Part 6: Add Cream

I rose from my seat and took the small two steps necessary to put me standing between Jon’s now-splayed knees.  After reaching around me to put his wineglass on the table, he leaned back with elbows tucked at his sides and forearms open in invitation.  “Climb on,” he solicited with the beckoning wiggle of fingers.

It terrified me that I might wake up at any moment to find myself in a tangle of sweaty sheets, horny and alone.  That’s the only reason I could fathom for not immediately climbing him like a squirrel chasing a nut on wheels.  My mind had started working against my hormones in a fight to keep at least one toe in the reality pool, and it had my feet firmly attached to the oriental rug.   

“About this rough thing…”

“No reason to be concerned,” he soothed, lifting his chin to watch me with an intensity that had the backs of my knees sweating.  “It’s just gonna be a very vigorous workout.  No whips or chains.  If it makes you feel better, think of it as unbridled passion.  Isn’t that what they call it in romance novels?”

I wouldn’t know.  My first name might be Valentine, but my middle was not Harlequin and I didn’t have the romantic gene that went along with either.  A well-written biography or John Grisham were more my speed, or even the occasional self-help book.  I probably should’ve read more of those, in fact, since I was still standing there like a mute idiot.

“Changing your mind?”

His voice…

It wasn’t deep, but it was seductive in the way he elongated the vowels and softened the hard consonants.  Gentle, with a wicked edge, it held the promise of every dirty fantasy I’d ever had in my life – of him or anyone else.  Add in the faintly curved mouth made for sin and the simmer that warmed cool blue eyes… 

I was ready to sign him on as my personal trainer and willfully surrender to whatever vigorous workout he had up his sleeve – or in his pants.  I’d even be willing to do it a couple of times, because I’d love to have that morning-after ache linger for at least a couple of days.

No pain, no gain.

“Not changing my mind,” I corrected with a shake of my loose blonde waves.  “Just thinking.  I do that a little too much sometimes.”

“Fucking’s a lot more fun without the thinking.”

Such profound wisdom should be immortalized in some way.  Maybe I’d get that put on a mug. 

“Sounds like a hit song lyric.”

“Could be,” Jon agreed with an easy grin, then waggled his fingers at me again.  “C’mere, Tiny.  Lemme help you stop thinking.”

What girl could resist that invitation?

Hiking my dress so that I could plant a knee outside each of his hips, I settled onto his lap, pleasantly noting the heat and hardness of his thighs on the inside of mine.  As I inclined my head, one commanding hand palmed my skull and urged me forward while the other pushed beneath the dress that was quickly becoming cumbersome.  I barely had time to breathe before the top of my sexiest stockings was scorched by his touch. 

Thank God I did get that breath, though, because it was only a heartbeat later that our mouths collided to suck it back out again.  I tasted the soft grunt that slipped through my lips along with his tongue, and the pressure against my skull disappeared as he chose to abandon it in favor of a two-handed pawing of stocking-clad flesh.  The tip of his tongue tickled the roof of my mouth, enticing me to rock against the hardening rock in his lap while Jon manhandled my scantily covered ass. 

There was no tenderness or sensuality.  This was the brutal possession of a man taking what he wanted and doing what the hell he pleased with it.  I had given him that permission, so rather than finding it boorishly offensive, it turned me on like a mother freaking faucet.  If only for a night, my body belonged to him.

“Jesus,” I breathed against lips that were eating at mine.  He wasn’t a big man by most people’s standards, but his presence was nothing short of all-consuming.  I felt both dwarfed and enshrouded by a manifestation that was larger than pornographic life.  “If we stopped now, it would be the best sex I’ve had in years.”

“We’re not stopping.”

The confident growl kicked off an uncontrollable shiver that had my nipples pushing painfully against their confinement, and one of his fingers skimmed over the seam between my buttocks. 

“Take the dress off,” Jon bade with dangerously hooded eyes and a solid smack against my ass.  It was only enough to deliver a resounding noise and a sting, but the unexpectedness had my clit pumping more blood than my heart. “It’s time to get down and dirty.”

Sweet baby Jesus in a velour tracksuit.

 I let my heels slide free and took the hand that was offered to help steady me as I stood.  Twisting my arms in the pretzel position familiar to women everywhere, I was able to reach the zipper that would open the portal of porn.  Pornal. 

Smirking to myself, I eased it down and until I was able to slide it from my shoulders and let it slip into a an inky puddle at my feet.  I stepped out, bending to pick it up and draping it over a nearby chair.  I preferred to go unwrinkled for my walk of shame.

“I didn’t have time for a tummy tuck,” I apologized with a smile when turning back to him.  “Sorry.”

“As long as your tits are real and your pussy’s wet, everything else is secondary.”

If agenda item number two hadn’t been true before, it was now. 

“We’re good, then,” I declared quietly.

Jon nodded once and continued to study my newly exposed parts as though trying to decide what to do with me.  Blue eyes fixated on my lacy bra and then drifted to the skimpy panties before dropping to the garters holding the stockings in place. 

He did it for so long that I started to become a bit self-conscious and prompted, “Problem?”

“Yeah,” came his sheepish laugh.  “It’s been so long since I’ve seen a woman in nothing but lingerie that I’m not quite sure where to start.”

What had been a joke for me yesterday was just confirmed as the truth – I was his rebound girl.  Not knowing what in the hell a rebound girl was actually supposed to do other than screw his brains out, I went with that. 

“I can take it off and let you see the Slot B that your Tab A goes into, if that helps.”

I would’ve given half my retirement account if I could take his smile at that moment and summon it at will.  Wolfish and backed by the full sparkle power of his baby blues, it was enough to incinerate any lingerie in the vicinity. 

He stood, flicking a wrist at his waist and repeating the process until his fly was open and jeans hit the floor.  As he repeated the process with his shirt and tossed it over my dress, I was left looking at one mighty fine looking Tab A that bore no resemblance to any second grader ever.  Jon was all man as he shuffled a hand up and down the length that wasn’t quite hard enough to suit him. 

“How ‘bout you come suck it instead?  Let me fuck your mouth before taking anything else off.”

Never a huge fan of this particular male fantasy, I nonetheless stepped up to take the hot, hard appendage from him and drop to my knees.   I licked the moisture from the tip and then used the head like a skin-flavored ChapStik over my lips.  Soft skin against soft skin as it skated over first my top lip and then my bottom before greedy hands fisted into my hair. 

“I like it a little rough, remember.”

With no further guidance, I took him deep in a single stroke and sucked until my cheeks hollowed.  The tug of hair at my scalp came with a soft groan to tell me that would work for him. 

Up and down I bobbed, his touch acting as guidance but never forcing me as each stroke had him bumping my soft palate.  Taking his balls into one hand while scratching nails of the other down his thigh, I kneaded them much the way he’d kneaded my backside.  For tonight, they were mine and I’d do as I pleased with them, including squeezing a little too hard for comfort. 

“Fuck!” he hissed, but didn’t complain as I manipulated his junk to suit me, sucking and licking until my lips were chapped and my tongue as dry as sandpaper.   Surprisingly gentle hands slipped under my arms and lifted me to my feet, so that he could provide mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and take another heavy-handed grope of my ass. 

With his mouth still very much attached to mine, the man I’d spent most of my life lusting after maneuvered me to the end of the sofa before breaking the kiss to spin me by the hips. 

“Put your elbows on the arm of the couch and hold on.”

The rustle of a condom wrapper and sharp pull of my panties to one side were the only warnings I had before the dominant invasion of my body.  “Uumpfff!”

“Ready to get sore, baby?” he laughed with another steely drive of flesh into flesh, taking advantage of the position to repetitively manipulate my butt cheeks like a human stress relief toy.   I would no doubt find fingertip-sized bruises there tomorrow, I thought as he slammed me again and proceeded to separate the halves of my ass for a better view of his conquest. 

“That all you got?” I got out before grunting with the force of his next plunge. 

“Oh, funny Valentine.  I’m gonna enjoy you.” 

Unbelievably enough, he hadn’t been driving with full force before.  Now I truly did feel him bumping a spot deep, deep inside as his balls bounced against the clit that was peeking out for attention.  His smack of my rump sounded like the crack of a rifle and damn if I didn’t almost go off like a cannon as a result.

Arrogant, endowed and capable became my new favorite type while he plundered me as proficiently as a pirate took his wench.  Or maybe I should think more along the line of Teddy Roosevelt and the Rough Riders.  Nah.  Too much history, not enough carnality. 

There was another invasive dive into my core, and it only took a couple more of those before I found out that he liked vocal responses to his actions.  A sexy moan would follow each of my whimpers, shouts and yelps.  It turned out I liked those sexy moans as much as Jon appreciated my variety of noises, because the more he did it, the hotter I got.

So hot, in fact, that I was on the brink of my first (yes, I was anticipating multiples tonight) orgasm when he withdrew from my clutching channel to again spin me by the hips and plunk my butt on the arm of the sofa.  Once I was balanced and relatively certain not to fall, he pushed me backward so that my shoulders rested on the seat cushions.  One ankle went into each of his hands to part me wide in the instant before he owned me again. 

“Oh, Jesus.”  The strangled cry was pulled from somewhere deep within me – a hidden pocket of ecstasy that hadn’t been accessed in years.  He felt so good burrowing inside me that I couldn’t withhold the plaintive whine for each scrape over with my long-neglected g-spot. 

The tremors were starting somewhere below my belly button.  They were slow at first, but as he continually ricocheted off my cervix they built.  Quiet intensity prepared to explode with a sonic boom.  I was poised, sweating, panting and eager to experience it, when…

“What the hell?” I cried with disappointment, unhappy at being left hanging a second time so that he could drop my feet to the floor and tug on my arms until I stood with him. 

“Too soon,” he explained briefly before hauling me against his chest for a kiss that was almost potent enough to finish the job.  Fiendish hands were all over me as he consumed me with nips, licks and fervor while subtly guiding me back to the front of the sofa.  Ending the kiss, he spun me so that I faced away and then sat in the center of the couch. 

A nudge of his foot against my instep coaxed my feet apart and firm hands draped my hips to compel me to step backward toward him.  Under his wordless guidance, I found myself once again impaled on his cock with my legs spread wide, feet planted on the outsides of his. 

“Oh, Godddd…”  In my heightened state of awareness, the heat of him blanketing my back while he filled me so completely was almost more than I could stand.  He was bumping all the hyperaware spots inside me.

“Ride me.”

The command was quiet and authoritative against my shoulder, and the body that seemed to know it was under his jurisdiction did as he bade.  Up and down I went, finding that there was a certain angle of penetration that was a little more effective than the others, leaving me to whine as I exploited that fact to my advantage. 

“Feel good?” he rumbled, one arm banding around my waist with the other firmly beneath my breasts.  Jon brutally tweaked a nipple through the bra’s fabric before pushing the cup aside to fondle it as determinedly as he did my backside.  In my haze of delirium I thought he must be checking to see if it was real, or giving me a complimentary mammogram.

Not caring in the least, I subconsciously enjoyed the hardness holding me close, and the sharp tug he was performing on that nipple, but my true focus is on the exquisite point of friction that I’ve found.  I’m like Columbus setting sail for the New World with a single-minded determination, but the voyage has been far too long and my destination is visible on the horizon. 

“I’m going to come,” I panted, more to speak it into being than as a note of information.  “Sweet Jesus, I’m going to come.”

I believed it.  I did, but my beliefs weren’t tantric enough to spur the orgasm I so desperately craved.  That distant speck on the horizon wasn’t getting any closer, and I was becoming pretty irritable.

“Goddammit, dooo something!”  That begging, pleading voice was mine and I didn’t care that it sounded like I wanted a lollipop.  What I sought would be much sweeter. 

The hand settled at my waist slithered back toward my belly button and went south to push under the scrap of panties that were all but twisted sideways.  Something else I also didn’t care about, because when he skimmed a finger inside folds that were painfully swollen and aching for relief, the boat starting moving forward again.

“That’s good,” I approved breathily, dropping my full weight on his lap over and over. 

“Gimme some cream, Coffee Girl.”  The command was raspy and hot against the curve of my neck in the instant before he bit me.  Hard.

“Ohhhhhunnnnnjjjjhhhh!!!”

I traded the Nina, Pinta and Santa Marie for a speed boat with that single bite, bucking shamelessly on the horizon of his cock while he kept fingering me until the cream pitcher was empty.  Crumpling like a ragdoll against him, I shut my eyes and enjoyed the lightheadedness that was better than an espresso caffeine buzz.  My greatest wish in that moment was to know what I had done to deserve this. 

Whatever it was, I wanted to repeat it daily. 

“Feel better?”

The nod I gave him was as slow and sluggish as the hand sliding out of my panties.  Words were not a part of my post-orgasmic skillset.

“Good.”  Easing me off the appendage that was still as stiff as a titanium rod, Jon held tight to my waist as he stood behind me.  Seeing as my legs were nothing more than rubber, I appreciated it.  “Now let’s go to bed so we can really get started.”

We hadn’t even freaking started??

With my muscles already feeling used and abused, it was becoming quite plain that he wasn’t kidding about that aching deep inside tomorrow morning.  And if this wasn’t even the beginning…  Well, it would take me a month to recover – and I planned to savor every minute of it.

Part 5: Savor

At the tone, the time will be five fifty-eight.

The old school voice echoed in my head as I checked the clock on my phone again.  Two minutes before six with no sign of Jon in the bar and my mind was playing that game that most women engaged in when their appointment (not date) didn’t arrive as scheduled. 

Did I remember the time correctly?  The day?  Is there more than one bar in the Intercontinental?  Did he mean this Intercontinental or the one on East 48^th? 

On and on and freaking on, I second-guessed myself while sipping an Irish coffee and feigning indifference.  The man had my number.  If he changed his mind, he would call or text because he was a decent, upstanding guy.  I believed that.  I had to.

“Ms. Valentine?”

Redirecting my eyes from the iPhone to the bearded bartender who presumed first name was my last, I smiled and responded as though he knew what he was talking about. “Yes?”

“I just got a message that your room is ready.  The key’s waiting at the front desk.”

Holy... Mother... Dump truck.

If I needed proof that I wasn’t sitting in this hotel by sheer coincidence, there it was, because I know for a fact that the man owns an apartment here in the city.  He has no personal need for a hotel room.  An infestation of anything wouldn’t dare show its vermin face in a building priced like his and I hadn’t heard anything about a massive fire in Manhattan.  

That meant….

Well, that could mean many things and all of them had my toes tingling. 

“Thank you,” I told the bearded barkeep with enough confidence to make him believe that was the precise message I’d been waiting for. 

With one last fortifying drink of coffee, I calmly gathered my purse and wrap to slide from the bar stool and make my way toward the lobby.  That outward calm was not indicative of my inner spastic self, though.  I’m fairly certain that my knees wobbled as I stepped on the elevator and hit the button for the twentieth floor. 

I was positive that my hands shook when inserting the keycard into a digital lock that, presumably, would put me in an isolated room where Jon Bon Jovi awaited.  The light blinked green to invite me into the spider’s den, although it felt felt awkward to just strut through the doorway, so I hesitated on the threshold until his head turned in my direction

“Hi.”  His smile was open as he rose from the sofa, but I couldn’t gauge the sincerity of his eyes at this distance.   When he crossed to the door with both hands held out, the shimmer of blue diamonds was evident.  He was pleased to see me.  “Lemme take all that for you.”

He had manners, too.  It was one of those things that shouldn’t be surprising, but because of his Jersey boy image, it kind of was.  The guys from Jersey that I knew were not well-schooled in the social graces.

When he took my bag, wrap and room key – and slipped the room key into his pocket – I realized it wasn’t only manners at play.  Perhaps his mama did raise him right, but he was taking advantage of that raising by ensuring that I didn’t hang onto his room key.  That made him smart in my book. 

Then again, he’d probably done this countless times before and had written a “Hotel Hookups for Dummies” book that was the true source of his vast wealth.    If not...  Well, it was a viable option.  Being a financial manager, I might suggest that to him – depending on how the rest of the evening went.

“You mentioned white wine,” Jon remarked after putting my things on the desk.  “I have some, if you’re interested – or there’s coffee.”

My eyes flicked to the coffee table where both were at the ready, along with a fruit and cheese tray.  It was a lovely layout, but enclosed in this room alone with him…  I couldn’t have cared less. 

“Whatever you’re having.”

“I hope I’m having you.”

Did I just hallucinate?  Because he said it so nonchalantly while tipping the wine bottle over the glasses, that I couldn’t be entirely sure. 

“Come again?”

This time there was no misunderstanding when he turned to offer me a filled glass and a tilted smile.  “Again?  I usually have to sing for a woman to come while still fully dressed.  Guess I’m better than I thought I was.”

Okay, so not only was he handsome, generous, mannered and sexy as hell… He was cute.  I might allow him to be the exception to my witty repartee rule of thumb.

“You’re potent.  No doubt about that.”  The smile I offered was intended to be coquettish, and it must’ve at least landed in the general neighborhood, because he winked at me before sitting in the far corner of the sofa.

“Join me,” he invited, cradling the wineglass and crossing his legs.  “Let’s talk.”

Taking the opposite end of the couch, I mirrored his pose by cradling my wineglass and crossing my legs – strategically so.  The hem of my dress inched up to expose the just the barest edge of my black stockings.

“What would you like to talk about?”

“You,” he said simply. 

“I don’t see myself as all that interesting.  I’m a cheapskate, workaholic, coffee-addicted Bon Jovi fan.”

That was the dust jacket version of the story of my life.  Ha.  Story of my life, as in “Story of My Life”.  It was a clever moment of amusement which I didn’t share.  My peculiar sense of humor was under a gag order tonight.

“You’re more interesting than you give yourself credit for, Valentine,” Jon corrected me with a secretive smile.  “I saw you in the diner the other day.  Noticed you as soon as you walked in.”

I swallowed my wine and tipped my head curiously to one side.  “Oh, yeah?  Yesterday?”

“No.  The day before.  When you picked up the tab for my coffee.”

That was interesting.  As far as I’d been table to tell, he and Dave were both absorbed in their conversation about… whatever they were conversing about.  I couldn’t recall them looking at anything outside of the corner booth.

“I never would’ve known.”

“That was the point,” he chuckled softly, and I was completely smitten with the twinkle of humor that had been in his eyes since I walked through the door.  “I’ve been out of the game a while, but it’s nice to discover I still know how to play.”

“So when you came back yesterday…”

“It was the next step to here,” came the quietly confident confirmation that made my girly parts start head-banging against my panties.  “I wanted you in my bed.”

I…  I….

“Are you flippin’ kidding me?” I blurted out with total incredulity.  “Because, I have to tell you, I never imagined that you’d be the type to do the elaborate song and dance – no pun intended – that prefaces the man/woman mating ritual.”

His bark of laughter was short and Jon’s accompanying smile crinkled the corners of those shimmering eyes.  “You’d be right.  No song and dance here.  Just a quick meeting to confirm that your personality was comparable to your other assets.”

“And your friend’s visit today?”

One shoulder lifted negligently.  “All his own doing, although he did tell me about it.”

I was a little suspicious about that, but not enough to make a difference.  “Okay.”

“Is that your agreement to get naked with me?”

A ripple of anticipation slithered down my spine and kept tumbling until it hit my very core.  Uncrossing my legs and scooting to the edge of the cushion, I carefully and deliberately placed my near-empty glass on the coffee table as I said, “Yes.”

“You might want to hold onto that agreement for a few more minutes,” he cautioned, and I found that, when I turned to look at him, his eyes had darkened.  “Until I spell out the terms and conditions.”

This.  This is how I had imagined him in at least a hundred fantasies – the calm, cool, collected and very in charge CEO of his own major corporation, wrangling the impossible deal with finessed ease.  It was so… freaking… sexy that I almost thought the convulsion between my legs was an orgasm.

“Go ahead.”

I inspected the display of chest hair peeking from behind pearl gray fabric that was unbuttoned beyond the limits of conservative, with my eyes traveling up to his throat.  My tongue tingled at the thought of licking that very enticing Adams apple.

“Tiny,” he commanded my attention.  “Look at me.”

Guilty eyes slipped up to find one eyebrow arched high in his smirking face, but he didn’t reveal any sense of amusement beyond that. 

“This is one night only.  I won’t call.  I won’t text.  I won’t fall in love with you.  If that’s what you need or want, then we’ll finish our bottle of wine and a car will take you home.  No hard feelings.”

My throat was dry – Sahara Desert dry, and my skin was as hot as if I were baking under the scorching sun.  With his left hand tucked between the thighs of crossed legs and fine glassware dangling from the fingertips of the right, he was both relaxed and fully in control of the situation.  It was evident that Jon meant what he said, right down to the “no hard feelings”, and I appreciated the honesty.

“And if that’s not what I need or want?”  I inquired softly.  “Then what?”

“Then…”  His slowly curving smile was filled with wicked promise.  “I admit that I like it a little rough and make no apologies for it, because I’ll defile you in all the very best ways.  You’ll come.  You’ll scream.  And when you wake up tomorrow morning, you’ll ache deep inside…  A woman thoroughly fucked by a man who knows how to do it.”

I had died and gone to Heaven.  Or was terminally ill.  Had someone contacted Make-a-Wish on my behalf?  Because this is exactly the scene I had replayed a thousand times in my imagination – only it was sooooo much better in real life. 

“That,” I murmured, looking right into his eyes so that he couldn’t possibly misunderstand my sincerity.  “Is precisely what I want.  More than my next damn breath.”

I was rewarded with a smile that was both dazzling and contemplative, as though he hadn’t allowed himself to yet plan beyond this moment.  Now that he had my compliance, though, desirous thoughts tumbled in his mind.  They were easy to see, but hard to read because of the whirlwind pace with which they flashed through his eyes.  It was a stark contrast to his next lazily drawled words. 

“Then I suggest you get your ass over here.”

Part 4: Sip

Today was the freaking longest day of life.  I swear there were at least seventy-two hours in this eight-hour stint at the office.

Honestly, I should’ve taken the day off, but I hated wasting a vacation day for an appointment – not a date, I really couldn’t let myself go there – that was a mere two blocks from my office.   I would have to take a vacation sometime in the next three months, simply because the bank had a “use it or lose it” policy with annual leave.  Once I reached four weeks of accrued time, I started losing days.  As of today’s date the figure was just short of the four-week limit. 

Vacations meant spending money, though, and spending money was synonymous with depleting my savings account and thereby putting me on the street with a cardboard box and a tin cup.  Yes, maybe that’s a melodramatic way of looking at it, but I got hives when the balance dipped below my comfort level.  Granted, that comfort level got a little higher with every direct deposit, but I simply hated spending money.  There were very few things that could convince me to release my stranglehold on even a single dollar – coffee, my hypothetical future grandchildren and Bon Jovi. 

Since Jovi wasn’t on tour, I had to save for the day when they would be. 

There was no doubt in my mind that it was coming again. 

Even from an outsider’s perspective, Jon was a creature of habit.  Late summer/early fall album release followed by pre-Christmas ticket sales for show dates that would start sometime after Super Bowl.  He took the month of August off from touring and, typically, journeyed to Australia in December. 

That’s how the big Bon Jovi machine usually rolled, and I appreciated the predictability.

Then again, maybe that predictability would shift now that the man in charge was divorced.  It could motivate him to take longer and longer stretches on the road, looking for women to fill his bed.  Alternatively, it could also put him into a funk, causing him to retreat to his very expensive cave and post a troll at the door to scare away the rest of the world. 

Based on the scruff he was sporting yesterday, I wasn’t sure which direction the wind blew on that particular topic.  Maybe I’d ask him tonight over a glass of wine.

Lunchtime came and went at the office with little pleasure.  I mean, seriously.  How much pleasure could a woman derive from a carrot that was already sliced into sticks?  It wasn’t like wielding a whole carrot and a little perversion.  That could be viewed as a good time. 

I’m assuming, anyway. 

Vegetables had never been my forte.  I couldn’t get excited about something that had spent days, weeks, or months surrounded by dirt making a visit to my nether-regions.  I preferred hygienically manufactured plastic and silicone for my playthings. 

I actually preferred a living, breathing man, but my pesky standards kept that from happening as often as I’d like.  Some men considered it appalling that I expected them to have a job and a place to live that didn’t involve either a mother or a wife before I took a ride on (the wild side with) them.

Fortunately, I knew Jon had both a very lucrative job and at least one place to live.  All he had to do was show the proper amount of interest – like saying “hello” – and I’d be his Icelandic geisha for the night. 

I swear it was a good thing that nobody could read my mind.  There were multiple times a day that I could be considered a viable candidate for psych evaluation.  Like now, for example, as I stood in front of the mirror in the ladies room and wished that I’d been born rich instead of smart and beautiful. 

I’m not that conceited, but I had to create bright spots in the never-ending day where I could.  Nobody else knew I was preening about my own beauty in the little black dress with the mandarin collar, deep v-neck and slit up the thigh.  Right now, it looked perfectly business appropriate paired with a black and white patterned jacket and low black heels. 

Come five o’clock, I’d spice things up by trading the jacket for a cashmere wrap – bought second-hand at a thrift store – and upgrading to higher, sexier heels.  A splash of tinted ChapStik and a squirt of my favorite citrusy cologne would complete my transition from office to evening. 

If the fucking evening would ever get here. 

Desperation had me journeying to the diner for my usual two o’clock caffeine break.  I kind of wished they served booze, because I could stand a little Irish in my afternoon coffee. 

Waving to Haley and Jessica, the young girls on duty today, I made a beeline for the counter without looking at anyone else before I sat heavily on the stool.  “Marjorie, if you have any coffee that’s been baking since last night, I’d take it.”

“Rough day, sweetie?” the senior server chuckled sympathetically while pouring the magical elixir that lifted my spirits with its scent alone. 

“Long day,” I corrected.  “If you have anything to spike that cup with, I’d be eternally grateful.”

The familiar paper cup found its way into my hand, and Marjorie didn’t even have the decency to look disappointed when saying, “I got no booze.”

“Dammit.”  Flicking out my debit card, I held it out to her anyway. 

“Nope.  I can’t take that.”

“Why not?”  No wonder the woman had no booze.  She already drank it all.  

The teased, coppery head that reminded me of Flo from that seventies’ TV show nodded at something behind me.  “He already paid for it.”

My first idiotic, irrational thought was that Jon had returned.  That’s where I stopped the thought train, though.  The psychotic ideology that he simply couldn’t wait another four hours to see me was held at the station and buried in the lost luggage for my own safety. 

It was a good thing, because when I turned, Jon was nowhere to be seen.  The “he” who had paid for my coffee was his partner in crime from Tuesday – David Bryan – and he was looking right at me.

This was… certainly unprecedented, but odd, too. 

I thought back to Jon’s remark that David would love me and wondered if that’s what brought the curly-haired man also known as Lema or Joker back to the diner and had him paying for my coffee. 

There was only one way to find out.

Sliding my tush off the stool, I tried to remain calm while approaching the man whose back was against the wall and had long legs stretched out along the booth’s seat.  Crossed ankles and the fugliest skull-patterned shoes I’d ever seen hung off the edge while one elbow rested on the table so that he could curl his pianist’s fingers around a half-empty mug of coffee.

It wasn’t as hard to maintain my composure today.  I’d like to say that’s because I’d become mentally acclimated to the thought of chatting with rock gods, but the truth was, I just wasn’t into Dave the way I was Jon.  He was a good looking guy and reputed to have a killer sense of humor, so I had to assume it had to do with my pesky standards.  He was married, to the best of my knowledge.

“Thank you for the coffee.”  I expressed my appreciation with a smile as I lifted my cup in an affirming non-verbal show of gratitude.

“You must be Tiny.”

Navy blue eyes were lazily taking in my attire, my shape, my loose hair and, finally, my face.  All of this inspection was accompanied by a lazy smirk that would likely piss me off if I could read his mind. 

“You must be friends with the gray headed guy that was here yesterday.”

“I am,” he chuckled, taking the arm that rested along the back of the booth to extend it and the attached hand.  “Dave Bryan.”

“Valentine Fitzsimmons.”

“You got a minute to sit and chat?”  His inquiry was offered as casually as the handshake. 

No.  Technically, I didn’t.  I should be getting back to the office, but since I didn’t have a meeting scheduled and my boss wasn’t the type to time my breaks, I succumbed to the temptation to slide into the booth across from him. 

“To what do I owe the very memorable pleasure, Mr. Bryan?”

One brawny shoulder lifted beneath the white t-shirt that was adorned with a pile of skulls to match his shoes.  “Returning the coffee favor.”

Using my thumb to trace the edge of my coffee's plastic lid, I reminded, “You did that to an entire diner, from what I hear.”

“Not me.  That was the other guy.  I still had an outstanding debt, which I hate, so here I am.”

I didn’t believe him, but what difference did it really make?  I was getting the opportunity of a Jovi lifetime, so I was going to sip my coffee and see if everything I’d heard about him was true.  At least that’s what I kept telling myself. 

In addition to being cheap and caffeine-addicted, I was also a truth junkie.  Bullshit wasn’t my favorite thing, even among social strangers.

“I said something stupid yesterday and your friend mentioned that you’d love me.  That doesn’t have anything to do with your presence here today, does it?”

“Yeah, well, you know…” He gave her a crooked smile.  “It might.  Tell me what you think about turtle soup.”

I could feel my forehead furrowing tightly.  This wasn't witty repartee, this was just weird, but since we were sitting in a booth in a very public diner, it couldn't get too much weirder.  Right?

I decided that I was curious enough to let my mouth rattle off what was rolling through my mind.  

“I think of turtles without their shells, like the tortoise and the hare Bugs Bunny cartoon, then I think of him swimming on his back in a pot of broth in a turn-of-the-century swimsuit, followed by wondering if people use the shell as a bowl.   That brings me to Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles – heroes on the half-shell and all that.  If you’re asking for a recipe, I don’t have or want one.”

He didn’t laugh.  He didn’t really smile.  David Bryan only smirked around the rim of his coffee mug as he sipped. 

“What do you do for a living?”

Why did this feel like an interview?  Or that psych evaluation I'd been thinking about earlier?  “Financial manager for a major bank.”

“So wealth management?”

It was slightly more complex than that innocuous description, but explaining the details was boring as hell.  Even to me.

“Close enough.”

“You happy doing it?”

Cocking my head curiously to one side, I was completely unfiltered when saying, “As happy as anybody who has to work a nine-to-five job.  It sucks, but I like it better than being homeless or working at McDonald’s.  Are you happy doing what you do?”

“What is it you think I do?” he asked slyly, long fingers perched on the rim of the coffee cup that was once again on the table.  It reminded me of a hand teepee.  Or a spider trying to keep from falling into… a pot of turtle soup. 

“Something with music.”  If he could be cryptic, I could be vague.

“Music makes me happy.  The things I do with it not always so much, but like you, it’s better than flipping burgers.”

That was interesting.  I presumed he had enough wealth to do whatever struck his fancy.  Wasn’t that why he’d ventured into musical theater? 

“You realize I feel like I’m having a conversation with a Jewish Mr. Miagi, right?  Wax on, wax off Daniel-san?”

Pressing his palms together just beneath his chin, David executed a mini bow.  “Miagi Rashbaum at your service.”

I snorted, thinking that nothing I’d heard could’ve prepared me for this guy.  “So what do you think of turtle soup?” 

“I don’t.”

This was starting to feel a lot like Alice in Wonderland.  We’re all mad here.

“You might be just a little too interesting for me to keep up with,” I laughed, feeling like my brain had been stretched like silly putty.

How his eyes could both sparkle and be serious at the same time was a neat trick.  I’m not sure I’d ever known anyone with that ability. 

“Nah.  You’re keeping up fine.”  He uncrossed his ankles and crossed them the other direction.  “Wanna know why I really came here today?”

A quick peek at my watch told me that I seriously needed to be getting back to the office, but I couldn’t resist hanging around for a few minutes longer.  “That would be nice.”

“I'm here partly because I’m supposed to ‘love you’, but mostly to make sure you’re not a whack job.”

I laughed simply because that tied in perfectly with my psychological evaluation thought.  Based on that alone, I couldn’t lie to the man. 

“Oh, I am, but not to a dangerous extent.  Quirky, nutty, slightly off-kilter...  Those are probably more appropriate adjectives to describe me than ‘whack job’.  My question is why you would come here to find that out?  If it was a concern, then why not just stay away to start with?”

“Because my friend doesn’t seem inclined to stay away, and I don’t trust his judgment yet.”

I…  I didn’t know how to react to that.  Equally flattered and appalled might be best way to describe the conglomeration of emotions that were having a catfight in my medulla oblongata at the moment.  In a ploy to buy time or drown part of the emotions, I inhaled a deep sip of my coffee.

“Look, Tiny.  It’s nothing to do with you, really.  He’s newly divorced after a very long marriage.  Normally, I’d say it wasn’t my business, but since this indirect meeting between the two of you happened while I was around, I thought I’d just make sure he gets his sea legs under him okay.  No big deal.”

“Mm,” I murmured noncommittally, my mind automatically going to places both far and wide, many of which resembled the setting of a Dr. Seuss book.   In a font typically reserved for One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish, I could see the writing on my padded cell wall and it said “Rebound Girl”. 

The only thing I really needed to decide was whether that bothered me or not.  Was there a downside to being Jon Bon Jovi’s rebound girl?  Was it a concern that Bon Jovi’s “Bounce” was now playing on my internal Spotify? 

No, and no.

“I’m a tightwad who they have to force to take vacation at work.  The most adventurous thing I do is follow your band around the globe from time to time.  Considering I’ve never turned up in anyone’s bed wearing a slightly wrinkled birthday suit, I’d say you, Tico, Hugh and all the rest of the Jovi Bunch are safe from me – and so is your fearless leader.”

At least as safe as he wanted to be.

Part 3: Inhale

“Thanks, Marjorie.” 

Taking a deep and calming breath, I curled my fingers around the paper cup and stood.  After all these years and concert experiences, I was finally going to finally meet and speak to my imaginary lover for the price of a cup of coffee.

Oh, the irony…

With his head still buried in the phone, Jon Bon Jovi paid me no attention until I stepped up next to his booth and quietly said, “Thanks for the coffee.”

The ingrained ability to be “on” at a moment’s notice had his press smile sliding into place as his face lifted.  Unlike many of those press smiles I’d seen through the years, though, the dull boredom so often evident in his eyes lingered for only a split second before they sparkled with something that either turned me on or made me pee just a little bit.

The thought of arousal was a far more palatable reason for my panties going damp than the premature need for Depends, so I went with that and enjoyed the vision of sexiness in his black v-neck tee.  Lines around his eyes had him looking tired, and he was unshaven as though it he’d had a long night that wasn’t over yet, but he still exuded enough male pheromones to make me mentally fawn over him as I felt an accompanying twinge of sympathy. 

I’d read about his recent divorce.  According to the media and his prepared statements, it was all amicable and friendly, but his appearance today suggested that might not be entirely true.  Was it wrong that I wanted to run my hand along his face and tell him I’d make it all better?

Yeah, probably.

“I think that’s my line,” he spoke with amusement, putting down the phone and extending a hand.  “Hi.  At the risk of being redundant, I’m Jon.”

My fingers were encased in a firm, unhurried handshake, giving me time to register the velvet texture of his skin, which was by far the softest I’d ever felt on a man.  For all these years, I’d erroneously harbored the thought that anyone who played guitar would have rough and callused fingers, but he proved me wrong.  Very wrong, because the silkiness of his palm sliding out of my grasp was embarrassingly erotic. 

For me, not him, I assumed with a smile.

“And I’m Tiny.  It’s a pleasure to meet you." 

“Tiny?”  Tilting his head incrementally to one side, he gave me a casual once-over with mirthful eyes.  “With a name like that, I’d expect you to be under five-feet tall or a middle linebacker.”

“I know, right?” I’d heard it before – more than once, but not from him.  I was also a fan girl, so the man could fart “Yankee Doodle” and I’d probably find it charming.  “My mother was still high on pain meds when she named me Valentine.  It’s been shortened over the years.”

“It’s cute.”

He was watching me with interest, but when he didn’t say anything else, I felt compelled to bridge the silent gap.  “Thanks.  You know, I’m in here at least four days a week and have been for more than a decade.  This is not a normal hangout for you, so at the risk of being rude, what brings you back for a second day in a row?”

“Impulsive curiosity and a little boredom,” he answered without hesitation.  “There aren’t many that recognize me and Dave without asking for a photo or autograph.  There also aren’t many who buy me something as simple but appreciated as a cup of coffee.  You did both.”

With that revelation, I was grateful for yesterday’s afternoon meeting from Hell that had bum-rushed me out of here.  If not for that, I may have succumbed to the stereotypical ways of photos and autographs and missed out on this – Jon Bon Jovi’s curiosity and desire to meet me.  This was worth more than getting eight million retweets or Facebook likes on a selfie with a superstar. 

It was… personal.

“So I did.”  Shifting from one foot to another so that I might ease the pinched pinky toe, I decided to excuse myself before this became awkward.  Not that I couldn’t sit and just look at him for the rest of the afternoon on into the evening, but I hated to ruin the intrigue by being my caffeine-induced self.  “Well, thanks again for the coffee and coming for me.  Er, to meet me.”

Sparkling like blue diamonds, his eyes crinkled at the corners as he laughed.  “It’ll take more than coffee for that.”

Heat flooded my face, no doubt making my cheeks as red as a baboon’s butt.  Without the power to rewind time, there was nothing I could do but shrug and flash my dimples.  “How much more?”

It wasn’t the first time I had seen both of his eyebrows wing up and crinkle his forehead like that.  It was just the first time in person.  Before now, that particular facial expression usually indicated to me that he thought an interview question was either outrageous or ignorant.  Then again, maybe that's what it still meant, and the thought that my question was being categorized as outrageous or ignorant only embarrassed me further.   

What exactly was redder than a baboon’s butt?  Could capillaries permanently burst from all the blood rushing into my cheeks?  I feared I would find out that was a resounding “yes” when looking in the mirror later.

“More than you wanna do in a diner.”  His voice was about an octave lower than it was a moment ago, creating the illusion if not the intent of sexuality.

This would be the perfect spot for me to be a suggestive savant, but I was floundering for an appropriate response that was sophisticatedly risqué.  All I could come up with in my head was something like, “Wanna bet?”

That, however, was out of the question.  It was crass, tacky and totally beneath my station as a mature, professional woman.  I’d say that to him in my fantasies later tonight, when I relived this scenario in a slightly different way.

Thank God that, when I finally opened my mouth to reply, there was a spurt of estrogen that backfired from my ovaries to produce an acceptable response.

“I’m not wearing a diner confinement bracelet on my ankle.”

Okay, so maybe “acceptable response” was a bit of an exaggeration.  The “wanna bet” thing would’ve been closer to acceptable without exposing my bizarre sense of humor.

It was with a great sense of relief that I realized he was laughing quietly.  “Dave would love you.”

So, not only was he good looking, he had a personality, too.  I was pretty happy to discover this because my mind is somewhat convoluted and oftentimes eccentric.  As such, a lot of people don’t get me and even fewer can keep up.  It was nice to know he didn’t fall into the pile of cardboard box personalities that I often ran across, who really just needed to be recycled.

“Damn,” I lamented with a lazy wink, cheering on my inner flirt.  “And here I was hoping you might.  At least once.”

Both hairy, muscular forearms were propped on the tabletop in front of him, stacked on top of one another as he looked at me.  The upside was that he wasn’t shirking in horror or rolling his eyes.  If my wishful interpretation was to be believed, it appeared that slight angling up at the corners of his mouth was still a smile.  Baby blues that had previously sparkled with mirth were still bright and clear, but now thoughtful instead of laughing. 

Like maybe…

He.

Was.

Considering.

It.

Suddenly my pinky toe wasn’t the only thing throbbing painfully.  Blood raced through my veins with excitement and, even if his consideration was simply a figmentation of my imagination, the buzz of adrenaline still felt good.  It had been a while since a genuine testosterone carrying man had given me that kind of buzz, and I was going to ride the wave as long as I could.

I’d be reliving it tonight even if the only action I got was punishing my carpal tunnel afflicted appendages.

“You drink anything besides coffee?”

Goosebumps pimpled all the way down my arms. 

Had Delia been screwing with the air conditioning or was that question every bit as sexy as it sounded?  My carpal tunnel swore it was the air conditioning, but the throbbing parts begged to differ.

“Well… my coffee typically goes Irish after sundown.  But, occasionally and under the right circumstances, I also drink a little white wine.”

His chin lifted incrementally, giving just the hint of acknowledgement to my response.  “In that case, I think I’d like to buy you a drink sometime.  You interested?”

Interested?  Holy… freaking… barnyard animal.  Hell yes, I was interested!

“Sure.”  How I managed to make it sound casual, I’ll never know unless it was due to lack of oxygen.

“Good.”  His pristine white teeth flashed as he swiped a thumb across his phone.  “I have a thing tonight, but maybe tomorrow?  The Intercontinental is just down the block.  If you don’t see me in the bar at six, check in with the bartender.”

The Intercontinental was a hotel.  Was that a coincidence?  My very vivid imagination kicked into overdrive,and I fervently hoped his choice of venue was intentional. 

“Sounds good.”

“Tell ya what.  Why don’t you give me your number just in case?”

I was not in the habit of giving my number to men, but I knew I was going to make an exception for this man.  The thing was... Well, I wanted him to know I was making an exception. 

“Since I’ve never heard that you’re a psychopath, I will bend my personal rules for you.  You should be aware that this isn’t a common occurrence and that  I can count on one hand the number of men who’ve gotten my number after only one date.  None have gotten it for the price of a cup of coffee.”

Of course I softened all that with a teasing lilt and a smile.  After all, the man wanted to buy me a drink.  Sounding like a prudish bitch wasn’t a terribly gracious response, or likely to get me a positive answer to that venue question.

“The celebrity card is working for me instead of against me today.  Good to know.  Number?”

How many times did a woman get lucky enough to not only crush on a celebrity, but to find out that she actually liked him?  I could guarantee it wasn’t often, so I was taking my godsend and would bite anyone who tried to steal it away.

Grinning like a fool, I gave Jon freaking Bon Jovi my number and wondered if I could get in for a leg wax today. 

Or a tummy tuck.  That would be even better.

Part 2:Pour

The rest of my afternoon was crap.  In a basket, without a handle and partially dry-rotted. 

There were a thousand other things I would rather do than babysit high-maintenance clients, but that’s exactly what I ended up doing after my meeting.  Not only high-maintenance but stupid.  In order to have an account balance with two commas, a person should know that mutual interest wasn’t a term used to identify the interest rate on a mutual fund.

For the love of God.

I was so frazzled by the time I left the office, that I couldn’t resist stopping by the diner for a cup of coffee to get me home.  It wouldn’t have the good bourbon in it, but I was just desperate enough not to care.

My heels tapped the linoleum floor as I strode through the glass front door and bee-lined for the counter to find Marjorie still manning (womanning) the coffee pot.  Their shifts at the diner were typically the seven-to-seven variety, so that didn’t surprise me much.  Waving at both Natalie and Nicole as I breezed through, I reserved my two-dimple smile for the beautiful brassy-haired goddess that had a steaming cup of coffee parked on the counter and waiting for me.

“Marjorie, you’re a saint.  An angel.  A heavenly deity defying description,” I waxed poetic, slipping onto the stool and dumping my handbag on scarred Formica  so that I could lean over the thick, ceramic mug and simply inhale the beloved scent of my addiction.

“They call it a waitress, honey.” 

I found her dry sarcasm especially delightful when she was supplying a much-needed fix. 

“They need a new word.  Something far more grandiose,” I sighed after that first blessed taste. It didn't matter that it was the eighth first taste of the day.  They were all blessed and deserved proper accolades.

“You say that now.  Wait ‘til ya hear what I have to tell you.  You’ll get me my own float in the Macy’s parade.”

“I might do it, anyway.” 

It wasn’t a bad idea.  She was a New York icon from my perspective.  After working here for almost forty years, she could be considered an immovable pillar of the coffee-loving community.  That kind of living institution deserved a float, right?

I swear to God, anything was possible after that first drink of coffee.  I was ready to fight City Hall for Marjorie’s rightful place in the historic Thanksgiving event, even though it was still seven months away.

“You do that,” she snorted.  Forty years in this line of work gave her a healthy dose of cynicism, I suppose. 

“So what do you have to tell me?” I asked, pushing professionally tinted locks of gold behind my ears and not giving a rat’s ass that it made them stick out like freaking Dumbo. 

“Remember the fellas you picked up the tab for?”

I was pretty sure I had masturbated to dirty thoughts of Jon Bon Jovi at least once – a month – since his band made it big.  Two thousand and seventeen minus nineteen eighty-seven calculated out to the fact I should be blind or have carpal tunnel syndrome from all the self-service action he inspired.

And she wanted to know if I remembered seeing him in person without fighting Ticketbastard for decent seats?  Puh-leeze.

“I recall.”

“They wanted me to let ya know they paid it forward.  Covered every open check in the place when they left, and…”  She stuck a hand into the pocket of her apron and brought out a folded slip of paper.  “Once I told ‘em you were a regular, they asked me to give you this.”

The slip of paper was actually an order ticket creased in half, I saw from the green lined exterior.  Accepting it from Marjorie, I parted the two edges to find a note scrawled in a heavy hand. 

Thanx for the random act of kindness.  Hope one finds you in return.

At the bottom were two signatures that looked very much like the ones affixed to lithographs hanging on my office wall.  What was most impressive about that was that both of them had taken the time to legibly autograph the note.  You could actually read “Jon Bon Jovi” and “Dave Bryan”, unlike the scribbled promotional materials that I owned, which were processed en masse.

“Nice,” I approved and smiled up at my purveyor of percolated bliss – or drip coffee.  Whatever.  I had a fancy imagination sometimes, which was a contributing factor to the onset of carpal tunnel.

“They were actually very nice,” Marjorie agreed.  “The one with the gray hair?  He’s one fine looking specimen of manhood and those eyes?  Jeez.  They’re almost as blue as yours.”

Jon did have legendary blue eyes, but I’d gotten my fair share of compliments over the years.  While his were a vibrant mid-range blue, mine were several shades lighter.  Throughout my lifetime I’d heard them referred to as baby blue, ice blue, pale blue, sky blue, aquamarine, and probably a dozen other variations of light blue.

The most creative was 1968 Volkswagen Beetle blue, from a drunk guy in a bar - my daughter's father.  I'd since learned not to judge a man on his witty repartee.

At any rate, my eyes were just my eyes, but put me next to JBJ?  The pair of us would out-blue any other two people in New York.  Guaranteed.

My self-esteem was clearly thriving.  Have I mentioned how much I love coffee?  It makes me in-freaking-vincible.

“The guys asked me your name, but I wouldn’t give it to ‘em.  Being famous doesn't guarantee they're not weirdo freaks.  God knows I've met my fair share - outside of Ed Asner, of course.  Anyway, I just told ‘em you’d probably be back at the same time tomorrow.”

Snorting softly into my cup, I realized the woman would take any opportunity at all to bring up good old Ed.

“Well, thanks for watching my back, Marjorie.”

Still...  My vivid imagination was busy calculating that odds that either guy would be back here tomorrow when I made my mid-afternoon java jaunt.  I didn't need a calculator to come up with the number.

Slim to none.

Still, the thought was enough to put a handle on today’s crap basket. 

And probably to flare up my carpal tunnel tonight.

At five minutes before two the next day, I went to the ladies’ room in preparation for my afternoon coffee run.  Did I normally care whether my eyeliner was smudged or I was wearing a fresh application of lip balm?  It usually didn’t even cross my mind, but since I was still under the influence of solo afterglow and had the men of Bon Jovi hovering in the periphery of my thoughts, it suddenly mattered that I not look like a Scandinavian raccoon with rings of black around my eyes.

Noting how pale my lips appeared even after a coat of cherry ChapStick, I had a rare moment of wishing I’d splurged thirty dollars on a tube of damn lipstick that wouldn’t fade during the day.  My cheapskate soul simply wouldn’t tolerate thirty dollar cosmetics, however, and the using the inexpensive kind left me having to refresh lip color all day long, which I despised.  That's why eschewed anything but ninety-nine cent ChapStick for years now.  On the upside, I could have a rainbow of flavors in every desk drawer, pocket and purse for less than the price of fade-resistance.

Priorities.

I kind of wish Marjorie hadn’t mentioned to Jon and David that I’d be back at the diner today.  Rather, I wish I didn’t know she had mentioned it to them.  It was making me nervous in a way that I was not accustomed to and I disliked it, especially when it probably wouldn’t manifest into a hill of coffee beans.

Coffee.  I needed coffee.  That would make everything better, just like it always did.

“It is what it is,” I muttered to myself, pulling at the hem of my most flattering suit jacket.  Navy with a matching skirt and pale yellow blouse, it was what I considered my power outfit.  It, along with the heels that were a couple inches higher than my typically preferred kitten heels, gave me a little extra boost of confidence when I needed it.

The little toe of my right foot was feeling a little pinched even now, and I knew I’d probably regret the choice of shoes by the time I got home this evening, but they made my legs look longer and leaner, so I would suffer through.  Besides, I wouldn’t be taking the scenic route to the diner today.  It was going to be a straight shot from the CitiBank front door to Westway.  I could limp along just fine.

Once again, the weather was sunny and pleasant for my quick commute.  The sun’s warmth did a great job of easing my anxiety over the diner’s potential patrons on this Wednesday afternoon – all the way up until I pulled on handle and opened the door.  Once the pungent aroma of burgers and coffee hit my nose, a commune of butterflies performed some wicked interpretive dance moves in the pit of my stomach, forcing me to inhale deeply through my nose to calm them the fuck down.

Glancing casually over the clientele as my heels tapped the linoleum on my way to the counter, I saw nothing out of the ordinary.  Tourist, regular, tourist, tourist, tourist, regular and… that was it.  There was nobody of interest here today, other than Marjorie, who was bringing my cuppa joe. 

It was simultaneously disappointing and a relief to realize this truly was just another afternoon coffee run.

I should’ve known that’s what would happen.  I did know that’s what would happen, but for a few minutes between the office and here, I’d let myself daydream that Jon Bon Jovi was so moved by my selfless gesture that he would come back just to meet me.

It was a cup of coffee, not a Maserati. Besides, I seemed to remember he was more into American-made cars than fancy imports.

C’est la vie.

Life could continue as normal, and I would be able to say I once bought coffee for two of the founding members of Bon Jovi.  It would be a great story to tell my twenty-six year old daughter, who thought my fascination with Bon Jovi proved that I was half-crazy to begin with.

“How’s life in the diner today, girls?”

“Oh, about the same as usual,” Marjorie droned, sounding as bored as one human being could be without being six-feet under.  She slid my coffee across the counter, as usual, and I handed her my debit card.  “No need, sweetie.  It’s already been taken care of.”

Drawing my brow in confusion, I asked, “By who?”

With a grin that would do the Cheshire Cat proud, she nodded to a point past my right shoulder.  “By him.”

I spun around on the stool to find Jon Bon Jovi sitting in the same corner booth as yesterday.  Unlike yesterday, he was sitting alone, absorbed in his phone screen. 

Whipping back around to find both Marjorie and Delia laughing at me, I said quietly, “He was not there when I came in.”

“A man can only drink so much coffee before he has to drain the tank.”

Cutting a look of disdain at Delia the smartass, I pondered what to do.  Did I go over and thank him for the coffee?  Did I simply walk away with my happy bit of knowledge?  Did I…  What?  What did I do?

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Marjorie snorted.  “Go thank him, already.”

Okay.  I had direction and no meetings for the rest of the afternoon.  I could certainly spend a minute having heart palpitations within breathing distance of Jon Bon Jovi. 

It was a good thing I peed before I came over here.

Part 1: Brew

Coffee is a staple of my life.  I know, I know.  Everybody says that, but I’m really not exaggerating.  The average day for me doesn’t begin until I’ve had at least two cups, and then I need at least three more to get to lunch.  I slow down to two for the afternoon, but there’s the after-dinner cup that I covet at the end of a long day.  It has a shot of something soothing so that I can get to sleep with all that caffeine in my system. 

With that kind of daily minimum requirement, I can’t afford to be a coffee snob.  Well, I could, but I’m fundamentally cheap.  That’s what makes me a financial manager and why, at age forty-five, I could retire and live comfortably in my state of frugality for the next fifty years. 

I’m all about a two dollar cup of coffee from the corner diner - sometimes flavored and sometimes not.  Starbucks prices make me twitch.  Seven cups of coffee a day at five bucks a cup, times seven days a week, times three-hundred and sixty-five days a year equals one big caffeinated flush of the money toilet at year-end. 

My favorite corner diner is on Ninth Avenue and West 44^th in Manhattan’s Midtown West.  It’s not fancy, but it’s not a dump either, and the waitresses there have gotten to know me during the fifteen years I’ve been working at the CitiBank branch in the next block. 

Marjorie is my favorite.  At some age between sixty and eighty that’s undisclosed by her copper dye-job, she’s been at the Westway Diner for most of her life and loves to tell stories about the people she’s met.  Let me tell you, with the diner located only a few blocks from Broadway and Times Square, she’s met some doozies. 

The majority of her stories revolve around Ed Asner, who supposedly came by every Tuesday in 1979 for a corned beef Reuben.  I doubt that’s entirely accurate, but it’s so cute watching her tell the story.  It wouldn’t surprise me if she had a thing for old Ed back in his Mary Tyler Moore days, or if she’d actually made a move on the guy.  Finding out that she’d schtupped the guy every Tuesday in the storage room wouldn’t surprise me in the least.  She’s bold and brassy enough.

Delia is another one of my adored diner divas.  She’s somewhere around my age and not quite the character that Marjorie is.  From the silvering streaks in her average brown hair, I don’t think she’s ever had a dye-job in her life.  Born a couple of decades too late to be a flower child, she’s one of those kind of women whose inner-Zen brings peace to those around her.  If there was ever a categorization for hippies with a work ethic, that would be Delia.

The other girls are mostly younger, and come and go with the tide.  Some are struggling Broadway actresses who finally get the call to the big stage, or never get called at all and go back to whatever small town they came from.  The successes make me want to cheer along with them, because I love to see anybody aspire to something and then actually achieve it.  The failures are inspirational in their own way. 

At least those girls had the wherewithal to step outside their box and take on the world.  That’s how I look at it.  It didn’t matter that they went home – they still gleaned an unforgettable experience and the knowledge that acting isn’t as easy as it looks.

So, typically, I hit the diner somewhere around two in the afternoon, and I started that tradition for a couple of reasons.  Number one, Westway has a hazelnut blend that I’ve begun to crave at precisely one forty-five every afternoon.  There’s also only so much bank air I can stand to breathe in one stretch.  That’s what has me grabbing my cell phone with the card-holder case and, thereby, my debit card every afternoon, Monday through Friday.

Seeing that this was Tuesday, and a very pleasant spring Tuesday at that, I also grabbed my sunglasses.  The unseasonably warm March temperature made me happy, and I planned to soak up as much of it as I could by taking the long way around. 

In typical womanese logic, I also factored in all the extra steps it would take to walk to Eighth Avenue, up to 44^th and back over to Ninth rather than taking a straight shot across the street and up the block.  That entitled me to another pit stop at Duane Reade so I could grab a Cadbury Dairy Milk bar. 

I’d acquired a taste for the damn things on a two-week trip to London in 2010 and found myself screwed when I came back to discover they were available in New York.  Rather than eating one a day until my ass was as wide as the elevator doors in my apartment building, I negotiated with myself and bought one a week.  I made the most of it and stretched it out for all it was worth by using an eighth (two-eighths on Mondays, because it was freaking Monday) of it to flavor my afternoon coffee and give it an inexpensive mocha-esque quality. 

Thus, my ass wasn’t in any danger of shrinking, but it would still fit in the elevator.  Prioritization became important when a woman was in her forties.

Slipping the chocolate bar into the pocket of my pearl gray suit jacket, I strutted my matching kitten heels on toward West 44^th and my afternoon caffeine fix.  The three-inch split in the back of my suit skirt allowed for a stride length that was more suited to a six-foot man than a five-four woman, but this was New York and I was pre-burning chocolate calories.  

I also had a meeting in twenty minutes, according to the reminder on my iPhone.  I needed to make headway.

Striding through the diner door, I saw that Marjorie was working today, along with a couple of the younger girls – Nicole and Natalie.  Upon seeing me, the girls merely waved while Marjorie smiled and reached for the coffee pot, calling out, “The usual, Tiny?”

“You got it!”

Perching on the edge of a counter stool as she poured my coffee and added an extra shot of hazelnut to it, I took a disinterested look around the diner.  My gaze wandered up and down the counter and booths that were mostly empty at this time of day.  Some of the people were like me, regulars who were here as part of their normal routine.  Those I recognized, but the tourists were just that, and I barely bothered to register their presence. 

What did catch my eye, however, were the two men in the corner booth.  The one with reading glasses had shaggy gray hair and the other possessed a head full of long blond curls.  Sitting on opposite sides of the booth, they had two cups of coffee and a white legal pad on the table between them. 

They were neither regulars nor tourists. 

“You’ve got some new locals back there,” I observed to Marjorie as she set my paper cup on the counter and sealed it with a lid. 

“Locals?  You think?” 

She peered skeptically over her shoulder at them as both began laughing.  The brilliant white smile on the gray-haired guy left no doubt in my mind.

“As long as you call Jersey local, yeah.”

Digging the five-dollar bill out from behind my debit card, I unfolded it and was in the process of passing it over to my regular server when I suddenly changed my mind.  Trading it for the debit card, I requested that Marjorie charge me for their coffee as well as mine. 

With my card in her hand, the feisty career waitress propped a fist on her hip.  “You must know who they are, so give up the goods, sister.”

Wiggling my eyebrows, I teased, “What?  If it’s not Ed Asner, you don’t recognize them?”

She swiped my card harshly through the machine and tossed it on the counter in front of me.  “I’m writing myself in a twenty dollar tip for putting up with your smart mouth.”

I laughed, knowing that she didn’t mean it.  She enjoyed playing curmudgeon almost as much as she enjoyed celebrity encounters. 

“Ever hear of Bon Jovi?”

“Those boys with all the hair?  Shot through the heart and all that?”  She once again looked over her shoulder.  “That them?”

“It’s two of ‘em,” I confirmed while standing and sliding my debit card back where it belonged.  I had only ten minutes to get back to the bank.  “Jon Bon Jovi and David Bryan.  Tell them I hope they have a nice day - in a non-Jersey way.  I’ve gotta run.  See you tomorrow!”

With that I was out the door and smiling all the way back to my office.  It was kind of nice being able to return a little bit of what they’d given me over the years.  It was also kind of nice to see them.  Period. 

I’d always been a huge fan of the band, which is why I spent two weeks in London during their O2 residency becoming addicted to Cadbury in addition to my coffee.  Jon was my personal favorite, but I wouldn’t kick David out of bed for eating crackers – the first time, anyway.

I'd never have the chance, but that didn't bother me in the least, and I just knew the rest of my afternoon was going to be stellar.