at four in the morning, Jon found it easier to bitch at him than to start an argument with the real target of his anger. 

Besides, arguing with himself would probably get him transferred from his room at the Sheraton to the local asylum.  He was sure of it. 

Jon growled quietly and propped himself up in the bed, his head falling back against the headboard with a muted ‘thunk’.

Tonight hadn’t gone any better than last night, the night before, or the seven hundred or so before that.  No matter how hard he beat his head against the proverbial wall, he couldn’t write a decent song if his life depended on it.  God knew he should be used to it after a two year dry spell, but his ego obviously still hadn’t gotten the message, because he’d been convinced that this was going to be the night his writers’ block would be blown to hell.

Ever since he and Obie had left Tully’s bar this afternoon, there had been a sense of anticipation thrumming through his veins.  He’d just known that the awareness and excitement he had simmering just below the surface was going to convert into a song, if not two.  The conversation with Clay Adams had left him with a renewed sense of optimism at owning an NFL team.  What was better than optimism for a song theme?  And then…  Well, then there was the woman responsible for that optimistic conversation. 

Her ass alone should’ve been enough to inspire an album full of those boy/girl songs that his female demographic ate up like no-calorie cheesecake.  And if it wasn’t her ass, it could’ve just as easily been her smile, laugh, easy demeanor or the aura of sunshiny happiness that surrounded her, because all of that was enough to make a stone statue crack a smile.

Somehow, though, he’d managed to fuck up a sure thing. 

All of that opportunity just waiting to be seized, and he couldn’t get the flawless bits of potential to meld into one usable lyric.  “Heart bottomed girls”, “sunny with a chance of lucky” or – his personal favorite – “an ass that would make Mona Lisa weep” just weren’t hooks that would satisfy his final obligation to the record label. 

He reached for the half-empty wine bottle parked on the nightstand and tipped it up for a swallow.  Nights like these weren’t couth enough to require a glass.  Hell, nights like these sometimes required two bottles.  It was just too bad he couldn’t bash the label execs over the head with them.

Thirty years he had been loyal to Mercury/Island/Def Jam/whoever hell they were this week.  He’d stayed true longer than most of the people who worked at the damn company, but they had no appreciation for loyalty.  They were only interested in making another buck and it didn’t matter if they screwed over their artists in the process.  So Jon was going to give them the last album required by his current contract and tell them to go fuck themselves.

“Maybe I am,” he muttered to the quiet room.  “If I ever write another fucking song.”

Not writing another song wasn’t an option.  In fact, he had to write at least eight because, if he didn’t make an album, there was a nasty clause in there that would have him paying out the nose for breach of contract. 

Jon didn’t like paying out the nose.  In all gut-wrenching honesty, that was probably why he was still married.  Dorothea had been with him so long that he knew, without a doubt, a divorce judge would give her half of everything.  Plus another chunk for the kids. 

It would take something pretty damn significant to make him willingly part with that much cash, and the feeling that he was living with a sister instead of a wife wasn’t momentous enough to do it.  He’d just stay right there on his side of the bed until hell froze over or he found something other than a football team that was worth blowing a couple hundred million dollars.

Unbidden, his wine-soaked mind started a movie reel that starred a radiant beauty.  Her copper hair flared out from under a stocking cap as she moved like the wind, etching figure eights onto a frozen lake of fire.  Her backside looked nothing less than exceptional in a pair of form-fitting leggings, and one side of Jon’s mouth kicked up in amusement.

She sure as hell wasn’t his sister.