3 - The Delivery

Jon heard the ominous question and paused just outside the dressing room door.  There was no telling who had managed to sneak in, and history told him he probably didn’t want to know.  He’d had his share of unexpected visitors over the years, and there weren’t many whom he remembered fondly. 

That left him hovering in the proverbial shadows as a woman yelled, “Holy sheep dip, dude!  Scare a girl, why don’t you?”

“Sheep dip”?  What the fuck?

Laying a hand over his mouth, he smothered a grin.  He’d thought himself to be in the middle of Midtown Manhattan, but her country girl obscenity made him want to peek out the door in search of nearby farmland.

“How the hell did you get in here?” Steely-voiced Matt wasn’t nearly as amused by the G-rated swearing. 

“Same way you did.  Through the door.”

Okay.  This I gotta see.

Between the sheep dip and her tongue-in-cheek attitude that was free of both remorse and intimidation, Jon’s curiosity was piqued.  Hovering in the doorway instead of outside it brought his brother into view and there, standing in front of him and poised for a fight, was Jon’s “visitor”. 

I’ll be damned.

With her chin fearlessly tipped and challenge glittering in her eyes, she wasn’t the strapping farmgirl he’d conjured in his mind.  The little spitfire’s head came to roughly the center of Matt’s chest, and she didn’t look any more intimidated than she’d sounded.

There were rings on nearly every finger of the hands hooked over hips covered in some of the sexiest  denim he’d ever seen.  Layered on like a second skin, her jeans showcased the swell of those hips and their enticing curve into gymnast’s thighs – compact, muscular and capable of crushing walnuts.  That characteristic and her diminutive height were the only features she shared with the US Women’s Gymnastics team, however.  Her chunky, funky gold necklace lay against a bustline that could cause a concussion in a tumbling routine.

Mary Lou Retton only dreamed of having tits like those.

“I’m not asking a third time.  Let’s go.”  Matt was never amused by breaches in security, but he was even less so now.  One beefy paw wrapped around Mary Lou Buxom’s bicep, eliciting a scowl that was as shady as her eyes were bright.

“Okay, first of all, you need to keep your goon paws to yourself.”  Extracting herself from the grip with a look that dared him to touch her again, she stepped back and pointed up at his face.  “Secondly, if you’d come at this whole thing with a little less of a jerky attitude, it would’ve gone a whole lot smoother.  Your customer service skills suck.”

Momentarily distracted from the fact that his pre-show rituals had been intruded upon, Jon folded his arms and propped one shoulder against the doorway.  He obviously wasn’t the only entertainer in the building tonight.  She was audaciously affable in the way she pleasantly delivered the ball-busting remarks.  It was hard to tell if she was pissed and playing nice to stay out of trouble or just that unconcerned about the consequences of breaking and entering.

Little excessive on the legalese there, aren’t you Matlock?

Probably, but no more so than his younger brother/head of security. 

“Good thing I’m not in customer service.” 

By his tone, Matt didn’t appear any more ruffled over the encounter than the diminutive diva was, but his clenched jaw told a different story.  He was irritated as all hell because he couldn’t just shove her face-first down the hallway and out of the backstage area.  That’s what he would’ve done with any man copping this kind of attitude, but the gender gap created a different set of rules.   Women were… different, and that difference is what had him reaching for the walkie-talkie on his belt.

Jon could’ve sworn she sighed something else about sheep – or was it freep? – before placing a stilling hand over Matt’s to stifle the call for reinforcement.

“Let’s start this over, shall we?” she offered with a smile meant to invite complacence.  “I apologize for the inopportune timing that had me delivering this stunning assortment of floral bounty when you arrived.  My bad.  Now, if you could kindly step aside, I’ll just be on my way.”

Jon’s eyes followed along with Matt’s to the bunch of flowers on the table.  Those definitely weren’t there before soundcheck, so the woman’s story was probably legit.  They both knew it, but legit or not, the dimples were a wasted effort.  Matt had seen his share of distracting body parts over the years and was immune to it all.

“You missed your chance for that.” 

He carefully removed her hand and was in the process of bringing the radio to his mouth when Jon briefly entertained the idea of intervening.  She obviously wasn’t there to cause trouble or stir shit.  Letting her go on her way was the easiest thing to do, and he was about to suggest that when one of the Garden security guards joined the party.

“I’m sorry, sir, but have you seen-  There you are.”  Having answered his own question, the older man sidled past Jon with an accusatory finger pointed at the delivery girl.  “Your two minutes are up.  If you don’t leave right now, I have instructions to physically remove you.”

Jon watched in fascination as her eyes became a paler shade of whatever color they were.  It was almost like lightning lit her from the inside out as she pointed her own damning finger at the guard. 

“Let me clue you in, Stan,” she forewarned in the same tone of pleasant hostility Matt had gotten.  “You’re not going to lay a mother flocking finger on me, and you’re about as intimidating as Deputy Dog.  I would’ve been long gone if ‘Roid Rage here wasn’t blocking my way to the door, so feel free to tell your boss that.”

Mother flocking?  Did she really say that?

Lightning flashed behind her irises again, this time in Matt’s direction.  “We done here?  Good.” 

Without waiting for a response, the tiny terror shoved past the man who was easily a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than she.  Matt’s face held fierce lines of displeasure, but he let her sashay past both him and the Garden guy. 

Jon instinctively went from lounging to standing so that there was room for her to pass, but she didn’t glide by him as expected.  Dark hair fell down her back as she lifted those pale eyes to his.  He didn’t see the lightning strike reflected in their depths this time, but he sure as hell felt it when their gazes collided.  The jolt of electricity was just as real as the one Ben Franklin channeled with his kite and key, and its intensity rattled Jon. 

“I was really pumped about this delivery,” she told him with a regretful shake of the head.  “But, honestly, I’m not sure you were worth the trouble.  Enjoy the flowers.”

Still a little dumbstruck, it took him a second to realize she was holding him accountable for whatever the hell just happened here. 

“Hey,” he beckoned to her swiftly retreating backside.  Later, he would blame this out-of-character moment on… something, but for now Jon just wanted to know, “What would make it worth the trouble?”

Well-loved sneakers skidded to a halt, and she peered back at him.  Her eyes had darkened a bit, but maybe that’s because they were squinted with skepticism.  “Is that a serious question?”

Was it?  He didn’t really know, but since it came out of his mouth, there was no choice but to own it.  “Yeah.”

“I…”  The hair he’d thought was sienna or black now glinted with a hint of purple in the bright hallway as her head tipped to one side.  “I don’t often find myself speechless, but there are so many outrageous things going through my mind that it’s hard to distinguish between appropriate and inappropriate.”

Stuffing both hands in his pockets, the corners of Jon’s mouth slid upward.  Even this woman’s filter was unfiltered.  Given her performance thus far, he was beyond curious as to what was on that list of outrageous things. 

“Don’t distinguish.  Just pick one.”

“Excuse me, sir, but I need to get her out of here so I can go back to my post.”

The security guard – Stan – that had faded to the background along with Matt, joined them in the hallway and made quick strides in her direction.  He was on the verge of capturing the tiny woman’s elbow for a forcible escort when her pupils flashed with a new barrage of internal lightning.

Stan took the hint and didn’t make physical contact.  There was just a gruff, “Let’s go.”

Rolling her eyes at Jon, she leisurely pivoted on one heel and flipped a hand up in the air.   The plethora of silver rings shone in the light when she waved, giving the illusion that lightning found a new outlet in her fingertips.  It also made Jon think he’d been reading too much Greek mythology lately, because she reminded him of a female version of Zeus.

Zeusette?  Zeusina?

He was spared the pain of finding an appropriate feminism when the dainty deity called back over her shoulder, “A lusty look would make it worth the trouble.  Or a Maserati.  A song at tonight’s show.  Embarrassing admiration of the flowers.  That’s an excerpt from the appropriate list.  Take your pick.  I’m not fussy.”

Jon’s bark of laughter echoed off the cinderblock as she again jerked her elbow out of Stan’s reach.  Never had he seen someone so small yet so much in charge, and he wondered if women got little man syndrome.

“I heard laughing.  Loud laughing.  What did I miss?  Better yet, did we catch it on video?” His keyboardist, David Bryan, popped out of his dressing room across the hall and was surveying the scene.   Tossing his chin toward the departing pair, he added, “And who’s the midget?”

“I’m thinkin’ she’s the Rock Hall of Fame,” Matt drawled as he filled Jon’s doorway with his bulky frame.

Rock Hall of Fame?

Dave posed a more colorful version of Jon’s question as the woman in question disappeared from sight.  “You’re speaking Greek, there, Mount Olympus.  What da fuck you talkin’ ‘bout?”

One burly shoulder lifted in a dismissive shrug.  “Since he and Dorothea decided to divorce, I’ve only seen big brother smile like that once – at the induction ceremony in Cleveland.”

“Bullshit.”

“Ahhhh.”  Blonde curls bobbed agreeably, despite Jon’s denial.  Dave was obviously accepting the observation as sage wisdom and grinned.  “Good news, buddy!  If she’s the Hall of Fame, you’ve already been invited inside.”

Both Jon’s brother and keyboardist cackled like old women at the ridiculous innuendo, reaching around him to fist bump, but Jon let his smile fade into impassiveness.  His band members and immediately family were the only ones who knew about his impending divorce.  Not even the crew was aware of what loomed on the horizon, but these two jack-offs had known for months, meaning that the mourning period had passed.  They’d moved on and decided, because he was effectively single, that he should/would revert to being the oversexed kid he was back in the Slippery When Wet days. 

Not happening.  He was fifty-fucking-six years old, not twenty-six, which meant he thought with something other than his dick.   At the very least, it meant that his dick was more selective now.   Mary Lou Zeusette Delivery Girl was good looking, but she didn’t stimulate an instant hard-on.

Besides that, he and Dorothea were still living in the same apartment, for God’s sake.  She’d respected his wishes by agreeing not to file until the last tour date, which saved him the headache of having media gossip bullshit overshadow his tour.  He would return that respect by not canoodling around while they maintained the appearance of being happily married. 

Tapping Matt’s bicep with the back of his hand, he silently commanded his overgrown younger brother to let him by. 

“What?”  Dave’s voice followed him into the dressing room from the hall.  “You sayin’ you don’t like her?  She’d be a helluva rebound girl.”

“There’s no like or dislike.  She was just a delivery girl.”

Grabbing a seat on the sofa, he reached for his notepad.  Jon had to get this setlist done, but it didn’t stop him from glancing at the card’s message as he uncapped the Sharpie. 

Welcome back to The

Garden!

Congratulations on two

sold out nights.

From your friends at MSG

Flowers weren’t really his thing, but as far as flowers went, he supposed they were nice.  Pretty without being feminine, they made the table a little less stark, anyway.  That was as close to embarrassing adoration as he could muster, and there would be no Maserati, so that left him with the lusty look and song. 

“Hey,” Dave speculated.  “If she’s the rebound girl and the Hall, you could ‘bounce’ your balls in her exhibit hall.”

Jesus Christ.  Jon’s friends were never going to grow up.

Next post: Saturday, August 4th