Chapter Two

In a hotel room across town, MacKenzie Donaldson lay in bed tossing and turning, unable to sleep because she was so damn nervous about her assignment that started the next morning. Her friend Sandy would have killed for this assignment, had in fact begged Joseph, their editor, for the damn thing. Sandy was a huge fan of the band, but Mac liked country music. The editor had explained that he wanted an unbiased account of the tour, and that’s why he chose Mac for the assignment. Joseph didn’t want a fan’s account, he had said if that’s what he wanted he would pick a reader who was a fan and send them. Mac didn’t know anything about these guys, and that’s the way Joseph wanted it. He wanted a story from a new perspective. She had gone against her editor’s orders and talked to Sandy about these guys, wanting to know anything that might be helpful. Sandy had gone on and on about how great looking they all were, and what a god among men Richie Sambora was, but her friend had not been too helpful otherwise. Sandy had told her that these guys liked to keep their private lives private, and that they were all nice guys, contributing money to loads of charities, especially Jon, but that really wasn’t something Mac thought needed to be in another article about them. She didn’t want to uncover all their secrets, just a few, something no one else knew that she could put in this story along with the goings on of a high profile tour.

Angrily, she slugged her pillow, before throwing herself back down on the offending piece of bedding. Oh, Daniel, her ex-fiancé, would be loving this, if he could see her right now. He had, among other things, always tried to tell her that she should find a different line of work, something that would keep her home, with him. But, she wasn’t going to let that little voice in her head that sounded a lot like Daniel discourage her, not again. She was a 32-year old woman who had covered wars and been shot at for crying out loud, surely she could handle four rock stars. She kept telling herself that until finally exhaustion took over, and she fell asleep.

The insistent buzzing of her travel alarm clock woke her the next morning. Slapping the loud thing and knocking it off the bedside table wasn’t really the way she had wanted to start the day, but Lady Luck wasn’t really her best friend. Mac stumbled out of bed, bleary-eyed and with head pounding, but somehow finding her way to the shower.

After showering, she called room service and ordered some juice and a bite of breakfast, before popping the top on the can of Dr. Pepper she had put in the mini refrigerator the night before. Cold caffeine, that’s what she needed in the morning. She had never been a coffee drinker, so she really couldn’t understand Sandy’s morning obsession with Starbuck’s. While she waited on room service, she started getting dressed. Normally a jeans and T-shirt kind of girl, she planned on wearing her one business suit for her first day on this assignment, nothing like impressing them with professionalism. She had just finished putting on her thigh highs and the dark charcoal gray skirt, when room service knocked on her door. Throwing on the black button up blouse, she buttoned it on the way to the door, calling out to let the waiter know she was on her way to the door.

Breakfast was a no frills meal for her, she ate the eggs with melted cheese quickly before grabbing a piece of toast and heading back to the bedroom to finish getting ready to meet the day, and her assignments. She glanced at her travel alarm clock that she had fished out from under the bed earlier and realized she had better get a move on if she was going to get to the airport on time.

The cabbie that drove her to the airport was talkative and friendly, giving her a quick driving tour of Minneapolis on the way. Maybe she shouldn’t have admitted she was from Dallas, but then he had recognized her Texas drawl, so she pretty much had to tell him. He pulled up to the front entrance of the airport and quickly jumped out to put her bags on a luggage cart. She paid him, remembered to include a generous tip for the tour, and told the airport valet that she was supposed to go to gate 12.

"That’s a private gate," he told her swiftly.

"Yes, I know," she smiled, "but I’m expected."

He led the way after explaining that she would have to show identification at the gate. Once they arrived at the gate and she was all checked in, the clerk at the counter assured her that her luggage would be loaded on the plane.

"There was supposed to be someone here to meet me," Mac told the young woman.

"Yes, ma’am, he left a few minutes ago," the clerk answered, "but he said he would be right back."

"Thank you," she answered, as she turned toward a row of chairs that looked terribly uncomfortable. You would think the chairs at a private gate would be more comfortable than that, she thought to herself. Deciding the last thing she wanted to do was sit on one of those hard orange plastic chairs, she laid her purse and laptop in one of them and began to pace back and forth in front of the row of chairs.

"You’re Mac Donaldson?" she heard a male voice say behind her.

Spinning quickly on her heel, she answered, "Yes, and you are?"

The tall, thin man smiled at her from behind wire rimmed glasses before extending one hand. "I’m Obie O’Brien, all around gopher for the band. It’s nice to meet you, although we were expecting a man."

"I get that a lot," she answered, smiling as she shook the man’s hand.

"I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman named Mac before," he told her.

Dodging the topic of her name, she smiled. "Are we ready to go?"

"We were just waiting on you," he answered. "That yours?" he asked, motioning toward her purse and laptop.

"Yes," she answered, gathering up her things, "they told me that my bags would be put on the plane."

"I’m sure your bags are already on the plane," he assured her. "Follow me, the guys are all anxious to meet you." Actually, he knew the guys were all anxious to size her up, and that they would all quickly try to get on her good side. They would try to make a good enough friend out of her to try and keep her from putting all of their secrets in her article.

"I’m sure they are," she said, following him and hoping the sarcasm in that statement wasn’t as glaringly obvious to him as it was to her.

When they boarded the plane, Obie quickly introduced her to everyone except Jon, who wasn’t in the main cabin. They were all shaking hands and Richie was outrageously flirting with her when Jon entered the cabin from the cockpit.

Obie told her the same old joke he told everyone meeting Jon for the first time, "And this man, you should never look in the eye, and never talk directly to him. This is Jon."

"Are you ever going to quit introducing me like that?" Jon asked smiling at his friend.

"Maybe," Obie answered, laughing slightly, "when it quits bothering you."

Mac was never one to obey orders, especially when given in a joking manner, so she quietly observed the blond man in front of her. He was the epitome of a rock star. His tousled blond mane accentuating the planes of his face, the dark sunglasses hid his eyes from her, but Sandy had told her they were an impossible shade of light blue. He wore a white dress shirt untucked and unbuttoned to the middle of his chest, revealing a pewter cross on a strip of black leather around his neck. His tight faded blue jeans encased muscular thighs. She realized he wasn’t very tall, only about 5'10", but since she was only 5' 2" in her heels, she still had to look up at him, but she still hadn’t taken her eyes off those muscular thighs.

Jon was intrigued, and couldn’t help but notice where her gaze was resting. Deciding to tease her a little, he joked, "He was kidding, you can look me in the eye."

"Not with those dark glasses I can’t," she smiled, finally looking back at his face.

"Sorry," he shrugged, not looking the least bit apologetic, "I’ve got a nasty hang over this morning, won’t be taking these off all day." He heard Richie’s choked laughter, but chose to ignore it. He had used that excuse so many times it was a wonder he wasn’t labeled as an alcoholic in all the gossip rags.

"Nice to meet you," she finally said. Jon liked her voice, slightly husky but soft as a down pillow and smooth as aged bourbon.

"Great legs," he commented, "best legs I’ve ever seen on a Mac."

He brushed past her, and casually sat down in one of the plush seats next to a window, stretching his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles, then leaning back in the seat. Effectively ignoring her, she decided. He began to buckle his seat belt and announced to everyone, "You might all want to take a seat and buckle up, the pilot’s ready to take off."

Mac took a seat across the aisle from him, but she noticed no one sat down in the empty seat next to him or in the seat next to her. Once they were in the air, she vaguely wondered if she should start trying to conduct an interview with one or more of the band members, but she decided that she should wait and just observe what was going on around her for a little bit. The flight was going to take about five hours, and she was supposed to be with the band for the next month, so she had plenty of time.

Surreptitiously, Jon watched her lean back in her seat and pull an MP3 player out of her purse. She put the ear pieces in, turned it on, and closed her eyes. He couldn’t help but wonder what she was listening to, but he had no intention of asking. He moved his gaze to her tiny feet in sexy strappy high heels, then slid his gaze up her beautiful legs. I bet those are thigh high stockings, he thought to himself, deciding even if they weren’t he would imagine they were for the rest of the day, hell probably the whole time she was with them. He noticed her tapping her fingernails on the arm of the chair to the beat of the music in her ear that he couldn’t hear. Well he could if he really tried, that was one of the perks of being a vampire, excellent hearing, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to invade her privacy like that. He needed to keep his distance from her not intrude on private moments and discover all of her secrets. That wouldn’t be a good idea. He almost laughed to himself when he noticed the blood-red nail polish on her fingernails, hopefully it was just a coincidence and not done purposely. He didn’t think he could put up with a star struck fan of a reporter for the next month. Suddenly his view of the woman was blocked as Richie took the seat next to him.

"Hey, Buddy," Richie said, glancing over at Mac, "she’s hot, sizzling even."

"Really," Jon shrugged, leaning back in the seat again, "I hadn’t noticed."

"You can fool some of the people . . . ," Richie began the old saying but left it dangling in mid air.

"She’s not my type," Jon said, glaring at his friend through the dark glasses.

"Right," Richie answered, nodding sagely, "‘cause she appears to have a brain in her head."

"Rich," he said, his friend’s name a one word warning.

Richie jerked his head toward the woman, "I bet those are thigh high stockings," he replied softly, grinning unabashedly at Jon.

"Damn you," Jon said, the words lacking any real heat, "how did you know I was wondering the same thing?"

"Because I know you," Richie said simply. "So," Richie paused, "you gonna make a move, or what?"

"What do you think?" Jon asked. There was a brief pause before he said as much for Richie’s benefit as his own, "It wouldn’t be a good idea."

"Why not? And when have we ever done something based on whether it was a good idea or not?" Richie asked, grinning again. "Never mind, don’t answer that. I have a better question. Can you read her?"

Of course, Jon knew what his friend meant. Richie was asking if Jon had tried to read the reporter’s mind, another one of his many powers. Usually, he could read a person’s mind, know their fears, their inner most secrets, even just things they wanted to say but wouldn’t voice out loud. Occasionally, he had come across humans whose minds were too strong and it was like there was a mental wall between his mind and theirs. Richie had been one of those people when he first met him, but after twenty plus years of friendship it was now possible when his friend let him in. "Don’t know, haven’t tried," he answered.

"It would be a good idea to try, wouldn’t it?" the guitarist asked, "I mean, then you would know exactly what she’s here to try and find out, if anything." Richie glanced over at the reporter, then back at his friend, "I think she’s fallen asleep."

Jon leaned forward so that he could see the woman around his friend. Her seat was leaned back and her head had lolled to the side slightly. "Looks like it, " he replied, shrugging.

"Well, if you’re not gonna make a move, I think I will," Richie told him, grinning. "I mean, damn Jon, just look at those legs."

"I have," Jon said, a soft growl evident in his tone. He looked back at the woman, who turned slightly in the seat as she slept, her skirt moving a few inches up her thigh. "Damn," he almost moaned, "they are thigh highs."

Richie quickly looked at the beautiful woman, "I’ll be damned, they are. Oh geez, Jon, those are some killer legs!"

Jon watched his friend begin to rise from his seat. Moving so quickly, Richie never saw it coming, he reached out with one hand grabbing the guitarist’s arm. "Hands off, Rich," he ordered. Richie was sure that had they not been friends, Jon would have bared his fangs at him in warning, his tone was that deadly calm. Dangerous. That’s what it was, dangerous to come between a vampire and it’s prey. Was that what the woman was? Jon’s prey?

"Don’t worry, Bro," Richie assured him, "I could see you were in deep before I ever sat down." And with that parting comment, Richie got up and returned to his seat, leaving Jon alone with his thoughts.



***********************
He sat staring at the woman for several minutes after his friend left him. There had been only one woman who had ever affected him this strongly upon first meeting her, and two centuries later her betrayal still cut him deeply. Jon could still remember her scent, the way she had felt in his arms, the taste of her sweet tangy blood on his tongue. Telling her what he was, revealing his secret had been the hardest thing he had ever done. He had trusted Cecilia, who had claimed to love him with all her heart, more than any other human, but when he’d revealed his dark secret she had looked at him with revulsion in her eyes and fear etched on her beautiful face, even as she lay in his arms swearing she still loved him. He could still see the sight that had met him upon wakening. The woman he loved poised above him, hammer and stake in hand. He had grabbed her wrist just before the hammer had met the stake to drive its deadly point through his heart. She had begun to curse him, telling him what an abomination he was. He could still hear her cutting words, ordering him to kill her because she could not live with the fact that she had given herself to him, an animal. He had left Italy then, his beloved homeland still called to him, but he couldn’t go there without thinking of her and her betrayal. His friends and band mates wondered about the depression he would always drift down into whenever they would arrive in Italy for a show, and why he never wanted to stay the night there after the show. He always insisted on flying on to the next stop, whether they came with him or not. He couldn’t stand to be there where every sight reminded him of Cecilia. He had told Richie several years ago about her and his friend understood, often accompanying him when he left ahead of everyone else.

He shook his head, as if to physically dispel the memories. Jon looked at Mac again, sleeping peacefully across from him. Deciding now was as good a time as any to try, he reached out with his mind trying to touch hers.

Mac sat up straight in the seat, looking around her as if in a dead panic. She wasn’t sure what had woke her, but it was almost as if butterfly wings had touched her mind. Her wandering gaze settled on Jon, sitting across from her looking like some dangerous predator and eyeing her warily. Was that touch, that brief flutter caused by him? Impossible. How could he touch her mind? She must have been dreaming, at least that’s what she told herself. She saw one blond eyebrow raise above the dark glasses, and the left corner of his beautiful mouth lift slightly in an almost knowing smirk, before he turned away from her once again effectively ignoring her. Or so she thought.

In fact, every one of his heightened senses was attuned to Mac. He hadn’t been able to read her mind, and obviously she had felt him try. Unusual. That had never happened before, not even Richie had felt him try to read his mind the first time, and the guitarist’s mind was the strongest he had ever encountered before. He reached out to Richie now, felt the slight resistance before his friend let him in his head.

I can’t read her, he said into Richie’s head. He could see the nod the guitarist gave him in response even if no one else did. It had only been a thought, just like the smile that came along with it. Unfortunately, Richie couldn’t speak directly back to Jon and couldn’t initiate the contact. He withdrew from his friend’s mind, looking again over at the woman. She was fidgeting in her seat like a small child as she tried unsuccessfully to pull her skirt back down into place without anyone seeing her do it. He chuckled to himself, she was going to be a lot of fun.

Chapter One

I’m getting too old for this shit, he thought to himself, before laughing softly. How many times had he said that very thing on stage? The thing is, he was way older than everyone thought, but then that was his dirty little secret, with only Richie knowing the whole truth about him. He probably would have never chosen this profession, had he known he and the band would end up being so big. Yes you would, he told himself, music is in your blood. But, he had never expected fame to be such a big issue. Now, he had to use one of his powers constantly, masking his true appearance so that no one would wonder why he didn’t age, only dropping the facade when he was behind closed doors or asleep, not being able to hold the spell while relaxed in slumber. In his world it was called a glamour, the spell that he used to make himself look older, so that no one would guess the secret. However, simple vanity kept him from actually making himself look like your average 44 year old man. He could probably pass for 34, because he just couldn’t make the 44 stick after he looked in the mirror. Now, that was a myth about his kind! He really did have a reflection, and that had been sometimes curse, sometimes blessing. In the eighties, it had been a curse, some of those clothes and hairstyles. Geez, what had he been thinking? There was a lot about him that the world took as fact, but was really the greatest fiction, worthy of Dickens himself. The world thought he was born in 1962 in Perth Amboy, New Jersey. In fact, he had been born in 1562 in a small village in Italy. He had become what he was now at the young age of 25 and would never appear to age again, unless of course he used the glamour. The world also thought he was married with four children, when in fact they were hired actors. He should have never got into acting; it just made his face more familiar to people. And, he admitted to himself, you’re really not that good at it anyway.

"Enough," he said aloud to the empty hotel room, before picking his wine glass up and walking to the big window to look out at the lights of the city winking at him in the darkened night sky. He ran his fingers through rumbled blond hair as he stood at the window. What city was this? Hell he couldn’t remember, Oh yeah, Minneapolis. He had to quit this quiet self-introspection before he let it drive him to that dark place he went to sometimes, more often now than ever before.

He let his thoughts drift to the woman in the bedroom of his suite. She was his usual fare, long blond hair, blue eyes, legs for days, and her breasts were way more than ‘a hand full’, but her brain was less than a head full. He chose those kinds of women from the multitude who came to see him and the guys in concert because they didn’t wonder about the unusual mark on their neck the next morning, just took it as a hickey from a rock star and took their ‘trophy’ home. He never felt guilty about feeding from them, because he gave them what they wanted and they gave him what he needed. He would send this one on her way in the morning just like he had all the others, a smile on her face, a great memory, and a plea not to tell anyone about what happened so that it didn’t get back to his "wife". There was always the occasional problem, a woman who gave herself away as a blabber mouth, that he would quickly realize would tell the next person she encountered about her night with him, and not care if it was a gossip reporter or not. Those women he had to use another of his powers on and erase her memory of what happened. He couldn’t bring himself to completely erase their memory but he made it fuzzy enough they wouldn’t remember it well enough to know if it was fact or some drunken dream. The woman in the next room was married, her husband away on a business trip. He liked those most of all because he knew they wouldn’t let out the juicy details of what had happened in his bedroom, not wanting their husbands to divorce them over a night of wild passionate sex with a rock star. Or as he liked to refer to it . . . "An exchange of bodily fluids." He still had a hard time not laughing out loud when he would make that statement to some reporter in an interview. Oh, if they only knew!

There was a light knock on his door. He crossed the room quickly, not wanting another knock to wake his guest. He knew who was at the door, no one else would bother him this late at night, he glanced at his watch, or rather, this early in the morning. He was wearing only a pair of faded jeans; he hadn’t even bothered zipping or fastening them when he got out of bed earlier. Not wanting to give some maid an eyeful, he opened the door just a crack, to peer into the hallway, making sure it was who he thought it was, before opening the door a little farther. His best friend stood in the hallway, his long dark hair tousled like he had run his hands through it several times, his brown eyes looked sad. He motioned to Richie to come in, before he walked over and closed the door to the bedroom.

"What’s up, Buddy?" he asked his friend.

"Just talked to Heather," Richie answered softly, as he closed the hotel room door.

"Shit," he muttered, "what’s her problem now?"

"Hell, Jon," Richie said, shrugging, "what isn’t her problem?"

"Okay," he nodded, "what’s her problem tonight?"

"We’re still arguing over who’s going to get custody of Ava," Richie explained, "and when I told her I would be home for a few days between legs of the tour, and that I wanted to see my daughter, she told me that they had plans and that Ava wouldn’t have time for me. Can you believe that shit? My daughter not having time for me?"

"Rich," he said, "this will all be over soon. Just try to hang tough for your daughter. Surely, the judge will see the light and give you custody."

"Yeah, but what then?" Richie asked hoarsely. "How would I raise a little girl while we’re on the road?"

"Bring her with you," came the quick answer, "we can mind our manners, and you’ll get her a tutor for when she should be in school and a nanny to take care of her while you’re on stage. Or, heaven forbid, let her stay with her mother while you’re on the road."

Changing the subject, Richie jerked his head toward the closed bedroom door, "Another meal?"

"Keep your voice down," Jon cautioned quickly, softly, "she might hear you."

"What? You didn’t use all your powers . . . uh . . . I mean charms, to put her out for the night?" he asked, chuckling softly.

"Yeah," Jon answered, "but sometimes if their mind is strong they’ll wake up before they should."

"If it’s the blonde from the bar, her mind’s not that strong, she should be out ‘til next year," Richie laughed.

"It’s the blonde from the bar," Jon answered, trying not to laugh himself, "but mind your mouth, I’m a little fond of Jennifer, uh . . . " He paused, that didn’t sound right to him. He tried to remember her name. "Uh, Janice," another pause, "no wait, Janine. Yeah, that’s it, Janine."

Richie had started laughing softly as soon as Jon had paused over the woman’s name. "Are you sure?" he asked, still laughing.

Jon shook his head, laughing softly. "No, I’m not. Hopefully, I’ll remember it by morning."

"Speaking of morning," Richie said, turning serious, "you’re all set, right? You’ve got everything for when we leave out?"

"Rich, I’m 444 years old, I think I know how to put on a pair of sunglasses," Jon replied wryly. That was another myth about his kind. All vampires had light blue eyes, an icy pale blue that was very sensitive to light. It wasn’t that he couldn’t go out in the sun, it was just that doing so hurt his eyes. Thank goodness for the modern invention of sunglasses.

"Just checking," Richie said sheepishly. "I still haven’t forgotten Sydney."

Jon hadn’t forgotten Sydney either. They had been supposed to leave the hotel for the airport at 9am, but were running late as usual. He couldn’t find his sunglasses and decided a quick run to the van and he could sit with his eyes closed to the airport, everyone would just blame it on a hangover. But, it hadn’t been that simple, the quick run to the van had caused him unbearable pain and he had been blind for several hours afterward while his body repaired the damage the UV rays had done to his retinas. Richie had to do a whole hell of a lot of covering for him that day. Now, he always kept several spare pairs of sunglasses, and he guessed, so did Richie. "Don’t worry," he told his friend, "I’m good."

Richie nodded, and headed toward the door. "I guess I better go try and get some sleep, you should do the same."

"I’ll try," Jon answered, "but, I can’t hold the glamour in sleep. If she woke up before me . . . ," he left the sentence dangling. Richie knew what would happen if the woman woke up before Jon.

"You could just wake her up and send her on her way," Richie responded.

"Ah, I could," Jon smiled, "but then that wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of me now, would it?"

"Fuck gentlemanly," Richie said, "you need your sleep too."

"Yeah, but I don’t need as much as the rest of you, a couple of hours and I’ll be fine. I’ll try and catch a few winks on the plane."

Richie knew what that meant, he was going to have to do some covering for his buddy so that no one noticed he looked 25 when he slept. "Oh, shit, Jon," Richie said, as he remembered a problem with that scenario, "tomorrow’s when that reporter starts following us around for the article about the tour."

"Fuck," Jon swore violently, "I forgot, yeah, tomorrow’s the day the bird dog joins us. I guess I will have to try and get some sleep now. See ya in the morning, Bro," he told Richie.

"Yeah, see ya. G’night," Richie answered as he closed the hotel room door behind him.

With his friend gone, his thoughts drifted back to the woman in the bedroom. Gingerly, he opened the bedroom door. Yeah, Rich was right. She’ll be out ‘til next year. He laughed softly to himself as he grabbed a blanket from the bed and a pillow. He’d just catch a nap on the sofa.