Chapter Nine

For several hours, Mac alternated between pacing and sitting fuming, but mostly she was angry at herself for not even thinking to ask if he was married. The thought that he belonged to someone else bothered her more than she was willing to admit. That body, that charm, that smile, and those amazing blue eyes all belonged to another woman. She tried hard not to even let the image of that fantastic ass enter her head.

Finally in exhaustion, she gave in and went to bed. Carrying her laptop with her, she placed it on the table by the bed. Once again she opened the media player and put on that same play list. Turning the volume down low, she listened as she changed into something to sleep in and climbed into bed. She left it playing as she fell asleep.



In his own room, Jon paced also and even looked in the mini bar, but after deciding it would take entirely too many of those little bottles to accomplish a good drunken binge, he called room service and ordered a good bottle of wine. He’d drink the whole damn bottle if that’s what it took.

He was on his second glass when there was a knock on his door and the scent of Richie’s cologne drifted to him.

"Come on in, Rich," he said, resigned, "might as well join the pity party."

Richie walked in the door and after seeing Jon slouching in a chair by the window, he asked, "What pity party?"

"It’s over," Jon answered, "Mac thinks I’m married and she’s pissed."

"You told her part of the story, but not the part about the wife being an actress?"

"I didn’t get to tell her anything," Jon replied, testily. "Her friend, Sandy, who’s a fan of ours, told her I was married."

Jon got another wine glass from the tray the room service waiter had brought and poured some wine for Richie.

Richie took it, nodding his thanks. "So why didn’t you just tell her the whole story?"

"Oh, yeah," Jon said sarcastically, "But, Baby, I’m not really married, that was just for good PR. The woman the world thinks I’m married to is just a hired actress. Geez, Rich, that sounds like a lame excuse even to me." He took a big gulp of wine. He wasn’t even noticing how well it tasted, that it was actually very good, very expensive wine. How it tasted wasn’t the point of the night. To get very drunk was the point. Drunk enough that he could forget that the woman, the life mate, he so desperately needed was pissed off enough to leave him. She wouldn’t even talk to him.

"You’re right," Richie agreed, "it does sound like a lame attempt to cover your ass."

"I’m so screwed," Jon said, shaking his head and slouching further down in his chair. "There’s a stake in Kristoff’s possession with my name on it."

Richie leaned forward, sitting his wine glass on the table. "What the hell are you talking about, Jon? Why would Kristoff want to stake you? He’s your friend."

"Exactly why he would stake me," Jon told him. Then went on to explain the details about the need for a life mate that he had left out of his earlier explanation.

Richie listened with rapt interest. "Why didn’t you tell me all this earlier?"

"I didn’t wanna worry you."

"When were you gonna tell me that in six years you could go crazy? When you were ripping my throat out and sucking me dry?" Richie asked, his voice rising with each word.

"Focus, Rich," Jon said, dryly. "That is not the current problem."

"No," Richie said, just as dryly, "it’s the six-year, long term problem."

"I have a stake in my room that I could give you to stake me with on my 450th birthday, if that would make you feel better," Jon said, his voice laced with sarcasm.

"Like I, a mere human, could ever take you out," Richie replied, using a healthy dose of sarcasm himself.

"You could if you caught me sleeping," Jon told him.

"You mean like Cecilia did? I’m sure I’d have about the same amount of luck she did."

They were both silent for several seconds, but then Richie spoke up. "I can’t believe we are sitting here calmly sipping wine and contemplating me, your best friend, staking you in your sleep."

"You might be sipping, but I’m gulping it," Jon responded. "Trust me, I’m not exactly enjoying the thought of my demise myself."

"Why are we even entertaining the thought?" Richie asked. "We should be trying to figure out a way to get her back. You need to turn on that Bon Jovi charm."

"The charm’s not gonna work if she won’t even talk to me," Jon pointed out.

"So you flash her that smile, the one that makes all the female fans cream their jeans. And use that look in those blue eyes that makes all their panties drop," Richie told him, smiling.

"How poetic of you," Jon responded dryly.

"It’s the songwriter in me," Richie laughed.

"I know Mac, not well, but well enough to know that all of that shit won’t work as long as she thinks I’m married."

"Well, then somehow you’ve got to make her see the truth."

"Thank you, Mr. Obvious," Jon said sarcastically, "I hadn’t thought of that."

"So, then," Richie grinned, "what are you doing here?"

"Isn’t it obvious?" Jon quipped, pouring his fourth glass of wine. "I’m getting drunk." He took another huge gulp of wine to demonstrate his point, tipping his glass toward Richie before he drank.

Richie started to rise from his chair. "Well, good luck with that, Jon," he said caustically, "let me know how that turns out for ya."

Incredulously, Jon looked at his friend. "Where the fuck are you going?"

"Well, obviously you don’t need my help to get drunk," Richie pointed out, "since you won’t listen to any of my suggestions, and you’re only answer is to get drunk, I’ll be going."

"Sit your ass down, old, wise, jackass," Jon said sarcastically.

"You’ve decided to listen, then?" Richie asked.

"I’ll listen when you have another flash of brilliance. In the mean time, I’ll keep drinking," Jon grinned. Looking pointedly at Richie’s empty glass, he asked, "Need another one?" At Richie's nod, he poured his friend another glass.

"To encourage a flash of brilliance," Richie suggested, "why don’t you tell me exactly what happened."

"There’s not much to tell," Jon responded. "I went to her room to ask why she didn’t come to the show. She said she was pissed, but I could see it was more hurt than anything. I almost slipped into her head to see what had hurt her, but..."

Richie interrupted him, "Whoa, whoa, back up. Since when can you slip into her head?"

"Since we slept together," Jon explained, "I found out quite by accident."

"Well then, why the fuck are you just sittin’ here? If you can walk around in her head, hell, Jon, I think it’s time you stretched your legs."

"I think I need my sunglasses," Jon laughed, while pouring his fifth glass of wine, "that flash of brilliance almost blinded me."

"Well, before you take your little stroll, I think you need a game plan," Richie informed him.

"I thought I’d just let her see the truth."

"The truth is good, but it would depend on your perception of the truth."

"Perception of the truth? How many damn perceptions are there to it? I hired an actress to pretend to be my wife. There’s not much more to it than that," Jon replied.

"Ah, but why did you do it? That’s the question you’ve got to come up with a good answer for. Because trust me...she’s gonna ask."

"For good PR," Jon answered, shrugging.

"Jon, I’m your friend, and that answer will work with me," Richie told him, "but it’s not gonna work with her. Come on Jon, you and I both know the real answer to the question."

"Since you know the answer," Jon replied, pouring himself another glass of wine, "why don’t you share it with me, oh, Insightful One."

"Jon, it’s me Richie, the only human on the planet that knows, I mean, really knows you. I know how you think, what motivates you. You can fool some of the people some of the time, hell, you can even fool yourself, but you can’t fool me." Richie watched as Jon took another big gulp of wine. "You just don’t wanna have to admit that the great Jon Bon Jovi was wrong."

"I prefer the term, mistaken," Jon said dryly, before taking another gulp of wine.

"You would," Richie laughed.

"Fuck you, Sambora."

"You keep asking, and I keep having to tell ya, no," Richie said, as he stood up.

Jon only glared at him.

"I’ll be going now," Richie told him, smiling. "I think my work here is done."

"Yeah, you better go, before...," Jon said to his friend’s retreating back.

Richie waved a hand in the air. "Yeah, I know...before you rip my throat out and suck me dry. That threat’s gettin’ old, Jon."

"But, I don’t ever threaten it," Jon called out, as his friend closed the door.

Jon finished his glass of wine and poured another, finishing it off in two big gulps. He started to get up and go to bed, but he swayed slightly and sat back down. Good. He was drunk. That was what he’d been trying to do after all.

Then he remembered the ‘walk’ he was going to take. Leaning back in the chair, with his head resting on the back, he closed his eyes and reached out to Mac. He could hear her crying before he found her. She was in an all white bedroom, standing facing a bed. The windows of the room were open and the gossamer curtains were billowing into the room from a strong wind. He could hear CCR’s Bad Moon Rising playing somewhere. Where was the music coming from? Jon stood silently in the doorway, behind Mac, his gaze drifting around the room. What he saw when his eyes fell on the bed froze his blood. He saw himself making love to a faceless woman, while Mac stood there crying.

"Mac," he said softly, "Moglie mia, amore mia, what is this?"

"Go away," she cried.

Jon realized what this dream was about, and strode to her, pulling her into his arms. "That is not my wife. I don’t have a wife."

"Yes, you do," she said tearfully against his chest.

Tenderly, he stroked her hair with one hand, and her back with the other. "No, I don’t. I have a hired actress that plays my wife on occasion. I’m not really married."

"Why would you pretend to be married?"

He kissed her forehead. "For good PR. I thought a wife and kids would make me look like the all-American boy from Jersey. And, I mistakenly thought that it would make the groupies back off a little."

"So, why pretend? Why not just find a real woman to marry?" she asked.

"Because I hadn’t found you yet, tesoro mia," he answered, smiling down at her.

"Is that the truth?" she asked, sniffling.

"Yes, I swear." He heard Bob Seger singing now. He recognized the song, it had always been one of his favorites. Looking back at the bed, he realized it was empty now. "Dance with me," he murmured.

She started to sway with him, and he began to sing along with Bob.


I’ll take my chances, Babe, I’ll risk it all
I’ll win your love or I’ll take the fall
I’ve made my mind up, Girl, it’s meant to be
Someday, Lady, you’ll accomp’ny me
Someday, Lady, you’ll accomp’ny me
It’s written down somewhere, it’s got to be
High above me, flyin’ wild and free
Oh, but someday, Lady, you’ll accomp’ny me.


Jon held her face in his hands and kissed her gently. His thumbs stroking the velvety softness of her cheeks. "I need you, moglie mia. More than you could ever know. You’re as important to me as breathing."

"You mean you want me," she corrected, a catch in her voice, "it’s a sex thing."

"See I told you, it was more than you could ever know," he smiled down at her. "I need you, Mac. When the time is right, I’ll explain it all to you, but I need you." He unbuttoned a few if the buttons of his shirt and pulled it to the side. "See this mark?" he asked her. When she nodded, he continued, "It appeared after we made love the first time. It’s what told me how much I needed you. No other woman will do for me. It’s got to be you."

"You’re drunk," she accused.

"Yes, I am," he confirmed, his speech slightly slurred. "But that’s what tends to happen when you drink a whole bottle of wine trying to drown your sorrows."

"And what sorrows were you trying to drown?"

"You wouldn’t talk to me, moglie mia, and the hurt in your eyes almost killed me. Knowing I had put it there," he shook his head. "I wanted to ask Richie to drive a stake through my heart right then."

"Jon," she began.

But he interrupted her, "No, Mac, I hurt you and that hurts me. Can you forgive me; can we get past this?"

"You don’t belong to another woman?"

"No. I belong to you," he said before kissing her forehead tenderly. "Just you," he whispered, his lips brushing her face as he spoke.

"Make love to me," she pleaded.

"Not here," he said, looking at the bed with a grimace. "Come to me, tesoro mia. Come to my room." Regretfully, he let his arms fall to his sides and took a step back from her. "Come to my bed, moglie mia," he said softly, before he withdrew from her dream.

He opened his eyes in his room. He hadn’t wanted to make love to Mac in a dream world, in a bed where she had pictured him with another woman. No, Jon wanted to make love to her in reality, in his bed. Somehow, he knew her skin wouldn’t have smelled or tasted the same in her dream world, and suddenly he wanted to have her smell envelope him and have her taste in the back of his mouth. After several minutes, he reached out to her again, whispering in her head, Come to me, Mac.



Mac woke up slowly, right after Jon left her dream. She lay there in the darkness for several minutes. Was that wishful thinking or one of her dreams that came true? How stupid to hire an actress to pretend to be his wife. That had to be her subconscious working over time to try and come up with a way for him to not be married. In her dream, he had said he didn’t belong to another woman, that he belonged to her. Did he really?

Briefly, she felt the barest brush of butterfly wings in her head, then Jon’s voice. Come to me, Mac.

She sat straight up in the bed. What the hell? No.



In his room, Jon stood up from the chair. She had answered him! No human had ever been able to answer him before. It had startled him so bad, he had withdrawn from her head. He started to go back, when suddenly he felt the oddest sensation. Almost as if his mind had been brushed by a butterfly’s wings, and he realized he wasn’t alone in his head anymore. Mac? He heard her gasp, and suddenly he was alone again.

How the hell was he going to explain this?