20 - When We Were Beautiful

The little group of women – or group of little women, more accurately – invaded Jon’s front row half-way through the first song. 

He had every intention of going through rehearsal the same as always, oblivious to everything except his thoughts and the music, but the road to Hell was paved with good intentions and all that.  His subconscious didn’t give a damn about intentions and instantly alerted him to Delaney’s presence. 

He covertly watched her while singing about setting each stone and hammering each nail, pleased to note that she looked infinitely better than in the hospital on Sunday.  With her hair flowing loosely over the shoulders of the same biker jacket she wore to her last soundcheck, and accessorized with the same funky necklace and assortment of rings, she was… the Delaney he knew and had been thinking about.  The Delaney he'd had more than one dirty dream about, but the stage wasn't a place to dwell on those.

It was only her facial expression that was different today, he saw through his lashes as her sister persuaded her into the seat directly in front of him.  Rather than being poised to pop off with a wiseass remark, she was poised on the edge of that seat with enormous solemn eyes.

She was… enamored, he supposed was as good a word as any, and Jon wished he’d paid attention to know how it stacked up to her original reaction.  That day, he hadn’t been striving to create memories and was simply in work mode.  Today’s objective was skewed slightly in favor of the memories.

Ending the first song, he picked up his guitar for “Lost Highway” without directly looking at any of the three women.  Delaney and her friend were sitting so still that it would be like watching statues, and Petra was equally focused on Delaney.

He was going to have to cut the woman some slack.  She truly seemed more interested in what her sister was reaping from this rehearsal than reliving the experience for herself.  A couple of times he’d seen her lean in to whisper in Delaney’s ear, but other than that, Petra was as still as the other two. 

Running through the song from beginning to end, he used the familiar melody to gradually warm and stretch his vocal cords.  He changed up the notes in the odd spot here and there as a personal challenge and was pleased to discover that it was a good day to be a singer.   Everything was working as it should be.

Jon felt pretty damn good about himself and held out the last note longer than usual, playing with his range.  There was no undue strain, and he smothered an arrogant grin while putting the guitar back in its stand.  Some of his youthful cockiness was trying to break free, provoking him to put his balls on the line and do something he rarely ever did anymore – take requests.

Removing his ear monitor, he moved up beside the mic stand and crouched on the stage's front edge.  Jon flicked an index finger to beckon Delaney, at which point she froze like a deer in headlights.

After glancing furtively to her sister and friend, he could barely make out the murmured, “Does he mean me?”

“Yes, dumbass.  He means you,” was loud and clear from Petra, though, and reached all the way to the back of the stage.  His entire band was chuckling, and Dave promised to introduce Phil, the guitarist, to them after rehearsal. 

Delaney’s cheeks billowed like balloons as she blew out a breath and rose.  Even with her short legs, only one step was necessary to have her at the rail and peering uncertainly up at him.  “Hi.”

“Hi, yourself,” he chuckled, resting a forearm on one knee.  “What do you like besides ‘Keep the Faith’?”

“’Hallelujah’!” instantly ripped through the air, and Delaney swung around to dispatch a death glare at her ever-helpful sister. 

“Shut the freep up!”

“Quiet in the peanut gallery.”  Jon backed her up by pointing a chastising finger at Petra before directing his attention and explanation to Delaney. “We’re wrapping rehearsal with that one.  Anything else?”

“I don’t know…”  Tucking a strand of dark behind her ear so that the light reflected its purple sheen, she bounced on her toes and looked from left to right as though the arena fixtures might give her an idea.  Hell, maybe they did.  Something had her decisively snapping her attention back to him and asking, “Anything?”

“Oh, Christ, what have I done?”  That youthful cockiness went back into hiding, leaving Jon stricken with dread.  His chin fell to his chest with a reticent chuckle before he raised it again to squint one eye at her. “Nothing from the first two albums.”

“Oh, no.  It’s not.”

Enjoying the buzz of electricity that arced into his gut from her bright eyes, he nodded.  “Alright, then whatcha got?”

“’When We Were Beautiful’.”

It wasn’t from the first two albums, but the ten-year-old song hadn’t made the set list in half that many years.  He’d purposely left it off the rotation since the tour from hell in 2013.  There were multiple reasons, with the foremost being that it carried memories he didn’t want to indulge.

Yet Delaney wanted it for her memories, so he would indulge her.  How was that for fucking irony? 

“I’ll give it a shot.”  Tucking his ear monitor back into place, he rose and spoke her selection into the mic so that the guys could hear it.

When he stood, Delaney stepped back and sank to her seat slightly dazed and suddenly warm.  She hadn’t expected him to solicit suggestions.  Why would she?  Petra had repeatedly told her that Jon went through soundcheck as though he was alone on that stage. 

She also hadn’t expected the jolt of… something when he looked into her eyes.  Delaney had always thought him handsome but having his undivided attention, even for that brief moment, was like an aphrodisiac. 

“OhmyfreakingGod,” Pearl hissed into her ear while desperately trying to cut off the circulation in Delaney’s left forearm.  “The rock god legit likes you!  If this was 1987, you’d be fucking his brains behind the stage.”

“What?  Pfft!”  She drew back in disbelief as the band made the necessary adjustments to perform the song.  He was a sex symbol playing a role and playing it very well.   “You’re crazy.  I’m the poor woman with amnesia.  A charity case.  That’s all.”

“As much as it pains me, I’m going to have to go with Pearl on this one.” 

Dumbfounded, she turned to her sister.  Petra often referred to Pearl as Delaney’s real twin, saying that the two of them were more alike than biological twins could ever be.  As such, she was at odds with Pearl as often as she was with Delaney and seldom – if ever – shared her point of view.

“He didn’t do this last time,” Petra stressed.  “We might as well have been invisible for all the attention he paid us at the Garden.  He’s different this time – different with you.”

For the last eighteen hours, Delaney had been bombarded with countless references to last week’s soundcheck – the auspicious occasion that she couldn’t remember.  

“This is the outfit you wore last time.” 

“You were exceedingly gracious and polite last time.”

“This is the same protocol as last time.” 

“Matt escorted us last time.” 

“Last time, we had dinner with Matt’s family.” 

“Jon did ‘Hallelujah’ last time.”

“I’m sure this will be as good as last time.  You won’t be missing anything.”

Delaney understood that Petra was trying to create something that Delaney couldn’t recreate for herself, and she’d taken it in stride.  Until now. 

Being stricken with a sudden and overpowering attraction to the man was traumatic enough to have her insides quivering.  Knowing the framework that might put it in context had been taken from her – and having her sister so effortlessly supply pieces of that frame made Delaney want to cry. 

Delaney had never been the crying type, though.  It may be the one and only personality trait she and Petra had in common, but the Giannopoulos sisters didn’t often succumb to tears.  Their negative emotions nearly always manifested in anger.

“Petra, don’t say ‘last time’ to me again,” she warned ominously.  “Continually pointing out what I don’t remember doesn’t freeping help, it makes me feel like crap, so stop it!  Let me enjoy today for today.”

The mouth that was identical to her own went brutally thin-lipped in her standard display of sullenness, but Petra couldn’t stand not to have the last word.  “Fine.  Jon Bon Jovi likes you.  Period, without explanation, because God knows I don’t have one.  Enjoy your fucking day.”

“Hey.”  Pearl leaned forward to speak across Delaney as the guitarist started the intro to the song.  “She knows you mean well, bitch.  Just stop working so damn hard to recreate the scene and enjoy it with her – like you did last time.”

Ruthless gray eyes hit Pearl with the force of a howitzer, and Delaney physically inserted herself into the stare-down with a sigh.  Why did she always have to be the reasonable one? 

“Enough.  We can fight later.  Bon Jovi is playing my song request in a private rehearsal.  That’s the moment we should be living in.  Right?”

She knew Pearl would be the easy sell, and she was, agreeably looping her arm through Delaney’s and saying, “Damn straight, girlfriend.”

Her sister was the harder nut to crack, but Delaney would do it.  She snuck her hand against Petra’s, palm to palm, and laced her unpainted fingers into professionally manicured ones.  When no complaint came, she squeezed tightly and leaned in to murmur, “You think he really likes me, huh?”

Both of them attentively watched the “he” in question ease up to the microphone, and the spotlight became the sunset orange Delaney remembered from previous performances.

“I do.”  Petra let the sweet affirmation hang for a full second before adding, “As a friend.  He’s married, Delaney, and his wife was your good Samaritan.  Don’t forget that.”

That colossally screwed up the moment she wanted to live in, and Delaney let her eyes fall shut for a breath.   It was the only display of disappointment she allowed before whispering, “I won’t.”

“The woorrld iis craacked

The skyy iis torrn

I'm hanng-iing iinn

You're hold-ing onn

I caan't pree-tennd

That noth-inng's chaanged…”

19 - Quick Rundown

“Okay, quick rundown,” Jon told the band members assembled in his Montreal dressing room.  “At one of the Garden shows, I had guests here for soundcheck.  Twin sisters.”

“Bounce and Hall of Fame,” was Dave’s helpful contribution to the impromptu meeting, reinforcing Jon’s decision to wait until the five minutes before soundcheck to do this.  Even Matt didn’t find out until a couple minutes ago, when he was sent to fetch Delaney and company from Will Call.

Hitting the keyboardist with a withering glance, Jon corrected, “Delaney and Petra.  They’ll be here for tonight’s soundcheck along with another woman.  Since I’m not sure exactly who they talked to last time, I’m telling you all…  Delaney – the dark-haired twin – had an accident and doesn’t remember it, so don’t expect her to.  Now, let’s go to work.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!  Gidget One doesn’t remember?”

“No,” was all David’s theatrical interruption earned as Jon turned his back to gather a couple of personal items from the table.

Not only hadn’t he given anyone advance notice of his guests tonight, he also hadn’t disclosed the after effects of Delaney’s accident before now.  Matt asked about her before the D.C. show a couple days ago but got only the bare facts – she was home and doing fine.  Jon wasn’t in the habit of over-sharing and didn’t feel compelled to start.

“What the fuuuck?”

He turned from picking up his insulated coffee cup to find not only an incredulous David but the rest of band still in the room. 

“What?”

“I didn’t meet the girl, but I’m nosy enough to be interested in hearing a little more.”  Tico, whom he could normally count on to just roll with the punches, was now standing with his gloved hands notched onto his hips and waiting expectantly. 

Fuck.  It’ll be faster to tell them than to fend them off.

So, Jon gave them the shortest version possible of Delaney’s accident, the ramifications, and Petra’s eventual request.  “Can we get the fuck to work now?”

Most of the guys just nodded and headed for the stage, but Dave and Tico hung behind and didn’t look inclined to move anytime soon. 

“Well, you’re gonna have to do ‘Hallelujah’ again tonight,” was Dave’s flat proclamation.  “Those girls just about pissed their pants last time.  The way their jaws dropped had me thinking Magic Mike had taken over the stage.”

“Lema’s right.”

“Jesus, Teek,” Jon groused, a little pissed by his willingness to jump on the crazy train.  “Why the hell are you encouraging him?”

Bulky drummer’s shoulders lifted with indifference.  “Those girls were the only ones in the house that night and they’re better lookin’ than your ass in dad jeans.  I watched ‘em almost piss their pants.”

If the old man, and most sensible of the group, was petitioning for “Hallelujah” on Delaney’s behalf, then it looked like Jon would be doing fucking “Hallelujah” for soundcheck.  There was a little voice deep inside chastising him for not paying attention to the twins last time, but Jon’s common sense and ethics put a muzzle on the voice.  This was work, not a charity gig.

“I’ll think about,” was his only promise when pushing past the only other original members of the band.  “Now let’s go.”

“Hey!” 

Jon looked down at the hand gripping his arm and traced it back to the owner’s face.  “What, Lema?”

“I wanna take ‘em on a tour after soundcheck again.”

“And?  You didn’t ask my fucking permission last time.”

“I’m not asking this time,” the blonde man clarified, releasing Jon’s arm.  “I’m telling.  I’m also telling you that, if you don’t do something nice for them after the show, I will.”

That actually worked out perfectly for Jon, but there would only be two women to entertain, not three.  He had other plans for Delaney. 

“Suit yourself.” 

{{{

There were only smattering of personnel and eager concertgoers wandering the Scotiabank Arena foyer at almost four hours prior to showtime.  Delaney, Petra and Pearl were among those eager concertgoers – or soundcheck-goers, more accurately – but their contact person had been impatiently tapping her toe when they arrived. 

The flight out of JFK was significantly delayed due to mechanical difficulties and only touched down in Montreal forty minutes ago, putting them way behind schedule and giving Petra hives.  The three women changed clothes in the airport bathroom and had no choice but to touch up hives, hair and makeup in the taxi.  For a hefty tip, the cabbie promised to deliver their luggage to the hotel, and they were desperate enough to chance it.

The contact person – Sandy – had barely given them a chance to apologize before bestowing guest credentials and hurrying away with assurance that their escort would be along shortly.  Delaney fingered an edge of the octagonal sticker on her chest while her sister assured them this was the very same protocol they went through Madison Square Garden a week ago. 

This was also a two-night stand like the Garden shows that Delaney could no longer recall, but at least last night’s semi-sleepless night had given her the chance watch to the YouTube videos.  Jon had been in a good mood, delivering an energy that even translated through a phone screen, and she hoped Montreal was like New York in that respect, too.   

Unlike the Garden shows, however, her seats for these shows sucked.  Bon Jovi was even more popular here than in New York and tickets were scarce.  They’d been forced to use the legalized scalping websites selling nothing but a selection of seats behind the stage or in the rafters – for twice the face value.

“I still don’t see how a rock star can’t manage to find a couple extra seats for his own concert,” Pearl mused, tugging at the hem of her metallic cold-shoulder blouse.  “Hypothetically, he could point at someone in the front row and tell them to move.  It’s his show.”

Busily scouring the area for their chaperone, Petra blew out an impatient breath.  “Those seats sold months ago for a lot of money.  The man isn’t going to screw over fans that pay big bucks, and once you’ve been to soundcheck, you won’t care where your seats are.  Trust me.”

A noncommittal hum indicated that Pearl was still skeptical, but Petra had reached her limit of patience with the subject and directed her lecture series elsewhere.  “Delaney, don’t forget to be gracious and well-mannered.  That’s what drew Jon’s attention in the first place.”

Delaney had already received her instructions on how to behave – twice – and maybe she’d even follow them.  The guy she’d talked to on the phone yesterday didn’t seem like he’d be a stickler about gracious and well-mannered, but he may be different in person.  She planned to play it by ear.

“Uh, that’s not what got His Royal Hotness’s attention,” Pearl scoffed rudely.  “And the only ones buying your story are you and the leopards who died to make that shirt.”

“This is a synthetic blend.”

“Okay.  So no leopards, then.  Just you.”

“You two give it a rest or I’m skipping this whole thing and going back to the hotel.”  The threat wasn’t serious but could escalate if it turned out Petra was trying to make her dance like a marionette.  “Pearl, what do you think-“

An abrupt swat to Delaney’s shoulder aborted the remainder of the question, and her sister directed a pointed look down the hall

“That’s Matt,” she coached under her breath before straightening to paste on a smile for the ridiculously large man who drew near.  “He’s Jon’s brother and bodyguard.  He escorted us to soundcheck last time, too, and we later had dinner with his wife and kids.”

Pearl’s almond-shaped eyes sent round at that bit of information and cut Delaney to ribbons with a single look.  “I’m just going to tell you one more time how pissed I am that you didn’t give me every detail before losing your damn memory.”

“Oh shut it.  You know as much as I do now.”

“Both of you stifle.” Petra’s command came through unmoving lips only a split second before she dispensed an over bright, “Matt!  It’s so good to see you again.”

“Hey.”  His close-cropped head dipped in greeting, and he presented an outstretched hand to Delaney.  It was a massive paw that her hand whole, but the grip was surprisingly gentle.  “Delaney.  I’m Matt.  Sorry you don’t remember your last visit with us, but it’s nice to have you back.  Who’s your friend?”

Blinking up at the skyscraper of a man whose mouth held at a neutral angle, she was astonished to find a warmth in his eyes.  What did he know about her?  What did she know about him other than what Petra just said? 

I don’t mind not having the memories.  What I hate is not knowing the memories people have of me.

“Ah, thanks.  This is Pearl.”

“Pearl.”  There was another short nod and one side of his mouth lifted.  “You got any normal-sized friends?”

Glancing at two women who weren’t any taller than her own five-feet, she dryly quipped, “These are the only people I see eye-to-eye with.”

The other side of Matt’s slid up to match the first.  “Cute.  Ready to ride, midget posse?”

“Now I see why you called him Sasquatch,” Pearl remarked in a tone that could be heard by Matt a couple of steps ahead of them, as well everyone else in a twenty-foot radius. She was the most height-sensitive of the group. 

“Oh for freep’s sake!  I called him what?” 

This Bon Jovi reenactment wasn’t helping her memory, it was just emphasizing the void and embarrassing her in the process.  Delaney wasn’t going to create the new, blissful memories that Petra insisted were the only acceptable substitute for the lost ones.  She was going to come out of this emotionally scarred.

Never one to be bashful, Pearl obligingly repeated herself as they came upon the elevator.  “You called him Sasquatch.  He’s not that hairy, but the size is a good match.   Mofo is like a mountain.  Think I could sit on his shoulders for the show?”

It would definitely be a better seat than the nosebleeds they’d ended up with, but she spoke as if the man was deaf, and Petra was mortified.   Her heated glare should’ve singed a hole in the side of Pearl’s head, but Pearl wasn’t the reason Delaney was uncomfortable.  She was more upset by her own assessment of their escort who, strangely enough, didn’t seem bothered by it in the least.

Holding the elevator door until they were all in the car, Matt punched a button that set them in motion.  If there was any emotion at all hiding in his facial features, it would be amusement. 

“We didn’t meet under pleasant circumstances, and you called me worse than that to my face.  No worries, but nobody’s sitting on my shoulders.  Sorry, not sorry.”

A slow smile engaged her dimples and only spread wider when he winked down at her.  No matter what unflattering pet names she’d previously assigned him, Delaney liked Jon’s brother.  Anybody who was that blunt couldn’t be all bad.  In fact, sometimes they could be very good.

“Hey, Matt?  Does Jon invite charity cases to soundcheck very often?”

“Delaney!  Gracious and well-mannered, remember?”  Petra was thoroughly appalled, thereby making Delaney’s day complete. 

If she’d had memories of initially meeting him, there would be no reason to get her sister’s panties in a twist.  The chain of events would provide the answers.  Without those memories, the whole thing seemed somewhat bizarre, and she simply wanted the explanation she didn’t remember. 

“Charity cases?  No.”  Matt stood rigidly with his hands folded in front of him and no intention of elaborating.   He silently studied the changing floor numbers above the door, perhaps believing that avoiding her gaze was the key to avoiding her curiosity.

He was wrong. 

“Then why is he doing it now?  Or last week?”

“Couldn’t tell you.”

A brassy chime signaled the elevator’s arrival at their destination, and when the doors slid back, he courteously inserted his arm to keep them parted for exit.  Pearl and Petra took the cue to step out, but Delaney wasn’t quite done with this chat.  She didn’t think she was asking anything all that complicated.

“You don’t know why, then.”

His neutral expression slipped into the semblance of a scowl at her unwillingness to accept his non-answer, and with their pronounced height difference, he virtually loomed over her like a gargantuan vulture.  Delaney probably should’ve been intimidated, but she didn’t budge. 

“What I know or don’t doesn’t matter.  Your question’s for Jon, not me.”

He’d transitioned from nice guy to bodyguard, and she intuitively knew it was pointless to try and dig any further.  Matt had said all he intended to say on the subject.

“Okay,” she conceded easily, shrugging her shoulders inside the black leather moto jacket she couldn’t recall buying but loved.  “Will I get to talk to him tonight?”

“Probably.”

She had a sneaking suspicion that his “probably” was a more definite affirmation than most people’s “absolutely”, and Delaney accepted it as such.  Shooting him her most charming smile, she enthused, “Great.  Now which way to soundcheck?”

18 - The Message

“Amber waves of grain, Petra.  What kind of crap did you pull to get three of us backstage?”  Delaney demanded with a nasty glare, using a rag to wipe wet clay from her hands before scratching her nose. 

She wasn’t sure why she bothered.  She’d spent the last two days with it streaked on her face and the oversized flannel shirt she used for a smock.  Even piling all the hair on top of her head didn’t save her from brushing crusty, dried flecks out of it at night, but she considered it worth the sacrifice. 

Pottery and sculpting had been her escape since going under house arrest. 

Beating the life out of and into the cold lump of clay was a good emotional outlet for her multiple sources of recent frustration, but it was only effective in short stretches.  Nothing was going to keep her from needing a convalescence to recuperate from this convalescence, and a therapist would probably be better, since her sister was driving her legitimately insane.

Petra wouldn’t let her leave the apartment.  She sat on the closed toilet while Delaney showered.  She cooked food Delaney didn’t want to eat.   She shoved pain medicine at her when the light coming in the window got too bright.  She made sure Delaney didn’t sleep too long or in the wrong position, and then stared at her pupils to make sure they were roughly the same size. 

In short, Petra was smothering her.  

When their mother left an hour ago, she'd given Delaney a look of sympathy.  Even Fiona Giannopoulos wasn't having any luck getting Petra to back off and go home to her teenage sons.  The headstrong twin staunchly refused, saying they were perfectly capable of fixing a meal and getting themselves to school.  

The self-appointed keeper/caregiver wasn’t going anyplace until after the follow-up appointment with the doctor on Monday. 

Delaney understood that this was her sister’s way of showing love and concern, but Petra needed to come up with a less invasive way.  In the few scarce moments when she wasn’t being an overbearing nursemaid, she incessantly talked about the handful of events that Delaney couldn’t remember. 

Okay, so she supposedly delivered flowers to Jon Bon Jovi, who then came into the shop with his son for more flowers and invited them to soundcheck.  Soundcheck and the concert had turned into a party afterward, where they met his other son and Jon presented her with autographed maracas.  All that sounded cool, but as far as Delaney was concerned, it was just a story about someone else’s life. 

Looking at selfies of them with members of Bon Jovi and the picture where she kissed the freeping maracas on a deserted stage didn’t make it any more concrete.  The autographed ones were on the bedroom bookcase right now, but they may as well have come from eBay for all the sentimental value they held. 

Rather than striking any chords, Petra’s continual recounting of it just made Delaney feel… icky. 

She had no recollection nor the ability to summon one on demand, and each time she came up blank, it disappointed Petra to the very core of her soul.  Delaney loathed being responsible for the sadness that frequently haunted her twin’s eyes.  She’d much rather fight with her.

“Jon invited us to soundcheck in Montreal tomorrow night,” Petra serenely reiterated, without a hint of melancholy as she made herself comfortable in the kitchen chair she’d hauled into the room earlier in the week.  That was as good as inviting the fight. 

“You mean you badgered him into an invitation.”  Throwing the rag aside, she rose from her potter’s wheel with a huff and only a faint sense of dizziness.  It was an improvement from yesterday.  “You can’t do this stuff, Petra!  Stop trying to force my memory and stop annoying celebrities to do it!  I’m not going.”

Stubborn arms folded over Petra’s chest in a formidable underscore to her sharp glare.  Her crossed leg bounced with agitation that Delaney ignored as she set today’s piece onto a shelf.  The spare bedroom turned art studio would become a sparring ring soon, but in the meantime, she'd clean the mud from the wheel. 

“You’re fucking going, Delaney.  This is not up for debate.  Do you realize how I humiliated myself to get you this opportunity?”

“Oh, for the love of macaroni!”  Wet clay flew from the scraper into the trash with a soggy ‘plop’.  “Does everything have to be about you?”

Petra’s mouth drew into the tight pucker that only appeared when she was either livid or got her feelings hurt.  Delaney suspected it might be both, but she was tired of being treated like an idiotic invalid, so Petra was just going to have to be butt-hurt.

“I refuse to engage in this discussion,” the injured party declared haughtily.  “What I find fascinating is that Jon knew this was going to present an issue for you.  I actually have a message from him for this very moment.”

After another soggy ‘plop’ of clay into the trash, she twisted to shoot an ugly scowl at her sister.  This was extreme, even for Petra.  She’d never resorted to fabricating lies to get her way.

“Just stop.”

“No, I will not!”  Petra’s legs uncrossed so that she could stomp her sandal on the floor.  “Jon Bon Jovi knows you well e-fucking-nough that he predicted you would act like a petulant child and sent a message in anticipation of it, Delaney!  Jesus Christ, you think I could make this shit up?  He said if you got belligerent to go drag out the maracas he gave you.” 

Using  a damp cloth to wipe down the wheel, Delaney tossed it into the rag bag with a snort.  “Uh-huh.  And what am I supposed to do with them?  Summon the spirit of complacence?  Or, let me guess… have faith?  You’re so full of it.”

“No, you contrary ass!” Petra leapt from her seat, size-five feet sounding twice that as she stalked from the room, returning only seconds later to launch the maracas at Delaney’s chest.  “Look at the tape around the handles!  He said one piece is newer than the rest.  There’s something under it he wants you ‘to have and to use’.”

Feeling just the tiniest bit lightheaded, Delaney sank onto her potter’s stool and lowered the maracas so that she could take a closer look.  All of the black electrical tape that bound the two shakers together was creased to match the criss-crossed angles, wrapping horizontally around the handles.  There was only one segment that went the other direction. 

On the back side of the instrument and about three-inches long, this piece was different.  It didn’t wrap horizontally but ran vertically along the length of the wooden handle. 

“Well, did you find it?”

“Yes.”  Delaney threw her indignant sister a dirty look and thumbed the tape’s edge until it began rolling away from the rest.  When there was enough to pinch between her fingertips, she began what she thought would be the slow and tedious process of peeling it away.  That was not the case.  Only about half an inch had to be rolled back before huge hunk tape lifted easily and left a matching half-inch attached at the other end. 

Freeing it, she found a slender rectangle of paper stuck in the center.  Its lack of adhesive was responsible for the easy release of tape, and she set the maracas in her lap to read what was scribbled there.

“What is it?”

“It” was a New York phone number.  Delaney could only presume that the owner of that phone number was the same person who’d scratched the initials “JBJ” at the end.

“His phone number.”

“Good.  Call and tell him you’re too stupid to accept his very gracious invitation, because I’m done here.”

More loud footsteps accompanied Petra’s departure, and only seconds later, the front door slammed.  It was too much to hope that her sister was gone for good.  She’d probably only gone back to Starbucks, but Delaney was glad for the quiet as she bit her lip and studied the ten-digits that supposedly belonged to a rock star. 

I have no memories of ever talking to him.  What do I say?  How do I say it?  What the freep have I already said?

This was one area in which Petra had been oddly quiet.  Delaney was clueless about any verbal exchanges with Jon, and her sister only repeated the same catchphrase over and over.  “I don’t know every word he spoke to you, and I can’t recite what I do know.  Suffice it to say he’s one of the nicest men I’ve ever met.”

That’s what Delaney was working with as she deliberated cold-calling one of People Magazine’s sexiest men alive.  

Her conclusion?  She was screwed.  

Delaney Gardener might be screwed, but she wasn’t a fraidy cat and reached into the back pocket of her shorts.  The phone she sought wasn’t there, so she sighed and made a methodical round of her two-bedroom apartment until she found it on the toilet tank.  By that time, she was back to deliberating the wisdom of calling an unknown number and expecting Jon Bon Jovi to answer. 

“Freep it,” she muttered, settling into the chair beside the kitchen window.  The evening sunshine had reached an angle that made her squint, so she closed her eyes and basked in the warmth of it while listening to the phone ring.

“Hello?”

One word couldn’t provide a conclusive identity of the man who’d answered.  There was little or no background noise to provide a clue, and she was left with a choice of speaking or hanging up like a pre-teen girl.

Caller ID made the decision for her.

“Hi.  I had a message to call this number.”

“Yeah?” She would swear there was a smile in the voice.  “Who gave you the message?”

“Petra.”

“Then that means it was actually from me.  Hi, Delaney.  How are ya?”

The more words he used, the more she could convince herself that she recognized the guy on the other end of this call.  Still, she didn’t want to come across like a fool.

“Is this Jon?”

“Yeah.”  There was no mistaking the smile this time.  “It’s Jon.  I guess your sister told you about Montreal?”

“She’s told me what’s convenient for her.  Can’t say that I believe it’s the whole story.”

“How about I tell you the story from my side?”

“Sure.”

Propping one elbow on the table, she used the palm of that hand as a cradle for her chin.  So far, he seemed very non-celebrity-ish.  He was probably that way in the hospital the other day, but there was too much going on to recall specifics. 

“Petra suggested that a Bon Jovi replay might help recover your memory, and we talked very… openly about her motives.  Damn, your sister has a mouth on her.”

Delaney grinned at the sparrow that landed on the windowsill.  It sounded like he’d been treated to a rare public appearance of Petra instead of the Congressman’s Wife, and she was kind of sorry to have a missed it. 

“She’s fluent in F words.”

“Among others,” came his laughed agreement.  “Listen, the details don’t matter.  If I didn’t want you there, nothing she said could’ve made a difference.  So grab her and your friend, come to Montreal and have a little fun.  Alright?”

Petra was right.  She’d be stupid to refuse his invitation, and if the fandom found out about it, they’d probably show up at her doorstep in droves with torches and pitchforks.  Her main reason for refusing in the first place was because of Petra’s interference, and if Jon said it wasn’t interference, then there was really no reason to deny herself a second chance at a first memory. 

Only things were never quite that simple in Delaney’s mind.

“Can I ask you something?”

There were mumbled voices in the periphery before things went quiet again and he returned to extend a reluctant, “I guess.”

“Did Petra go through your wife to get to you on this?”

The kids playing out in front of the building could give Jon a lesson in genuine laughter.  His was anything but before declaring, “Dorothea has nothing to do with it.”

“So you really are the nicest man ever.”

“Delaney,” he sighed, sounding more frustrated than nice.  “I realize you don’t remember it, but this makes the second time you’ve said that to me.  My answer now is the same as it was then –  I’m not as nice as you want to think.”

“What makes you say that?”

This marked the first time Delaney was sincerely remorseful at having lost last week.  What had she missed?  What had she missed with him?  Was she always going to be a step behind when it came to Jon, and why did it matter so much that she was?

Because two minutes into a phone call, you already know you like him.

She was suddenly incapable of sitting still and bounced to her feet.  It wasn’t the brightest idea ever, but she put a hand on the table to steady herself until the dizziness faded and was able to turn on the kettle for a cup of tea while he chuckled more believably than the last time. 

“You’re nothing if not consistent Delaney…  Hey.  What the hell is your last name, anyway?”

“Gardener.”

“Delaney Gardener the florist?  No shit?” 

“That’s what’s on my driver’s license,” she confirmed, keeping it brief as she stood on tiptoe to hook the handle of her favorite mug and drag it from the cabinet.  He didn’t need to know that her profession was a stab at her ex-husband.  “Now what makes you say you’re not nice?”

“Never said I wasn’t nice.  Just not as nice as you wanna think.  So gimme the verdict on Montreal.  Yay or nay?”

He wasn’t very forthcoming, Delaney noticed.  Then again, they weren’t friends – she didn’t think.  From his perspective, she was probably just another fan getting another VIP experience.  The thought made her frown at the tea bag that went into the mug, but it didn’t stop her from accepting.

“Yay, with extra y’s, an exclamation point and a lot of gratitude thrown on top.  I still think you’re nicer than you want to believe.”

The line went still enough for her to hear Jon breathing in the empty seconds before he quietly predicted, “Someday, you’ll think back on this and realize how very wrong you are.  See you tomorrow, Delaney.”

17 - Generosity

[3:19 PM]PETRA: Do you have time to talk?

Jon reared back at the control board with a sigh. 

It had been three days since the discovery of Delaney’s memory lapse, and during that time, the doctors and her family had worked together to determine that it was a good news/bad news scenario.  The good news was that there was only about a week of her life she didn’t remember living.  The bad news was that she lost a week of her life. 

Medical professionals adamantly insisted it wasn’t that unusual given the severity of the blow to her head.  Oftentimes with mild brain trauma, the mind lost information that was in transit from short-term to long-term memory.  It was just "one of those things", and she may or may not regain that which was lost.  It was all up to Delaney and the way her brain healed. 

Other than the inconvenience of having missed a slice of her life, she was declared to be fit and mentally sound.  She had the ability to retain post-accident information and the headache was controlled with over the counter medication, so they released her the day after Jon and Dorothea visited the hospital.  Her only instructions were to take it easy and spend a couple of days with a friend or family member - just in case.

Jon gathered that the duty fell to Petra more than anyone, since she’d been diligent in providing him with periodic text message updates.  Some he responded to, like "good news" for one that said the headaches finally seemed to be gone.  Others, he didn’t even acknowledge receipt of.   There were only so many times he could say he was sorry, and besides that, his ego was irrationally bruised. 

Seconds after consciously deciding he wanted to be more than a casual acquaintance with Delaney, she revealed that she didn’t even know they were acquaintances.   The week she lost from her memory encompassed his flower delivery and everything that followed, leaving her with zero recollection of having met, spoken to or spent time with him.

Aside from the bullshit wounded male pride, this crazy twist of fate also forced him to reconsider what the fuck he was doing.  

What he knew about Delaney….  Hell, he still didn’t even know her last name.  What he did know might fill a single shot glass.  She oozed self-confidence, would try to charm a charging rhino and had a mysterious life tragedy that was referenced again at the hospital on Sunday when Petra said something about blessings in disguise making this Mother’s Day worse yet better. 

Jon purposely didn’t ask for clarification of the cryptic remark.

He actually felt like he knew more about Petra, even though he’d gained that knowledge against his will.  The more polished twin always made a point of never crossing the line of impropriety when it came to him.  He was certain she would never ask him outright for anything, but she was a fucking pro at dropping bait that lead in the direction she wanted him to go.  

So far, he hadn’t seen anything genuine from the woman that Delaney didn’t inspire – specifically, embarrassment and aggravation  – and it made Jon hesitant to talk to her today.  Not knowing what was on her agenda meant he'd by flying blind and that was not his favorite thing.

He'd almost consider blocking her if she wasn't his only link to Delaney.  

It made more sense to just get Delaney’s number and use it to check on her recovery first-hand.  He acknowledged that, and if she even vaguely remembered that they knew one another, he might have gone that route.  Under the circumstances, it made him feel like a fucking stalker and it turned out he didn’t like being a stalker any more than he liked being a stalkee.     

That left him stuck with Petra to get the information he wanted.

As such, he checked his watch and found it was the exact time John Shanks should be arriving, which meant it would be twenty minutes before he arrived fashionably late.  Jon was alone in his Jersey studio and not feeling particularly inspired to write, so he stabbed his phone screen to see what Petra wanted.

“Jon.  Thank you for calling."

“Sure,” he responded neutrally to the chipper greeting.  “What’s up?”

“Can you give me just two seconds?  Let me grab my Starbucks order and I'll find a quiet corner.”

“Yeah.”

He tapped his heel to a silent tune that had been haunting him as of late, leaning his head back to look at the ceiling.

“Sorry about that,” she apologized.  "Ma's been staying with Delaney this afternoon, and they wanted me to bring something back.”

“It's fine.  What's up?”  Yes, Jon was repeating himself, but idle phone chitchat wasn't his thing and he'd like to move this along.

“Well... I've had some time to think this afternoon.”  The connection must be bad, because Petra sounded strangely unsure of herself.  “The doctors say if Delaney's going to recover her memory, it will probably happen sooner rather than later.  Not that she cares.  Time is marching on and so is she, happily making clay pots while her employees take care of the shop for a few days.   As she says, ‘it’s only one week out of thousands’.  My idiot sister might not realize she’s lost something priceless, but I do and it’s killing me.”

Okay, so it wasn’t a bad connection.  The fragility to her voice was actually a real and new thing that had him leaning leaning forward to fidget uncomfortably with slides on the board.

“Not to be an insensitive asshole, but what’s this got to do with me?”

The pause was brief but pregnant before she shed the vulnerability in favor of her usual poise.  “I had a brainstorm that might coax Delaney’s memory back, but it relies on your generosity.”

There went the idea that she’d never ask him for anything outright.  Oh, well.  This was more familiar footing, anyway, and Jon abandoned the assortment of controls to recline in his chair and hook an arm over its back. 

“How much generosity?”

The second hand on his wall clock ticked three times – almost four – before the answer came.

“Can she go to another soundcheck?  Just her, not me,” came the hurried clarification.  “I still have my memories, but my thought is that the setting might stir something for her.  The experience was so distinctive and surreal that, if she’s put in the situation again, her brain is bound to have an ‘a-ha!’ moment and unlock the vault.”

“Again, not to be an asshole, but what if there is no ‘a-ha!’ moment?”

The rich sigh suggested Petra didn’t really want to consider the option and she thought him an asshole for making her do it.  That was okay by him.  He didn’t mind being the bad guy, because she needed to be prepared for the possibility.  Doing it now was better than the inevitable drama that would unfold when his damn rehearsal turned out to be just another rehearsal instead of a séance for dead memories.

“If there isn’t, then so be it.  At least she’ll have one priceless experience to relive in her old age.”

Jon put an ankle on the opposite knee and used the leverage of his foot to rock in the ergonomic chair while he pondered her request. 

It appealed to him on multiple levels, the first and foremost being that it gave him non-stalker access to Delaney.  He needed that chance re-establish himself as a person instead of a celebrity, because his inner barbarian didn't care about the measly shot glass of knowledge they had about her.  His baser self was still fully on board for claiming the little florist in the most elemental way, and it presented a problem since civilized Jon had no interest in fucking a random fan.  Sadly, that’s all Delaney was in her current state. 

He’d long ago lost interest in having sex with women who referred to him by his full name or were eager to perform unnatural sex acts just to get in his bed.  It was fun for a while, but being a status symbol got old about the time he heard a woman was selling his pubic hair to the highest bidder.     

It was okay if a girl liked Bon Jovi and was a fan of his work, but catching Jon’s interest nowadays involved more than having big tits and a tight ass.  His turn-ons included someone who thought of him not as "JonBonJovi" but  "Jon" and saw him as a man as opposed to a fancy fuck toy.  Most importantly, she would be open and honest before, during and after orgasm.  No games. 

He believed Delaney fit that bill.  She did last week, anyway, and indulging her sister’s plan would provide the opportunity to re-establish that notion.   Jon would like to not only grant that opportunity but also take it a step further in pursuit of his personal agenda.

“Hello?  Jon?”

“My tour’s almost over,” he reminded shortly.

“Yes, I know.  Two shows in Montreal.  That’s why I felt a sense of urgency in asking.” 

Jon’s foot dropped to the floor so that he could lean on the padded rail around the control board.  This deal might suit his purposes as well as it did hers, but it was time to get real with Delaney’s sister and call a spade a spade.

“Tell me why you’re really asking, Petra.  Is this some backhanded way of getting an all-expenses paid trip and VIP experience?  You think I’ll offer up a private plane, hotel and all that because you mention Delaney’s accident and ask for soundcheck?”

“No!”  The heat of her denial was authentic enough and only got hotter.  “Believe any goddamn thing you want about me, Mister Bon Jovi.  Call me a gold digger, an opportunist or a motherfucking vulture – see if I give a rat’s rosy red ass.  The one thing you’d better believe is that I love my sister more than anything else in this godforsaken world. 

“Do I want to kill her?  Does she make me crazy?  Hell, yes!   Every day, but she’s mine, and for one night in Madison Square Garden, she was Cinderella at the freeping ball!  I’m a cold-hearted bitch, but not cold-hearted enough to let her leave that memory behind without a fight. 

“Take soundcheck and go fuck yourself with it, as far as I’m concerned.  Just don’t be a prick and deny Delaney because you don’t like me.”

Well, I like Pottymouth Petra a helluva lot better than Piranha Petra.

“’Cinderella at the freeping ball’?” Jon drawled with amusement, feeling more at ease now that the smoke and mirrors were gone. 

Petra, however, didn’t share that sense of ease and tersely bit, “Her words, not mine.”

“No fucking kidding.  Why doesn’t she cuss like the rest of New York?”

“Because she’s a nutty little kook,” Delaney’s sister huffed before sniffling quietly.  Jesus Christ, was she actually crying?  He would’ve said yes until she spouted off with a gruff, “Listen, what’s the deal here?  I lose my shit and suddenly you want to chat?”

“You say ‘lose your shit’, I say ‘act like a real goddamn person’.  Don’t give me the politician’s wife routine anymore, alright?  I hate that phony bullshit.”

“I…  Uh…  O-okay.”

In truth, even if he didn't like the way she operated, Petra managed to pluck at Jon's conscience.  Delaney had thanked him for giving her memories on at least three separate occasions.  Hell, he'd dedicated a song to her about making a memory because of those references.  Now she was without all of it.

Well, fuck that.  He might not be in a position to solve the problem, but he could sure as hell alleviate it.

“Good.”  He spun the chair and stretched out to grab the notebook at the other end of the board.  A pen came out of the coffee cup in the windowsill, and he switched ears to be able to write.  “Now that we’ve dispensed with the polite façades, let’s talk logistics.”

“Logistics?”

“Yeah.”  She was shell-shocked or some fucking thing, he guessed.  “I assume it’s not a good idea for Delaney to travel alone?”

“It would make me feel better if she didn’t.”

“You and me both,” he agreed.  Head injuries weren’t something to be fucked around with and putting her in danger wasn’t on the program.  “Delaney’s friend of Asian heritage.  The one who came to the first show.  You get along with her?”

“I get along with everyone,” Petra informed him flatly.  “But Pearl thinks I have a stick up my ass.”

Jon just became a fan of Pearl, whose name he jotted down.  “Sorry, lady, but she’s right.  Think Pearl could make the trip to Montreal?”

“I don’t have any idea, but I can ask.”

“Do that.  Assuming she can, will transportation be an issue?”

“No,” she instantly assured.  “I’ll pay to send them first-class if that’s what it takes.”

So that whole “just her, not me” thing wasn’t just lip service.  

“Then here’s the offer.  The three of you arrange your own transportation, and I’ll have somebody take care of the hotel for Thursday and Friday night.”  That was for his convenience, not theirs, and he scratched it down under Pearl’s name along with the next item for his convenience.  “I can’t promise you show tickets.  You can try and find some or watch from side-stage.”

“This all isn’t necessary, you know.  I only asked for-“

“No politically correct bullshit, remember?”

“Uh, right.”  She cleared her throat and tried again.  “This is fucking amazing.”

“Better,” Jon chuckled, thinking that he might end up liking the potty-mouthed twin yet.  “Sandy will be in touch about soundcheck.”

“I still have her number.”

Of course she did.  “That’s it, then.  Hotel, two nights side-stage, one soundcheck.”

“It’s more than anyone could hope for.  Thank you.  Truly.  Thank you.”

“Yeah, well, don’t be too grateful,” he advised, tossing down the pen and leaning back in his chair.  “I’m going to be asking for a couple of things in return.”

“Oh.”  That one had thrown Petra for an obvious loop, but she recovered quickly, as he’d known she would.  “Okay, sure.  Ask away.”

All but one of Jon’s meager demands weren’t of immediate importance nor were they negotiable.  They could be put aside until he was ready to collect in Montreal.  For today, though…

“There’s only one for now,” Jon quietly informed her.  “I want you to tell Delaney something for me…”

16 - Starting All Over

“Why does she not wake up?”

“Be patient, Stelios.  My Laney won’t let me go through Mother’s Day without seein’ those beautiful Irish eyes.”

“She’s probably sleeping through it on purpose.”

“Petra!  Why you say such a thing?”

“Because it makes me feel less helpless to blame her, okay, Papa?  Being mad at her gives me something fucking constructive to do.”

“Don’t you be speakin’ to your Papa that way, young lady.”

“Well, Jesus H. Christ, Ma.  It’s been eighteen fucking hours.  I’m sorry that I’m getting a little edgy.”

“We all are, daughter, but don’t use that language at your Mama.”

“You realize Ma is the one who taught me to swear?”

“And you were a damned excellent pupil.  Now stick a sock in it.  Stelios, where is Max?”

“He went to get coffee and sandwiches with Benedictus.”

“I hope they bring back chocolate.”

“You know chocolate puts weight on your ass, Petra.”

“Yes, Mother, I do, but I don’t really fucking care today.”

“Fine.  Eat it, even though one pound looks like ten on you.  Where are my grandsons?”

“Upper West Side with their Grandmother Carpenter for Mother’s Day.  I didn’t see the point in everyone sitting around here.  Someone might as well enjoy the day.”

It was like trying to sleep through the Super Bowl in a sleeping bag on the fifty-yard line.  As far as entertainment value went, on a scale of one to ten, it was about a two.  The throbbing of her head dropped that by at least five points, bringing the overall experience to a negative three and making Delaney cranky.

“Oh my God, do you people ever stop talking?” she mumbled through dry lips, tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth.

“Holy shit, she’s awake.  Ma, she’s awake!  And just in time.”

“Yes, Petra, I heard.  Go get the nurse.” 

Delaney fought against the heavy weight of her eyelids, but it was no use.  They weren’t budging .  She was left unable see the face belonging to the familiar maternal touch that enveloped her hand.  There was no visual identity to confirm that her father’s meaty paws enfolded her other one, or that the squeeze of her shin came from Petra before scurrying footsteps carried her away. 

But she knew.  There was no mistaking her family.  The only one missing was brother Max, who was evidently fetching fat-inducing chocolate.

“Laney Girl,” her mother’s gentle lilt commanded with a thread of steel.  “You’re gonna need to be openin’ those eyes.  You hear me?”

“Tryin’.”

“You give your Papa and Mama new gray hairs, kardia mou.  It is not good for an old man to worry this way.”

“Sorry, Papa.”  Even those few syllables were a struggle.  The skin inside Delaney’s mouth stuck to her teeth, making it a challenge to form coherent words.  “Water?”

Her mother’s hand relinquished its hold, and almost before Delaney released it was gone, a straw bumped her bottom lip.  “Sip, darlin’.”  

The sensitive, dehydrated skin inside her mouth absorbed the water with glee, and Delaney savored the teaspoon of liquid by gingerly swishing it into all the parched recesses before allowing it to slide down an equally dry throat.  She would have taken another greedy gulp if the straw wasn’t taken away.

“Not too much.”

She murmured agreement and shifted her head, the hair making an obnoxiously loud scratching sound against a pillow that was as comfortable as a pile of saltines.  The pressure incited a pained wince but didn’t do anything to pop the eyelids that were superglued shut.  Why couldn’t she open her eyes?  Ma had said something about a nurse, which suggested a hospital, but Delaney was having trouble coming up with the scene that put her here.

“What hap’ned?”

One of Papa’s heavy hands stroked along her forearm while the other cradled her fingers like a butterfly – as if he were afraid of crushing them.  “There was accident, koukla mou.  You fell.  Hit your head.  Not wake up.”

She still didn’t have much interest in waking.  With one of her parents on each side, creating a sense of comfort and safety, it would be effortless to slide back into sleep. 

“But she’s awake now, aren’t you Laney Girl?”

“Mm.”

The soft, fuzzy darkness beckoned to her.  There was no excruciating pain there, only peace and rest.   It was so much less effort than trying to pry apart her upper and lower lids.  She’d nearly decided to let herself drift away again when there was a stirring of air that indicated a presence other than Ma or Papa.

“Well, I guess a heart attack is more time-sensitive than Delaney waking up,” Petra announced with a lightness that even semi-conscious Delaney recognized as artificial.  “We won’t have medical attention for a few minutes but look who I found in the hallway!”

Fiona Giannopoulos’s hand slid from her daughter’s with a quiet gasp as Delaney registered a multitude of muffled footsteps in the tiled room.  There was her sister and at least one other person; perhaps, two.  It could be that Max and Benny had returned safely from their food-seeking mission, but Papa’s gentle throat-clearing cough was often a sign of discomfort.  His son and brother wouldn’t prompt discomfort. 

“Hello,” came an unrecognized voice, its pitch and volume appropriate for that of a hospital.  “We don’t mean to intrude but wanted to see how Delaney was doing.  Petra said she was awake now.”

“Only just.” 

“Laney,” Petra crooned, taking their mother’s vacated spot on the left side of the bed.  She stroked Delaney’s hair as their parents spoke with the visitor in undertones that made it difficult to decipher the conversation – particularly since Petra was filling her ear with a quiet, “You have company.  Wake up and see who’s here.” 

“Don’t care,” she muttered crankily.  “My head hurts.”

“Yes, you do care,” her sister contradicted with a sweet kindness that made Delaney wonder about the extent of her injuries.  “I’ll go rob the pharmacy at gunpoint for pain meds if you’ll just open your eyes and say hello.  I promise it will make you feel better.”

She must be dying if Petra had assumed the role of doting twin.  This was very, very bad.  Had God, Jesus and the Holy Ghost arrived to act as Delaney’s escort team to the other side?  Is that what would make her feel better?  Dying? 

Common sense would dictate that there wasn’t a Heavenly trio waiting to Uber her to the pearly gates, but Delaney’s common sense was still in a deep slumber.  It was irrational curiosity and fear that forced her to creak open unwilling eyelids just far enough to survey the room’s occupants. 

There was Papa on her right, as expected, but looking so troubled that it made her heart hurt.  She clasped his hand in reassurance and persuaded lethargic eyes to meander past him to the end of the bed.  There she found her mother with a dour expression that indicated Fiona was unhappy, but the excruciating pressure inside her skull had Delaney moving on without asking why.  

There were two figures stationed behind her mother, just inside the door.  The first was a man wearing a dark ball cap, jacket, t-shirt and jeans, and he had both hands tucked into his front pockets.  The woman was similarly attired, but her t-shirt was white and both arms were folded across the waistband of her jeans.  

Delaney let her gaze creep upward, squinting at first one face and then the other she could establish their identities.  Then, the eyes that had been so reluctant to open went as big and round as New York bagels, fueled by her rapidly pumping heart.  If she was dying, it might be now, because that acceleration in heartbeat also carried streaked pain beyond the right half of Delaney’s skull and into her forehead.  It felt lethal. 

Cheese on a cracker.  I really am gonna kick the bucket.  Granting a dying wish is the only reason Jon Bon Jovi would be in my hospital room.

It didn't take a genius to pinpoint the moment Delaney recognized Jon.  Those funky gray eyes of hers tripled in size and a pale complexion deteriorated to chalky in the instant before high color lit her cheeks.  Her usual air of sassitude was notably absent, replaced by shock and pain that had his stomach lurching.

He knew letting Petra coerce him in here was a shitty idea.

When she came dashing into the hall demanding medical attention for the sister who had miraculously just emerged from her “life-threatening coma”, Jon should’ve hooked an arm around Dorothea’s waist and hightailed it out of the hospital.  Regrettably, he’d barely had the thought and was unable to follow through with it before Piranha Petra caught sight of them.  The overly polite tongue-lashing she was issuing over this “fucking place’s staffing shortage” came to an abrupt halt so that she could swoop in with effusive greetings and the assurance that Delaney would be thrilled to see them. 

The girl at the desk whose ass-chewing got cut short was thrilled to see them.  Delaney was not.

The magnetic spitfire whom his horny subconscious had spent the past three nights fucking into oblivion zipped her attention right past him.  From the way she pulled the thin blanket over her like a coat of body armor, it was as though she knew about those filthy dreams and was embarrassed by his presence here – accompanied by his wife.  Without ever fully meeting his eyes, she directed her anguished gaze toward Dorothea.    

“You… were in the ambulance with me.”

“That’s right.  My name's Dorothea.” She stepped around the mother to deposit a little pot of mini roses they’d brought as a get-well sentiment.  “How are you feeling, Delaney?”

She started to shake her rumpled head but thought better of it, stopping suddenly to squash both eyes tight and clutch the hand her father still had twined in hers.  Jon could almost feel her disorientation as she cautiously eked open one eye at a time.

“I’ve been better,” was her slow admission.  “Thank you for… whatever you did while I was out of it.”

“You’re welcome.  Thank you for your kindness as well.”

Spiky lashes batted slowly as Delaney leaned back into the tiny hospital pillow as though stabilizing the position of her head would keep the room on an even keel.  “I’m sorry.  I’m having a little trouble piecing words… thoughts… things together.  Not really sure what you mean.”

“That’s okay,” the ever-soothing Dorothea assured.  His wife was much better with people than he was.  “You were just very complimentary of my sons when delivering flowers to me yesterday.  It was pleasantly unexpected.”

“Oh.  I didn’t remember.”

It was hard to watch Delaney this way, and Jon winced as her lids fell shut in a visible attempt to recall the scene. 

“It’s okay, Laney.”  Petra absently smoothed Delaney’s disheveled hair to reinforce the reassurance, but  neither the words nor gesture could camouflage the blatant worry that she tried to keep hidden from her sister.  “Don’t you think you should say hello to Jon, too?”

That subtle coaching did the trick.  Hesitant eyes finally connected with his, delivering the jolt of electricity that Jon not only had come to like but was starting to crave.  Every time he saw her, it was the same yet different, and he wanted her a little more each time. 

Dave and Matt could not find out, but he was ready to own what his subconscious had known almost from the start.  There, in that moment – with her in palpable pain, looking battered and broken and with Dorothea standing at his side – Jon accepted the foregone conclusion that Delaney would be the next woman in his bed. 

The timing was eight steps beyond fucked up, but making the decision brought with it a wave of serenity that he hadn’t known in months.  He would give Delaney new memories beyond maracas and music, and she’d do the same for him. 

“Hello, Mr. Bon Jovi.”  His future lover leaned forward and primly extended a hand, her eyes devoid of any discernable thought or emotion.  “I have no idea how my sister lured you here, but it’s an honor to meet you.  I’ve been a fan for years, and your music has meant a lot to me.  We’re looking forward to seeing you in concert.”

Lightly folding her fingers in his, Jon barely registered the crackle of electricity created by their scraping palms.  It was the first time since meeting these sisters that he sought Petra’s eyes instead of Delaney’s, and when he found them, his thoughts were confirmed in their depths. 

Any doubt he may have had was erased by her gently broached, “Laney.  The concerts were last week.  We went to soundcheck and a party afterward.”

“What?  No.  That’s impossible,” the wounded twin declared with quiet defiance.  “Those shows aren’t until May ninth and tenth.  Today’s only the…  What’s today?”

“Today is Mother’s Day, kardia mou.  May the thirteenth,” her father supplied despondently, now realizing the same thing that Petra and Jon did.    

New memories hell. She doesn’t have any fucking memories of me at all.

There was a whole new can of awkward for Matt to chew on.