Chapter 15

After drying and dressing, we went into the kitchen. We need protein. Massive amounts of protein. And caffeine. Two of my favorite “eens”. Nothing will give you a jolt of energy like a hearty breakfast, so that’s what we had. We made eggs, toast, bacon, sausage, fried potatoes, and damned if we didn’t eat it all. We also went through a pot and a half of coffee before Jon asked,” So, where’s this game room I’ve heard so much about?”

“Stack your dishes in the sink, and follow me,” I said.

I led him back upstairs and down the hall past my bedroom and the rumpled sheets that if it weren’t so gross, I don’t think I’d ever wash again.

We passed through a door at the end of the hall, and Jon stopped, staring. I smiled wide at being able to surprise him. Again. God, a girl could get used to that gobsmacked expression on his gorgeous face. The door opened into the middle of the huge room that sat over the three-car garage below. Directly in front of us was a nine foot pool table; rich mahogany wood with ball-in-claw feet, dark green felt, and an old-fashioned Budweiser pool table light hanging over it. There were eight matching pool hall chairs, covered in heavy burgundy brocade. They were scattered around the pool table, paired up and matched with high tables. A full four feet of wall was taken up with cue racks; full of sticks of different weights, lengths, and colors.

On the near side of the left side of the room was an arcade-quality air hockey table. On the far side, there were dartboards lined up along the wall. The right side of the room was dominated by a full bar, complete with mirrors behind, shelves of liquor, and the smoothest, shiniest expanse of mahogany Jon had ever seen; a perfect match for the pool table. There was a brass foot rail running along the length, and an even dozen burgundy leather-topped stools lined up in front of it.

“This is amazing,” Jon said, just gaping at the room.

“Yeah, I know,” I said immodestly. I am incredibly proud of this room. “It’s my favorite place to be, aside from the salon.”

“I can see why.” He walked over to the bar, and asked a question with his eyes. I nodded, and he raised the hinged section to pass behind. He looked around at the glasses, the beer taps, fountain soda taps, freezers, fridges, touching everything. He’s such a guy.

“So, how does it compare to yours? What am I missing?”

He grinned at me. “It’s very similar to mine, actually.” He looked around more. “You know, you aren’t missing anything.” I ambled up to the bar, and sat on one of the stools. “What can I get you?” he asked, slinging a hand towel over one shoulder. He was too cute.

“Hmmmm. There are so many choices. I could go with the Slippery Nipple, or the Blue Orgasm…” Jon burst out laughing. I smiled and said, “But my all time favorite is Sex on the Beach. I’ll have that.”

Jon set to making my drink, still chuckling at my banter. Glad to know that at four in the morning, he has a sense of humor. I watched in amazement as he tossed and flipped the bottles flamboyantly, as good as any mixologist I’d ever seen. He saw the look on my face and smiled. “I still have a trick or two up my sleeve.”

“I guess you do.” He was at home behind my bar. I still can’t quite believe he’s here in my house, behind my bar, making me a drink. With a flourish, he put a napkin in front of me and centered a perfectly colored drink in front of me. He even garnished it with a slice of orange. He made himself a cosmopolitan, and came out from behind the bar to sit with me. We chatted for a while about the band’s plans for the summer, and Jon told me all sorts of stories about their younger days on the road. They were wild men. He said he’d really enjoyed those days, but if they were still like that today, the pace would probably kill them. They were too old for that shit.

“Not old,” I said, with a twinkle in my eye.

Jon groaned. “Don’t say it; I beg you.”

“Just older,” I said.

“Argh!” Jon dropped his head to the bar and started bouncing it against the wood.

“Jesus!” I said, laughing. I jumped up and pulled him from the stool. “Sorry, sorry, didn’t know that bad jokes made you suicidal.”

“Just the really bad ones,” he said, laughing. “I begged you not to.”

“I know, I know.” I looked at his forehead. There was a little red mark, but that’s it. All I needed was for him to go back to wherever he was going looking like he had been in a fight. That thought sobered me. The night, morning, whatever, was almost over. We’d be each going back to our own lives. My little fantasy was coming to an end. Unless I wanted to give up my shop and follow him.

“What’s the matter, D?” he asked me; concern in his eyes.

“Nothing,” I said, embarrassed at the tears that were forming in my own eyes. I quickly turned away and downed the rest of my drink. “C’mon,” I said, “let me beat the pants of you in a game of 8-ball.” I strode to the cue rack and picked out my favorite; a 23-weight, cherry stick with a hot pink base. “I’ll break.” C’mon, Jon, take the hint. Change the subject. Thankfully, he did.

“Alright,” he said, the playfulness fading from his face. Shit. I went and ruined it. We were having such a good time, too.

Jon selected a cue, racked up the balls, and stepped back to let me break. He stood close behind me, and leaned over my shoulder, whispering in my ear. “You think you can beat me?”

“I know I can,” I shot back.

“Care to make the game interesting?” he said.

“Maybe. What do you have in mind?”

“If you win, I’ll make sure the guys all come to your salon when they’re in town,” he paused.

That sounded good to me. The boost to business once word got out would be huge – and word would get out. Plus, my staff would be beside themselves. What’s the catch? “OK, what do you get if you win? And, that’s a big ‘if’ Jersey.”

Jon laughed. “I get you.”

Gulp. “You’ve already had me. What do you mean?”

“You come with me when we go on tour.” Jesus, he was serious. He took my cue from me, set it down on the table, and took my hand. “I want you with me, Diana. I want to see you there in the audience or in the wings, and know that you’re there for me.” He was squeezing my hand so hard I thought he’d break my fingers. “I want you to travel with me, cuddled up to me in the jet, maybe even joining the mile-high club with me. I want to go back to the thousand nondescript hotel rooms I’ll see with you and have you brighten them up. Consider it a trial – see if you like the pace and the guys before deciding whether to take me up on my offer.” He stared at me. “Well?”

I thought about it for a minute. It really was a win-win for me. It would give me a chance to see if I could still hold on to the salon and manage things without being there. That would make the decision much easier. My clients wouldn’t be too happy; they’re a fiercely loyal bunch. I’d just have to find someone I trust to take care of the place. I could take on the previous owners as partners, even for a short time. Am I really considering this?

Yep I am.

Holy Shit.