84 - I Just Don't Know

“Hi, Mom.”

Delaney absorbed every feature of the face she hadn't laid eyes on in over five years.  Yes, she'd seen Poppy more recently than that, but not with this face.  This was the face of the girl she’d supported through midnight study sessions, broken hearts, and every other imaginable teenage milestone.  It was sweet and familiar instead of filled with hate, and for that reason, Delaney found it more beautiful than a supermodel's.    

She wore a stylish polka-dotted top with her leggings and sandals, and as Jon said, had auburn tips and dark roots to her hair.  There were hints of creases at the edges of her mouth and eyes, and expertly highlighted cheekbones were more prominent.  The makeup was applied with a mature hand instead of a teenager, but this was still her Poppy.  The one she’d missed so dearly. 

Finally. 

You will not cry.  You’re stronger than that.

“Hello, Poppy.”

A shadow fleeted through eyes that were an exact replica of her own, and her daughter quietly corrected, “Zoi.”

“I didn’t name you Zoi.  I named you Penelope,” she blurted before thinking. 

“Then call me Penelope, if you have to.  Just not Poppy.”

Great Ceasar’s ghost, Delaney.  Don’t pick an argument in the first ten seconds.

“I’m sorry.  I’m just…  This is unexpected.  I’m flustered.”  Jon’s thumb skated in the curve of her spine, and the gesture wasn't so much soothing as a reminder.  “Jon, this is my daughter Penelope.”

“Zoi,” he greeted quietly.  “Good to see you.” 

“Hi again, Mr. Bon Jovi.”

“Just Jon.”

The hair swayed against a fragile jawline as Poppy – Penelope – ducked her head in acknowledgement.  “Jon, Mom… This is Oliver.  My boyfriend.” 

The young man who stood behind Penelope much as Jon stood behind Delaney finally stepped forward to speak and offer his hand.  “Ma’am.  I’ve heard a lot about you.”

He’s too old for her.

Then again, Penelope was twenty-four, not nineteen.  The hipster sporting a full dark beard and high-and-tight hairstyle whose top was held away from his face by a plethora of shiny hair product was probably not much older than that.  His urban work boots, lightly patterned button-down and jeans could be found on fifty-percent of the mid-twenties age bracket.  He was age-appropriate in every way.

“Wish I could say the same,” she apologized  with a tight smile, releasing the hand that wasn’t quite as well groomed as the rest of him.  The kid was no stranger to work, it seemed. 

“How about we sit?”

“Oh.  Right.”  Shooting Jon a grateful look for the murmured suggestion as Oliver took a backward step, Delaney gestured to the corner opposite her desk.  The scarred, round table and four chairs served as a makeshift lunch area that was oddly uncluttered today with nothing but a handful of napkins and plastic forks piled in the center.  “Please sit.  Would you like some coffee?  Water?  Something?”

Penelope gave a negative shake of her head as Oliver scooted a chair close to the one she chose, and Jon did the same, situating his seat close enough to Delaney's for their thighs to touch when he sat.   It was one couple across from the other as the younger woman folded hands on the worn wooden surface and one of her boyfriend’s palms subtly draped her thigh beneath it.    

“As much as I dread this, the inane pleasantries are worse, Mom.  You look good, I look good, we both obviously have protective partners who also look good.  There.  Now can we just… talk, please?”

“Okay," she agreed with a voice that would barely accommodate her.  Her throat had tried to close off at the odd comfort of her daughter's familiar no-nonsense approach.  "I guess you'd like to start, since you came here?  Which I’m glad you did, by the way.”

Jon squeezed her knee with either a show of support or silent message to get her act together. She couldn’t tell which without looking at him, and she was afraid to.  There was an irrational fear that if her eyes left Penelope, even for an instant, that the girl would disappear as a figment of imagination.

“You might change your mind about that,” warned the young woman whose tone revealed to Delaney that she wasn’t the only one experiencing fear.   

Realization that her self-confident daughter was afraid of what reaction this news would bring is what galvanized Delaney into Mama Bear mode.  Whatever was said couldn’t be any worse than what they already suspected – what they would somehow work through – and letting the uncertainty linger was unnecessarily cruel. 

“No, I won’t,” she resolved evenly into the eyes that were a mirror-image of her own. “Nothing you say will make me sorry you came, Penelope.  Nothing.”

There was a slow blink.  And then another as the subliminal message took root.  “You already know, don’t you?”

“Know what?”

She may know it in her heart, but there was no way she would put those words in Penelope’s mouth.  They had to come out all on their own, and there was a slight tremble to the girl’s chin before she steadied it to confirm Delaney’s worst fear. 

“That I killed Violet.”

It was funny how such a horrific truth could instill such serenity.  She’d thought Jon’s unconditional acceptance of her dilapidated soul was the sweetest peace she’d ever know, but this…. 

Nothing compared to the tranquility that came with snapping that last, long-sought piece of puzzle into place.  With the full picture revealed, Delaney was no longer left floundering helplessly in ignorance.  Now she could finally do something to resolve the situation she so desperately hated.    

“You didn’t kill her,” she declared with purpose and authority.  “Whoever laced that heroin with fentanyl killed her.”

“Mother, please.”

“What?  You think I don’t realize you badgered her into taking it?  No, the video Kyle’s stepdad gave me showed that quite clearly, thanks.  You also badgered her into learning how to walk, ride a bike, drive, get an A in History and at least one other accomplishment every day of her life.  That’s what you did, baby.  You challenged Violet to live.”  

Penelope swallowed a groan and rolled frustrated eyes to the young man at her side. 

“Mrs. Gardener,” Oliver solemnly assumed the lead.  “I understand you mean well, but Zoi’s spent a lot of time preparing for this.  There are very specific things she feels the need to say, and I think she’ll be more likely to listen to what you’re saying if she can get those off her chest first.”

His authoritativeness, as respectful as it was, carried the impact of a physical blow.  Delaney physically retreated, withdrawing until Jon’s hand between her shoulder blades wouldn’t allow her to go any further. 

Okay, then.  So maybe this wasn’t her Poppy. 

This was Oliver’s Zoi, and while the two might share a resemblance on the surface, Delaney had just been politely informed that she didn’t know the young woman across the table.  Not really.  She knew when she lost her first tooth, when she started her period and her senior prom date, but as for who Penelope had become as a person?  The cruel truth was that even Jon probably had a better idea than she did.

It was Delaney’s first indication that this might not turn out to be the happily ever after she’d been dreaming of for so long.

“Of course.  Yeah.”  She dipped her chin as Jon’s thumb kneaded the tense spot in her right shoulder.  The man could read her mind, and as appreciative as she was, it didn’t do anything to ease her renewed tension.  “By all means, go ahead.”

Jon silently willed his souley to not close herself off.  She possessed the power to fix this, but not without a contribution from her daughter.  If she didn’t let Penelope try, this would be nothing more than Chicago, take two. 

Delaney needed to be receptive, and on cue, she caught his gaze from the corner of her eye.  A subtle nod and deliberate unclenching of shoulders gave the promise that she would.  It was irrelevant whether she felt his coaching or “heard” it.  She got the message, and he relaxed.

“It’s no great secret that we were mad at you that night,” Penelope launched into her script and withdrew a hand from the table to grasp her boyfriend’s, Jon assumed.  “I’ll be honest.  Now, it seems really stupid and childish, but at the time we were furious that you and Dad didn’t talk to us at all about the divorce.  You just dropped the bomb and expected us to accept it in an instant, when you guys had spent months getting used to the idea.  God, we were pissed.”

Jon gave Delaney serious kudos for biting her tongue.  She wanted so badly to defend herself, but Mou just fisted the hands in her lap and let the girl go on.

“Ironically enough, I thought Violet was going to kill us with the way she was driving.  I didn’t think we’d make it to Kyle’s house without wrapping around a tree or something, so I made up an excuse to stop on the way.  Then, when I got back in the car, I made her let me drive.”

“Where did you stop?”  Delaney wanted to keep her mouth shut and just listen, but she was too agitated to do it.  It ended up being a moot point, though, since her daughter didn’t bother acknowledging that anyone had spoken.

“She was so wound up.  I was upset but Vi….  I thought she was going to give herself a stroke.  You know what a drama queen she could be, and after listening to her go off for a solid hour, I’d had enough.  She needed to chill, so I made her take…”  The sentence faded away, and she inhaled to deliberately finish, “I convinced her it would make her feel better.  I thought one time wouldn’t hurt either of us, then she spilled half of it down the bathroom sink.  There was only enough left for one and she needed it worse than I did.”

Delaney’s heart constricted with an overbearing grief she thought she’d gotten past in the cemetery last week.  That grief was for Violet, and she evidently had a whole separate supply for Penelope.   She’d been living with the guilt of believing she sacrificed for her sister, when she’d actually ended up sacrificing her sister.   She’d lived when they both would’ve died.

It didn’t excuse what she did, but Penelope had paid for that mistake with what must’ve been torturous pain.

“Why’d you turn on your mom?”  Jon quizzed without accusation.  “Why did you lay the blame at her feet?  Had her arrested, for fuck’s sake.”

Lifeless eyes flitted to Jon before shifting to Delaney for a subdued, “I thought it would be easier having her hate me for being a bitch rather than for killing my sister.  Turns out I hated me enough for both of us.  And it took me five years for me to be able to say that.”

Delaney was nauseous.  Sick to her very core with sympathy at what her child had endured – and anger that she’d purposely endured it alone. 

“Can I talk now?”

There was some type of movement under the table, and Delaney presumed that Oliver was offering a physical gesture of support as Penelope squared her shoulders.  “Go ahead, Mom.”

“Were – are – you an addict?  Is that why you sent me away when I came to Chicago?”

“No.  No drugs.  Ever.” she declared with a lifted chin.  “I wasn’t in a good place when you showed up.  It was the first anniversary, and I was already emotional after an ugly therapy session.  I just…  I couldn’t cope with the hopeful look in your eyes, knowing that the least bit of honesty would steal it away.  I did what I had to do to get you out of there.”

There was little emotion in the delivery, but remorse pooled in her daughter’s eyes.  It was a tragic glimmer of promise.   

“We would’ve worked through it, Penelope,” she chided without heat.  “All you did with that restraining order was prolong the pain.”

“I revoked it within a week.”

“You what?”

When Delaney’s jaw went slack, Jon swore silently.  He should’ve told her about this already, but Katya and her damn phone call had upstaged everything.    

“Sorry.  I forgot to mention it last night,” he contritely murmured, assuming responsibility.  “She also dropped the battery charges.”

“He’s right.  The next morning, I told them it was all a misunderstanding, but they wouldn’t release the restraining order until later.”

His Mou wasn’t impressed. 

“Well that’s a lovely gesture that nobody bothered to freeping tell me about.  I’ve spent four years under the assumption that I’d be arrested for coming near you.”

“Mrs. Gardener, if it helps any, I don’t think it was wasted time.  Zoi needed to heal herself before she could face you.”

A petite spine went rigid under Jon’s touch, and while the angle of her head prevented him from seeing her eyes, he would bet anything they’d gone white with a barrage of lightning flashes.

Oh, kid.  You done fucked up.

“No, Oliver,” she countered coldly.  “What Zoi needed was to tell me the truth so we could both heal!  Instead, she was selfish.  She left me to fester in ignorance with my grief and pain until such time that she decided I’d suffered enough.” 

Jon couldn’t find anything about that to disagree with, so he didn’t put himself in the path of her anger. 

Unfazed by the glowering man that was twice her size, Delaney leaned forward to address her daughter directly.  “I would’ve forgiven you.  If you’d given me the freeping chance, I would have told you exactly what I’ve already said – that you didn’t kill Violet.  I would have forgiven you!”

Dead silence reigned for a beat.  Then two.  Then one more before…

“Does that mean you’re not going to forgive me now?”

Okay, now Jon actually felt sorry for the girl.  She was trying her damnedest to remain unaffected and act as though the answer didn’t matter, but he saw the quiver of her chin.  It was impossible to miss the flutter of eyelids over misty eyes. 

Her mama’s answer mattered a whole hell of a lot – and it wasn’t the one she hoped for. 

“I don’t know, Penelope.  I just don’t know.”

83 - Ready or Not

“So what did you do?” Delaney asked, putting another centerpiece in the cooler. 

It was number four of five that had come in as a last-minute order this morning from some socialite luncheon crew that knew Petra.  Denying them – or evening passing it off to Ireland – made her a potential target to her sister’s snark for the next ten years.  That left her cramming together dahlias and lilies and Jon recounting this morning's encounter until they could leave for the airport. 

“What the fuck could I do?” he groused from the stool beside the work table.  Both elbows stayed planted against its surface while wide-spread hands lifted helplessly.  “We found a bench and talked.  Turns out she has a community college degree in urban studies but hasn’t been able to go onto a university.  She’s working full-time at some consignment shop just to pay the rent on a shitty walk-up in Jersey City.”

“And?”

“And…”  He sighed.  “I told her she could work for the Soul Foundation.  At least it’ll let her afford a decent apartment while she goes to night school.”

God, she loved this man.  The girl had effectively destroyed his life, yet he was making a way to help her because she had no one else.  Who did that?  Nobody she knew, except for him. 

“You didn’t come up with some mysterious scholarship program to cover the cost of that night school, did you?”

He cut eyes in her direction that wanted to be icy but couldn’t quite freeze.  “It’s called tuition reimbursement and happens to be standard for all Foundation employees.”

Okay, that was it.  If they were five minutes late, so be it.  Delaney had to drop the greenery and turn him on the stool to palm both cheeks. 

“S’agapo,” she murmured against his lips and delivered a kiss borne of adoration that grew stronger every day.  Both arms slithered around his neck so that she could step between his knees and just hold him.  Yeah, he could be a little jerky sometimes.  Yeah, he was the crown prince of attitude on occasion, but seven times out of ten, Jon Bon Jovi was just a genuinely good guy.

Maybe even nine.

“Love you, too,” was the muffled response into the shell of her ear before he bit it.  “But I’m gonna bust your ass if you’re not ready to go in five minutes.  I don’t know why you have to be the one to do every single one of these.”

Speaking of jerkiness…. That wallop on her back pocket was a little heavy, and she rubbed it with a scowl.

Definitely not nine.  Firm seven. 

“Because it’s for Petra’s cronies, and I want to make sure there’s nothing for her to gripe about.”  Still, she went back to her buds and configured them into an arrangement that would match the others. 

“I personally think you’re stalling,” he observed, leaning one arm on her table.  “That little redhead told you twenty minutes ago she could copycat the first one.”

She didn’t deny the accusation.  Ireland had offered to finish up the set once Delaney assembled the prototype.  It would’ve been easier to let her designer complete the job, but there was something that kept Delaney plugging away at the mindless work.   

Did she not want to know the truth?  Was she worried that this trip to Chicago would turn out like the last one – or worse?

There’s only one way to find out how it turns out, you know.  That’s to get your butt to Chicago.

And she would.  Just as soon as she finished this last arrangement.

“Laney?  There’s somebody here to see you.”

Two heads turned simultaneously to find Marilee, who slid into the back room and held the door curtain tight behind her.  There was something about the look in her eye – the rigid way she stood for that matter – that was… strange.   

“Far be it from me to interfere in somebody else’s work,” Jon spoke, not knowing Marilee well enough to recognize something amiss.  “But Delaney’s trying to get the hell out of here.  Is there any chance of putting them off?”

“No,” her shop manager replied without bothering to turn his way.  Sharp eyes never left Delaney.  “Not gonna happen.”

Ohhh, I don’t like that tone.

“Who is it, Marilee?” 

Did they have an infestation of rabid beetles in the last batch of carnations?  Was the city closing them down?  Was it the police here to arrest her?  Or, worse yet, bearing bad news?  Had something happen to her parents?  Petra?  Max?  Had the bomb squad arrived after getting more information from Katya? 

Was it an IRS auditor?  That would actually make her laugh compared to the rest of it.

“It’s Poppy, honey.”

Delaney’s flew to her mouth but not quickly enough to stifle the sucked gasp of air.  Likewise, nothing could stifle a spontaneous glaze of tears that blurred the man who was already on his feet. 

“Can you show her some flowers or something, Marilee?  Delaney needs two minutes.”

“Sure thing.”  The agreement came readily enough, but there was a beat of hesitation before she added, “There’s a guy with her.  Just so you know.”

A guy?  What guy?  Holy crepes and pancakes, what now?  She wasn’t even prepared to deal with her daughter’s unexpected appearance, much less some other person whose purpose was undefined.

“I can’t.”  She glanced down at herself on the verge of hysteria.  After finally finding something acceptable in her closet, here she was in ripped jeans, a Yankees jersey, with no makeup and a messy knot of hair piled atop her head.  The bum on East 43^rd looked more put together than she did.  “Look at me.”

Snatching her flapping hands from the air, Jon grasped them with a shake that beckoned her full attention.  There was stony blue authority radiating from his eyes as he sternly brought her back around to what was important.

“It’s not about the outfit, remember?  You’re the fixer here, Mou.”

How was she supposed to fix anything without having more time to steel herself for the worst possible scenario?  At the very least more time to find an approach that wouldn’t get her arrested.  She wasn’t prepared for this.  This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. 

Freep.  Freep, freep, freep…a…doodle…do! 

“I don’t know what to say!” she hissed, fraught with panic and frustration.  “I was going to figure all that out on the flight, and now she’s here and…  Futher mucker!”

“Hey!  She came to you, baby,” he reminded without releasing her hands.  “That could mean she’s ready talk.  You may not have to say a thing.”

Squeezing her eyes shut, Delaney let her head fall back and lifted her chin to the ceiling with a helpless growl. 

Violet, if ghosts have any power over this world, then you’d better do something!

The fact that she was beseeching help from the dead said a lot about her level of despair, but she could not screw this up again.  The way things had evolved, it would be so very easy to start with the yelling and name calling when all she wanted was for this to be behind her, once and for all.  Was that so much to ask?  Really?

“Delaney!”  A firm tug on her chin brought her face level with Jon’s again.  “Did you hear what I just said?”

A tight frown tugged at her mouth.  She’d been too busy having an irrational conversation with Violet to pay attention.  “No.”

“I said,” he enunciated carefully.  “That I’m not going anywhere.  I won’t interfere unless you need me, but I swear to you that this is going to end different than Chicago.  No matter what I have to do.  You understand me?”

Truth shone like a sapphire beacon from the very core of his beautiful soul.  He would make this okay.  The man knew her from the inside out and his presence – his confidence in her – would ensure a different outcome, even if every other single thing was the same.  He had her back, just like those boys of his had at the pizza parlor. 

She inhaled the peace that came with that knowledge and used it to push down the frantic bile. 

Things were different now than they were four years ago.  She was different and had an entirely new perspective on Poppy’s anger.  Whatever loomed in the next two, five or twenty-five minutes would cleanse the festering wounds of everyone involved.  It might hurt like a beast but was necessary and tremendously overdue.

“I understand,” she assured him, embracing the mustard seed of serenity he planted in her and inviting it to grow.  “And I swear to you it won’t always be this way.  I don’t normally need taken care of.  Someday, I’ll be the one taking care of you.”

A lopsided smile of relief appeared, and he finally unglued their hands to glide fingertips over her cheek.  “Deal.  Now do something with your hair, if you’re gonna.  We’re about out of time.”

Her dimples kicked in even as she followed his direction and pulled the knot down to finger-fluff her hair into… something.  He’d dealt with so much of her depressing life drama in such a short period of time.  She owed him big time and vowed to herself to personally ensure his apartment was furnished to perfection, even if meant hiring ten people to keep Dandelion Dreams functional while she did. 

He was worth it.

“Looks good,” he approved of her finger-fluffing and popped a kiss against her lips.  

As predicted, they were out of time.  Marilee’s voice was getting louder, and it was obviously intentional as she got closer to the back room. 

“I’m sure your Aunt Petra will love the flowers you chose.  White roses are classic and timeless, and I’ll just have Macie run them over while you chat with your mother.”

“You ready for this?” he whispered in her ear.

With him at her side, feet planted immovably wide and a steady hand at her back, how could she be anything but? 

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”   

82 - No Pain, No Gain

“I don’t want to hurt, Jon,” Delaney whispered, hating herself for sounding so freeping whiny.  Normally, a good tussle with just the right tweak of pain was precisely what was on her mind.  Tonight, she was weighed down with enough of it under the umbrella of this stinking drama that had invaded their lives.  

Her soul ached to be soothed much like the slope of her neck was being soothed by supple lips.

“No hurt, sweet Mou.”  The words washed over her in a gentle caress that she felt more than heard as his fingertips brushed her softest spots.  “Only love.”

Tears that had dried on her cheeks begged for fresh company, but the threatening dampness was dispelled when she blinked.  Much like baseball, there was no crying in sex, no matter how blessed she felt with this solid man at her back and the tender kisses he nuzzled along her jaw. 

He knew.  He’d known from the very first time what she needed, and he'd given it to her.  Consistently.  

Words.  No words.  Actions.  Dominance.  Sweetness.  Attitude.  Tenderness.  All made an appearance, and always at just the right time.

Well, with the exception of that going to Chicago thing, but she wasn’t in the mood to bring that up.

“No arguing,” he breathed with the accuracy of a mind reader while slowly twirling her in his arms.  Discarded clothing twined around Delaney’s ankles as deliberate fingertips pushed cotton fabric up and over her head, leaving behind a messy cascade of hair.  “Just relax and let it all go.”

Not trusting herself to speak, she only gave a jerking bob of her head  that he took as permission to tangle their fingers and tow her back to bed.  The closet light behind him put Jon in shadow as he bent to take the tip of one breast in his mouth, and Delaney mewled pitifully while burrowing into silky hair.

He suckled softer than a baby as strands of silver tickled her finger webbing, and his kneading on its mate wasn’t any rougher.  Jon squeezed just enough so that the fleshiness spilled through the vees of his splayed hand.  Even the sampling bite of raspberry tip wasn’t enough to elicit a gasp.  There was only a long hum of pleasure as he nuzzled as though he’d stay there the rest of the night. 

He’d never spent this long or paid this much attention to the detail of her breasts.  Now, though, he traced the aureole with the blunt tip of his tongue, used the flat of it to bathe the undercurve and rolled it around the nipple for another languid slurp.  Lips and teeth shared the labor of lust, with both equally titillating as his attention shifted from one heavy globe to the other. 

The barest edges of blunt fingernails scraped Delaney’s rib cage, and a wide palm swept away the resulting tickle.  His caress glided from the pillowy bulge of breast to a femininely indented waist before skating over the flare of her hip.  All of it was no lighter than the brush of gossamer, and as pacifying as it was arousing. 

“Jon.”

She registered his shush as a heated puff against her sternum rather than an audible sound.  

With every pore that he graced with a loving touch or reverent kiss, Delaney lost a bit more of her ability to speak coherently.  There were sounds to accompany his never-ending journey over every pore of her flesh, but none of them were fully intelligible   Yearning sighs.  Mewls of pleasure.  Wanton whispers.  Exasperated growls.  Murmurs of adoration.

She pieced enough of those together for a rousing endorsement of Jon’s prowess with a woman’s body.  He'd likely touched enough of them, but how many broken hearts had he mended?  How many bruised psyches had he handled with such gentleness, or even cared to?  

This wasn't sex.  They shared an emotional intimacy that was more arousing than any physical touch.

In such a short time, he’d become a master at stroking the rough edges of her soul.  He understood exactly how to hone those edges so that they didn’t hurt anymore.  The pain was putty in his skillful palm, molded to something that was only painfully exquisite. 

Boyfriend, lover, soulmate, souley.  There was no nametag sufficient to convey the status he’d commandeered.  That she’d been relieved to give him. 

There was only one thing she could think to call him.  Only one moniker that meant anything of importance as his heated body notched into a passage that ached for the journey that came with loving him. 

“Eísai ta pánta gia ména."

You are everything to me.

*****

“She’s everything to me,” Jon told the brother who couldn’t understand why they were doing this bullshit thing rather than having the cops handle it. 

June sunshine tried to sear the retinas from his sleep-deprived eyes. His trusty sunglasses didn’t seem to be shading him from squat, but Jon knew that without them, he’d have a splintering migraine. 

He couldn’t imagine how Delaney could possibly be functional this morning.  At least he’d gotten another couple hours’ sleep once she went to work at five-thirty this morning.  Even after the clinging orgasm that came with an abundance of Greek that he let go untranslated, she couldn’t – wouldn’t – sleep.  She laid there, limp as a wide-eyed ragdoll while he dozed until about five.

His only solace was that she’d seemed more like herself when accepting the coffee he made and kissing him goodbye under the shadow of darkness.  Her fragile jaw was set with determination when she made him promise to be careful and let her know the minute the meeting with Katya was done.  She’d already mentally submerged into the throes of her hectic schedule when he gave the promise, and sneakered feet strode out the door with her usual confidence.

His fighter had found her strength in his arms, and fuck if that didn’t make him feel as invincible as the faded tattoo on his left arm.  

It was going to be a good day.

It was, goddammit.

And it was going to start right now.

“I hope this is a fuckin’ rhetorical question, but you're packin', right?” Jon asked after the swallow of coffee that had them entering Central Park from Fifth Avenue.  

While waiting for his brother’s train to arrive at Grand Central, he’d hopped out of the Town Car to snag a couple of cups from a vending cart.  Both for him, and the second was nearly gone.  

“You said you needed backup.  The backup plan always includes hardware.”

“Good.” 

This was the benefit of having family work for him.  Matt understood what was meant without a lot of explanation.  There was little enough time left for explanation as they approached the zoo entrance.

“How do you want this to go down?”

The truth was, depending on what the Scandinavian bitch wanted, he’d probably give it just so she’d go away.  There would be a follow up meeting where she’d sign all kind of shit, including a non-disclosure agreement, of course.  He might want her to go away, but he wasn’t stupid enough to believe she’d do it on good faith.  There would be enough legal trappings to ensure he never heard from her again.  

“Short and sweet.  Ten minutes, tops,” he instructed with shaded eyes scanning the vicinity.  “If she can’t get it out in ten minutes, I don’t give a fuck about it.  I’ve got more important shit to do with my day.”

“Roger that.  I’ll stay behind for cleanup.”

That was Jon’s green light to take off if it turned into a shit show, leaving Matt behind to handle the dirty work – cussing, crying, kicking and cops, if that’s what it came to. 

Jon planned to see it through unless she truly went bat-shit crazy.  Delaney’s – and thereby his – interests were at stake.  Keeping the shop out of this bitch’s crosshairs was a priority, and today it was his priority.

“Only as a last resort.”  He didn’t have to look at his brother to know he’d just gotten a look.  He felt it as plainly as the sun warming the black leather across his shoulders.  “I told you she’s everything.  I’ll do whatever it takes to protect what’s hers.”

“Christ almighty,” the bigger man muttered.  “You gonna marry her the day your divorce is final?”

If he thought she’d go for it, maybe – or maybe not.  Their relationship was built on a moment they’d already had, not one they needed a guestlist for. 

The only question in Jon’s mind was how she’d handle the touring, but that wasn’t a drop in the bucket to what it used to be.  He was confident Delaney could handle the couple-month stints, especially if he flew her in for a show or two.  She’d enjoy the hell out of that.

“Mou isn’t interested in marriage.”

“Yeah, but are you?”

Wondering if Katya was making a fool of him, Jon took another impatient glance around and speared his brother with the sharp part of that glance.

“I’ve already got the girl.”

“Yeah, but you’re the stodgiest rock star I know, man.  You like the traditional shit.”

“Yeah.  That’s why I went to Vegas in the middle of the night last time.”

“You did that because you were drunk,” Matt snorted.  “But you like the stability that comes with marriage.”

Jon couldn’t deny it.  He enjoyed knowing that he was coming home to something that mattered more than shaking his ass on a stage.  It was a good way to make a living, and he enjoyed it, but it wasn’t his safe space.  Jon needed a safe space, and Delaney would give it to him.

He just had to convince her that this living together thing should go beyond temporary.  That the place he was moving into at the end of the week should be their place.

Because you don’t have enough to accomplish today?  Put it on the back burner, asshole.

“I like Delaney more than the supposed stability.  I’m a divorce statistic now, remember?”

“Tell it to somebody who hasn’t seen you crawl into your wife’s arms at the end of a tour,” his brother scoffed.  “You need somebody to go home to.”

“And I’ve got somebody, so shut the fuck up,” was the irritable snap that coincided with the snapping of this wrist to check the time. 

“She’s late.”

“No shit.” 

The paper coffee cup was chucked into a nearby garbage can, and Jon pulled the phone from his jacket pocket to check for a new message from the bitch.  Nothing, and there was still no sign of the platinum blonde.  The only woman in the vicinity who didn’t accompany a child was a younger one, in her mid-twenties. 

Her hair was honey-blonde instead of platinum, pulled back in a ponytail that was suitable to go with the simple pink tee and jeans.  Petite, but not tiny like Delaney, she came toward the men on wedge sandals that made her seem taller and with a stride that seemed familiar.

Because it was.

“Motherfucker,” Jon muttered under his breath, because that single scene was still burned into his memory. 

Matt didn’t even acknowledge the young woman.  Girl.  He just looked from Jon to her and back again.  “Problem?”

Not anymore.

The girl slipped off her sunglasses to expose baby blue eyes that looked so much like his own that it was disconcerting.  Adding to the unsettling familiarity was an infusion of the same apology and remorse those eyes had held in his office on Christmas day.

“Matt, meet Chelsea.  Angie Nunzio’s daughter.”

“Hello again, Mr. Bon Jovi,” she greeted quietly and gave stone-faced Matt a nod.  “I’m sorry we have to keep meeting like this.”

“Then stop doing it.”

Holding up a hand to silence his brother’s attitude, Jon jammed the other one – the one with the phone – back in his pocket.  “How ‘bout we dispense with the pleasantries and you tell me where Katya is?  Or better yet, who Katya is?”

Dragging in a long breath, she darted a look at Matt before focusing on Jon.  “She’s my mom’s cousin, but they were more like sisters.  Look,” she rushed on over both men’s swearing.  “When Mom was on her deathbed, she made Katya promise to watch out for me.  Katya went a little overboard with it, and I’m sorry.”

This girl still radiated the same aura of sadness she had on Christmas, even though it had to have been nearly a year without her mom now.  He shuddered to think what kind of mom Angie had been, but she was the only one this kid knew, so he strove to be sympathetic.  None of this shit was her fault, and so he chose to maintain composure.

“I’m not sure what stalking me and my girlfriend has to do with watching out for you.” 

Chelsea shifted her weight to one foot, ponytail swinging as she looked to her left at the zoo sign.  Both arms folded across her waist as she found his face again. 

“She only told me about this thing last night, so I’m not sure of all the details.”

“How ‘bout you start spillin’ what you know?”

Again, Jon lifted a silencing hand to his brother.  “Your cousin has gone above and beyond to piss me off.  The sooner you provide some explanation, the better chance of this meeting staying friendly.”

Her mouth flat-lined for a minute before complying with, “The job in that flower shop was dumb luck.  Katya’s a little kooky and got in her head that Mom sent you in there as a sign.  I loved my mother, but she wasn't exactly normal either, as you know.  So maybe the sign thing is true.  Who am I to say?

“At first, I guess Katya just wanted to be a pain in the neck.  Take a few stabs at you for screwing up my mother’s psychotic dream.  Then greed kicked in, and she decided you should pay for that screw-up.”

Unwilling to endure the subtle slur, Matt refused to be silent.  “He already fucking paid for it, or did you miss all the news clips saying he was getting a divorce?”

“Matt, stop.”  The kid was just a pawn in some psychotic dream, as she called it, and was as much a victim as his marriage.

“I did see,” she confirmed quietly, with downcast eyes.  “I can’t tell you how sorry I am.  I really believed…”

She was but a single year older than his daughter.  She could have been his daughter had Fate seen fit, and Jon extended the same consoling hand he would’ve given Stephanie.  “It’s not your fault, Chelsea.”

“Yeah, well…”

“You said Katya got greedy,” he prompted.  “But she never asked me for anything.”

Lifting her chin, Chelsea carried on with, “That’s what today was for.  She was coming here to demand a million dollars – for me.  Less a twenty-percent commission for herself, of course.  That was her plan to make sure I was taken care of.”

Oh, for the love of…

The woman wasn’t kooky, she was bat-shit crazy, just like he’d thought. 

“I hate to tell you this, but that’s not happening.”

“No shit,” she chuckled, making him smile.

“Where is Katya now?”

Slight shoulders lifted and dropped.  “Bellevue.  When she said she was learning to build a pipe bomb, I called the police.  A psych evaluation is pending, but I'm sure she’ll fail it with flying colors.”

There was no inflection in the delivery of that answer, but an aura of sad resignation enshrouded her.  Jon might’ve thought he imagined it, but Matt proved that it was a real thing when he spoke his first kind words of the day.  

“You did the right thing, kid.”

“Yep,” she agreed with a smile that didn’t extend past her mouth.  “Just sucks knowing that the only family I have left is in a nuthouse.  Sorry to be a pain in your ass, but at least you have the comfort of knowing it’ll be the last time you see me.  Live happy.”

Those were Chelsea Nunzio’s parting words as she turned regally on her heel, pushing both hands into her back pockets and sauntering back the way she came. 

Fuck me.

Because she was wrong.  

This wouldn’t be the last time he saw the kid who had enough spunk and intelligence to be one of his own.  Not now that he knew she didn’t have anybody else. 

“Hey, Chelsea!”

81 - Worry

“Hey!” Delaney greeted, coming around the foyer wall to toss her keys on the dining table.  The taxi trip home had taken a little longer than expected, but it shouldn’t be too hard to convince Jon to overlook that.  “Did I make it in time?”

“In time for what?”

Lifting her eyebrows at the flickering glance of annoyance and equally annoyed tone, she meandered toward the couch and the man who was hunkered over his phone.  “You said you’d save me a bottle of wine if I got here in forty-five minutes.”

“Oh.”  The dark irritation eased by a shade as he nodded toward the coffee table, where there sat a bottle minus one serving.  The glass on the table held the missing serving.  “There it is.”

Scooping up the stemware, she dropped next to him and held out the drink.  “Sounds like you could use it more than me.”

This time when his gaze hit her, it lingered and haughty nostrils flared over a flattened mouth as he held out a hand. 

“I probably do.”  There was no hesitation between accepting the glass and tipping it against his lips for a gulp.  When he returned the half-emptied vessel to her grasp it was with a sighed, “Sorry.”

“You can apologize by telling me what’s wrong.”

Flat lips turned sharply downward.  “I’d rather not.”

God, that first taste of wine was always the best, and a long day only made it better.  She held it in her mouth for a moment, savoring the subtle flavors before allowing them to continue down her throat. 

“You’ve got two choices,” Delaney informed him wearily as the fermented bliss splashed in her stomach.  “Either tell me or…  Well, that’s really your only option.  I’m too tired to barter.”

“And I’m too tired to deal with the conversation you'll wanna have after finding out what’s wrong.”

“Then we won't have the conversation.  Just tell me and I won't say anything."

Blatant distrust caked his features as he took the glass and tossed back the remaining contents.  “Katya wants me to meet her tomorrow to resolve some situation I assume she’s made up in her fucking psychotic mind.”

Delaney wanted to be a woman of her word.  She’d told him no conversation about it, and she really, really wanted to uphold that promise.  Honestly, she did, but for freep’s sake.

Don’t converse.  Tell.

“I’ll go with you.”

Ominous eyes cut over his shoulder as a stream of rosè splashed into their shared glass.  “No.”

“Why not?”

“I thought we weren’t going to discuss this.”

“Sorry.  Woman’s prerogative to change her mind and all that gobbledygook.” 

He leaned back against the cushions with a grumble and she followed suit while casually assuming custody of the wine for her turn at the well.

“This is precisely why I didn’t want to tell you,” he groused as she drank.  “I knew you’d do this bullshit.”

“And you knew that because you did the exact same thing when I told you about meeting Hugo.”

Twisting his head just far enough to throw her some shade, he chose not to address that undeniable accusation.   “And like that meeting, Matt’s coming with me.  Unlike that meeting, you’re not.  Not only because I don’t want this bitch near you, but because you have a million fucking things to do in the morning before we leave for Chicago.  You said so yourself.”

It sucked when her own words and life itself came back to bite her in the butt, but maybe she could work around this.  Delaney didn’t want that biyotch anywhere near Jon, either.  She’d had her hands on him enough, already. 

“Why are you going at all?  She can’t be the first nutcase to make this kind of demand.  I find it hard to believe this is how you handle them.”

“It’s not,” he confirmed, reclaiming the glass and sliding a hand into her now empty one.  “I don’t think she’s dangerous, but she could cause a hell of a lot of problems for you.”

“Me?  She’s fixated on you, not me.”

“Yeah, well, you’re my girl, so same difference.”

Delaney snuffed with disbelief.  Katya had already made her intentions clear, and as long as Delaney stayed out of the way, it was all about Jon.  “No it’s not.”

His fingers went tight on the wineglass when she tried to snag it back from him and when her eyes lifted to give him a dirty look, it was to find him somber.  “She was watching you tonight, Mou.  Said you’d just left when she called.”

Blinking slowly for a moment, she willed both her stomach and her temper to settle.  A normal person under normal circumstances would feel frightened, but Delaney wasn’t operating under normal circumstances this week.  If Katya wanted to take her on, she could bring it anytime.  Just not tomorrow.  Delaney’s priorities for tomorrow didn’t involve cracking a Nordic nutcase.

When she tugged on the glass this time, he let go.  “She doesn’t scare me, Jon.”

“No fucking kidding,” he drawled with the faintest trace of a smile.  “That scene in the pizza parlor was only two days ago.  I haven’t forgotten, but she’s still not gonna get away with a threat to vandalize your business.  I plan to let her know exactly what she can expect if she does.”

She hitched a mocking brow.  “More ‘as-needed’ employees?”

“That’s fucking right.  She wants trouble, the bitch will find enough of it to fill the goddamn Grand Canyon.”

With a sigh and skyward flick of her eyes, Delaney expelled a resigned breath.  His stubbornness was as rampant as hers.  There was nothing she could do about it except badger him about being cautious.

“Matt’s going?  For real?  You’re not just saying that to pacify me?”

“I’m pissed, not stupid,” he countered, confiscating the last drink before she had a chance to take it.  “Matt and his Glock will be there.  You can fucking count on that.”

“But you’ll still be careful?”

The narrowed gaze that slid her way was rife with insult.  “I just said I wasn’t stupid.”

“Oh, stop.  You’re ego isn’t that fragile, and – as you already mentioned – I have a million things to do in the morning.  I don’t have extra time to worry about you.”

The foot of the empty glass hit the coffee table with emphasis, and he rose to lightly accuse, “Uh huh.  I see how you are.  Can’t even be bothered to worry about the guy defending your honor.”

“Hey.”  Delaney grabbed the hem of his ever-present black t-shirt, and he turned to regard her with impatience.  Fine.  He could be impatient all dratted day as long as he was still around at the end of that day.  “I’ve spent my whole freeping life looking for you, and I’m on the verge of maybe getting my daughter back.  I don’t wanna mess up either of those over this cow.  Okay?”

Irked features went gentle, and Jon’s fingertips dusted an arc from her cheekbone to jaw before tilting Delaney’s chin.  “Nothing’s gonna mess ‘em up,” he promised quietly.  “Not even me.”

*****

A muffled thump jarred Jon from unconsciousness.  He wasn’t normally a light sleeper and considering that they’d gone to bed after midnight, it was strange to find himself awakened at… three-twenty. 

Rolling over to pat the bed beside him, he searched for the body that should be occupying it.  “Mou?”

“Sorry,” she stage-whispered from the closet where light peeked around edges of the door she held mostly closed .  “Go back to sleep.”

A sense of déjà vu came with the instruction.  She’d accidentally woken him up by tip-toeing out of a closet in Montreal, too.

“What the fuck are you doing up?”

“Packing.”

Exhaling quietly through his nose, he propped up on an elbow and squinted toward her shadowy figure.  “You’re going on an overnighter to Chicago, not safari.  Come back to bed and throw in jeans and a shirt after sunrise.”

“No,” she stubbornly insisted with a sniff, tossing an unidentifiable blob of clothing toward the chair. 

“Why the hell not?”

“Because I don’t know what I’m going to wear.”

Obviously deciding she couldn’t waken him any more than he already was, she cracked the door and slid into the space to start rifling through garments. 

Really?  Three o’clock in the morning and she was worried about what to wear the next day?  What happened to the woman who wore ripped jeans unless her sister intervened? 

Jon would never fucking understand women.  Jeans and a shirt.  Seriously.  It was suitable for anything, and he’d honestly believed she shared that motto until this. 

“Delaney.”  He spoke as firmly as sleep-thickened vocal cords would allow.  “Come back to bed.”

“I can’t.”

There was something about the muffled rebuff that had his brows knitting.  Her voice was thicker than his, and there was another sniff as the scrape of hangers on the rod took on a sharp, staccato rhythm.  When, after a pause, she muttered unfamiliar Greek and started flipping more agitatedly, Jon threw back the covers without bothering to even pull on a pair of shorts. 

This wasn’t a simple case of OCD at play.  Something wasn’t right, and he drew the closet door wide, forced to slit his eyes against the brightness. 

When he could tolerate the light, it was to find her clad in nothing but the Jovi shirt she wore to bed and inspecting a blue flowery top that she threw to the floor.  It wasn’t the only garment there, either.  Stripes, polka dots and solids in a host of colors completely covered her bare feet.

“Jesus Christ.  How long have you been at this?”

“A while.”

One hanger was pulled free and relocated to another spot while one more dangled in her hand.  Puffy eyes lifted to the top shelf, and when she tried to jerk a single pair of pants from those stacked there, they all came tumbling down to a string of bawdy-sounding Greek.

Is she…?

Holy hell.  There wasn’t a waterfall, but those were definitely tears dotting her cheeks as she kicked at a pile of ragged denim with unreasonable fury. 

“Hey.”  Sliding both arms around her waist only to have Delaney fight against the embrace, Jon held tighter.  “Hey, hey!  What the fuck is going on?  Huh?  Talk to me.”

Thank God she didn’t fight dirty, or his exposed balls would’ve become inverted.  She just continued to lean forward, attempting to escape the restrictive squeeze that was only meant to calm.

“I don’t have anything to wear!”

“What’s all the stuff in the floor then?” he quizzed mildly, with enough experience to know that this was not the time to match her decibel for decibel.  When a woman took this attitude in front of a closet, the only hope a guy had was to talk them off the ledge like a jumper. 

There was a weary huff before the garment in her hand joined the pile.  “None of it’s right.”

Easing slowly closer, he constricted the embrace until her spine was burrowed against his naked torso. 

“Right for what, Mou?”

There was a lull of deep, middle-of-the-night silence before she whispered, “It’s been four years, Jon.  What shirt, dress or mother trucking pair of leggings says that I’ve survived it but am tired of having to?  Yes, maybe she involuntarily killed her sister and used me as her scapegoat.  I’m mad.  I’m hurt.  But I also can’t do this anymore.  It sucks dog toes knowing she’s out there and that I can’t call.  Can’t visit.  Can’t see my only child.  I need it to be over.  What outfit can fix it, ‘cause I’m pretty sure it’s not in here.”

Gently tucking his chin into her shoulder, Jon pressed a kiss against the tousled head that probably hadn’t lain in bed longer than an hour tonight.  “There isn’t one, baby, and you don’t need one  You’re gonna fix it, but you’ve got to get some rest first.”

“I tried.  I can’t sleep,” Delaney lamented.  “Between Poppy, work and Katya….  There’s too much worry.  My mind won’t shut down.”

He’d wondered if it would ever happen.  Wondered if his little fighter would ever be so overwhelmed that she'd willingly allow him to help her fight.

It looked like this might be it.  “You just need a distraction, kardia mou.  I can take care of that.”

“Yeah?” Her skepticism was evident as she twisted to look around at him.  “How?”

Touching soft lips to the corner of her mouth, Jon let his hand drift under the Jovi shirt to find it really was the only thing she wore.  He slipped his fingers low, finding the soft seam between her legs.  

“Come to bed, and I’ll show you.”