Chapter Three

Jon woke, or rather came to, still folded in Dot’s arms, his throat feeling raw from crying, his eyes swollen and painful. He cleared his throat slightly, hoping to shift the soreness, but it just made it worse, then over the coughing spasm that shook him he heard Dot’s voice.

“You’re awake again, huh?” She said gently, rubbing a hand over his bare back.

“Am I?” He croaked, raising his head slightly to peer up at her. “Hi Dot.”

“Hi yourself.” Her smile was tender. The kind of gentle smile that was usually directed at the mentally wobbly, and as Jon moved slightly he saw her wrinkle her nose distastefully.

“What?” Jon said defensively, and Dot flushed at his tone.

“Well……….when did you last shower, Jon? You kinda stink.”

“I do?” Then he remembered noticing it himself, and it was his turn to blush. “Yeah, I guess I do. I haven’t showered since I got home. Actually, not since we left to fly back.”

“Jon - that was….that was five days ago! You haven’t showered in five days?!”

Dot wasn’t sure why that shocked her. His condition was obvious - both the sight and smell of him had told her he’d been letting himself sink lower and lower - but for him, a guy she well knew to be almost religious in personal hygiene, to admit to not showering in almost a week, well, that was a real surprise.

“Haven’t felt like it.” He mumbled, sulkiness creeping into his voice, and Dot knew she had to at least try to put some backbone into him again.

“Well, you’d better feel like it, mister.” She pulled free of his arms, sliding out of the bed and looking down at him sternly. “Get your sorry ass into the shower. Right now.”

“What are you, my mother?” He grunted, and Dot shook her head.

“No. But if you keep this up, I’ll call her to come out here and help me knock you straight again.”

“Shit.” Jon whispered. Why the hell did he have to fall for a woman as strong as Dorothea Hurley? But, if he were honest, he knew this was what he probably needed right now - somebody to force him out of this funk - and he resignedly dragged himself to the edge of the bed, dropping his feet to the floor.

“I’ll go make coffee.” Dot said, heading toward the door as he got to his feet.

Luckily, though, she looked back before she left, because the combination of no food and too much whiskey, along with barely moving for two days almost landed Jon on his ass on the floor.

“Whoa, shit!” He muttered as the room spun around him, and he tried to focus on something - anything - to grab hold of before he fell.

Dot took two steps and was by his side, grabbing him and holding him upright, blessing her strenuous training routine for giving her enough strength to hold a grown man on his feet.

“Easy, Jon.” She murmured. “Dammit. When did you last eat? Or drink something other than whiskey?”

“I ate before we got on the plane.” He muttered. “And I had coffee a couple days ago.”

Dot was stunned. Did he really hate himself that much? Was he deliberately trying to starve - or drink - himself to death? Either way, this was no time to be grilling him for answers, and she hooked her arm lower on his waist, propelling him toward the bathroom.

“We’ll fix that soon. Right now you’re getting into that shower, babe. I can’t take the stink much longer.”

His legs were weak, and he leaned heavily on her as they went into the bathroom, numbly allowing Dot to push him into the shower, and she pulled off her own clothes as he leaned on the wall. Both naked, Dot stepped into the shower with him, setting the water temperature lower than she knew he’d usually use, knowing that a scalding hot shower wasn’t a good idea at the moment.

He stood like a child as she rubbed soap into his skin, just watching her, barely able to string two thoughts together right now. Dot didn’t speak either, just washed him thoroughly, averting her eyes when she caught a glimpse of his face and saw the pain there. And the tears, though maybe it was just water running down his face. Jon whispered softly to her, and she paused, looking into his blue eyes, almost exactly the same height as hers.

“What, baby?”

“Why do you love me?” He asked again, and when he blinked she saw it was tears on his face.

Jon raised one hand to touch her face, tracing his fingertips along her jaw before asking again.

“Why, Dot?”

“I don’t know. I love you because you’re you, Jon. I love you because when I’m not with you it feels like something’s missing. I love you because of your strength, and your tenderness. I just love you.”

“Even if I don’t fucking deserve it.” He muttered darkly, and Dot immediately punched his bicep. Hard.

“Hey! Don’t make me beat sense into you.” She threatened, then relented almost immediately. “At least not yet.”

Jon was actually feeling marginally better now that he didn’t stink like David’s socks, and he even managed to dredge up a smile. Compared to his usual, famous grin, it was a pale, pathetic ghost of a smile, but it was better than nothing, and Dot smiled back at him, leaning in to just touch her lips to his.

“There’s my Jon.” She approved. “I knew you were still in there somewhere.”

“Yeah.” He said, and moved to kiss her again, but Dot pulled away.

“Nuh-uh. If you haven’t showered in five days, God knows when you last cleaned your teeth, so no thank you!” She moved toward the shower door, more confident now that he’d stay on his feet. “Why don’t you rinse off and clean your teeth, and I’ll go fix some coffee. And some food, if there is any.”

“Yes, mom.” He muttered, but there was a tiny hint of humor in his voice again.

Dot left him there, rubbing herself quickly dry with a towel and pulling her clothes on again. In the bedroom, she collected the four dead whiskey bottles, taking them down to the kitchen with her.

There was a strange smell in the kitchen, like tar on a hot summer day, and she found the source when she went to the coffee pot. Well, it used to be a coffee pot. Now it was some kind of garden, with a variety of interestingly colored mould spots on the surface of the black gunk which probably used to be coffee. Strangely, the power switch was in the ‘on’ position, though the indicator light was dark, and she flicked it off, then on again with no effect.

When she tried to lift off the coffee pot, it seemed to be welded to the base, and she realised Jon had left it switched on - probably for days - until the overworked thermostat finally gave up and died. He was just lucky that it had done it’s job, otherwise it could’ve burned up, taking the kitchen, house and Jon with it. Or maybe he’d done it deliberately, subconsciously hoping for that result.

“Oh baby.” Dot whispered sadly, giving up on the coffee pot, leaning on the countertop with both hands, shaking her head. “I never thought I’d see you like this, Jonny.”

With an effort, she lifted her head. Moping around wasn’t going to help Jon - he needed her strong. She opened cupboards, finding no food and not even any instant coffee. Looked like they were going out for breakfast then. Or lunch. While she waited for him to come downstairs, Dot walked over to the living room, finding a coffee mug by the couch and picking it up. When she turned around, she saw the state of the armchair - now a mottled mixture of cream and coffee-brown, just a hint of mould furring the surface - and she was starting to get angry as she went to the kitchen once more.

“Looks like I got here just in time.” She said, allowing herself to get angry, hoping it would let her deliver the kick in the ass that Jon so obviously needed.

Chapter Two

When Jon woke the next morning, his black mood lingered, sleep not even taking the edge off it. Then, again, it wasn’t as though his sleep had been restful - more of a succession of nightmares - and he groaned as he dragged himself out of bed, into the bathroom. Standing naked at the sink, he splashed a handful of lukewarm water over his face, then straightened to open the mirrored cabinet to find a toothbrush.

As he reached for the door, he paused, staring at himself in the mirror. The long hair wildly tangled around him wasn’t what caught his attention, though. It was the strangest sensation. He knew it was him. There was nobody else here, so it had to be him, but he didn’t recognise the guy staring back at him. And, if he were honest, he didn’t even look like somebody he’d want to know.

Slowly, hesitantly, Jon touched his reflection, then opened the door, grabbing out toothbrush and toothpaste, leaving the mirrored door open, unwilling to look on that image again just yet. When he’d cleaned his teeth, he felt marginally better, but only glanced at the shower before heading back into the bedroom, pulling on a pair of shorts and going downstairs to the kitchen.

He found coffee in a cupboard - probably the only thing in any of the cupboards - and started a pot going, desperate for the caffeine fix, hoping it’d kick him out of his shitty mood. As soon as there was enough in the pot, he poured a mug, walking through to the living room and dropping onto a chair, almost immediately sneezing at the light cloud of dust that rose, the sneeze spilling most of his coffee over his bare legs.

“Fuck!” He yelled at the top of his voice, appalled to hear his voice crack when he did it. Not the kind of strained crack he’d been suffering toward the end of the tour, but the unmistakable sound of someone who was a hair’s-breadth away from sobbing.

The pain in his own voice jolted him to his feet, swiping the hot coffee from his skin as he went back to the kitchen, dumping the mug onto the counter and grabbing a cloth to dry off his legs. He refilled the coffee and went to the living room again, not even able to summon enough care to think to clean the coffee-stained chair, just sitting on the couch instead, his legs stretched along the cushions, staring blankly at the wall. The wall that was painted plain white - he’d never even made enough of a home of this place to hang a single picture.

He drank the coffee without tasting it, only realising he’d done it when the mug was empty. Laying it onto the floor, Jon lay back on the couch, his head hanging backward over the arm, staring at the ceiling, at the carved wood fan that sat above the light. The fan had been one of the things that had attracted him to buy this place, but now he took no pleasure in it’s beautifully intricate pattern. It was just a piece of wood. A thing. Something to be used, or not, but not to be enjoyed or admired. Like most things in his life, he realised.

That realisation was painful. He’d worked, fought and damn well clawed his way up the so-called ladder of success, only to find that there wasn’t any pot of gold at the top. Well, okay, there was, but that was all he’d found, and it had turned out to be a pretty hollow prize. Certainly nothing that was worth the price.

“I’m losing my fucking mind.” He muttered, covering his face with both hands.

He could feel it starting. And he just didn’t have the strength any more to fight it, so he let it go, let the tears well up and run back into his hair, his head still back over the arm of the couch. As the sobs started to choke him, he was forced to sit up before he literally choked, slumping on the couch with his head in his hands, crying helplessly, not sure if he’d ever stop. It should have been cathartic. The tears, the total surrender to his emotions should have been cleansing, should have left him feeling more at peace, but all that happened was that his mood darkened with every tear that burned from his eyes.

Finally, there were no more tears. Nothing but a deep, empty feeling in his chest. A feeling that his whole life - all the money, all the gold records, the platinum records, all the adulation of screaming fans - it was all utterly pointless. None of it mattered. Not a damned bit of it. From starting out as a kid with a dream, to getting together the perfect band, hitting the road with some truly big acts, then having Slippery hit so globally huge, right through the long, grueling tour schedule, then right back into it with the New Jersey record and straight back out on the road for more touring.

Those two records, and the tours, had taken his dream and made it reality. And only now did he discover he didn’t like the reality of it. The reality of hating each and every one of the band. The harsher reality of knowing they hated him even more. The knowledge that it was his own fault. Doc had tried - God knew, he’d tried to make them slow down, but Jon knew the only one who had insisted on continuing the insane schedule was one John Francis Bongiovi Junior. Singer, songwriter, rockstar, asshole, primadonna, and now able to add fucked up crybaby to his resume.

That was possibly what hurt the most. The band were on the verge of breaking up - he himself was cracking up - and it was his own fucking fault.

Slowly, he wiped his face with both palms, smearing tears from his eyes, snuffling like a kid until he dragged himself from the couch, leaving the coffee mug where it lay and heading back upstairs, throwing himself back into bed and pulling the cover over his head. Maybe if he slept for long enough all the pain would stop.

Two days later he was still in pretty much the same place. Sure, he’d been out of bed, when nature demanded it - he wasn’t quite so far gone that he’d just lie there and piss all over himself, but other than that - and heading downstairs to grab his buddy Jack from the kitchen - he’d stayed in his bedroom. The room was dark and cool, the blinds still closed over the windows, blocking out the sunshine and the beautiful view.

His head ached. That strange, almost swollen feeling that comes from trying to hold back tears for too long, and no matter how much of the whiskey he drank, or how fast he poured it down his throat, he couldn’t seem to find oblivion. The bottle of Jack in his hand was empty he discovered as he lifted it to his lips, and when he laid it on the floor by the bed it fell over, clattering against it’s three friends that already lay there.

“Out of fuckin’ whiskey.” Jon mumbled, barely coherent. “Just fuckin’ perfect.”

He lay back in the bed, one arm crooked over his eyes, realising with distaste that he could actually smell himself. He hadn’t showered since he got home, which meant that - with the travelling he’d done - he hadn’t showered since they left South America. Nearly a week ago. Somehow, though, he couldn’t make himself care, and he just rolled into the blankets, pulling them up again.

Before he could fall back into - well, it wasn’t sleep, but more of a numbed stupor - he heard a banging on the door of his house. That, he could ignore, he decided, tucking the blanket tighter. Unfortunately, next he heard the door opening - with a key, not a boot - and then a familiar voice calling his name.

“Aw, shit.” He groaned painfully. Maybe if he just stayed here, she wouldn’t find him.

No such luck.

A few minutes later, the bedroom door opened, and he heard her muttering curses before she spoke to him.

“Jon?” Her voice was filled with concern. “Jesus, Jon. What the hell are you trying to do to yourself?”

He gave in, sitting up to look at her, seeing her concern turn to real worry as she saw the mess he was. Jon looked at her sadly, feeling those damned tears breaking from his eyes again.

“I don’t fucking know.” He whispered. “Help me, Dot……”

“Jesus.” She muttered again, crossing to the bed, dumping her purse on the floor and gathering her man into her arms.

Jon was shaking in her embrace, fighting tears, and she stroked his back soothingly, then before he fell apart totally, Jon heard another voice.

“Is he here?”

“Shit.” Dot whispered. “Jonny, just stay there. I’ll be one minute.”

She uncoiled his arms from around her, leaving him leaning heavily against the mattress, and she stepped out onto the landing, looking over the rail at the guy waiting below.

“Yeah, he’s here, Doc. We’ll be fine. Just……..just leave us, okay?”

“Sure, Dot. You know where I am if you need me.”

“I do. Thanks.”

Doc left, and Dot went back to the bedroom, finding Jon hadn’t even moved, just staring down at the mattress. She’d never seen him this way before, and it scared her. Not just the state he’d let himself get into physically, but the obvious mental - emotional - car wreck he was. She was no psychologist, but she did know what her man needed right now. He needed her.

Still fully dressed, she just pulled off her sandals and got into his bed, pulling him into her arms and ignoring the smell of sweat and whiskey. Jon fought himself, tense and rigid in her arms as she held him, rocking him slowly, his head against her chest, then he just couldn’t fight it any more, and Dot held him as he cried. She didn’t cry, though, not until he’d fallen into sleep - or unconsciousness - in her arms, then she let her own tears fall. Tears for a strong man who’d driven himself to breaking point.

Chapter One

Jon stared morosely out of the window, the silence in the plane oppressive. He drew his gaze away from the clouds for a moment, looking around at the other guys. David was asleep, Tico too, and he couldn’t be sure about Alec - he was either asleep or unconscious from the vodka he’d been swallowing like water since they left their hotel. Richie’s eyes were open, but he was lost in his own world, headphones on his head as he listened to music, blocking out the noise of the aircraft. Or maybe he was just blocking out everybody else in the plane.

The tall guitarist must have felt Jon’s gaze, because he slowly turned his head to look at their lead singer, staring back at him for a moment before blinking dismissively and turning away again. Jon winced, turning back to the window. There had been something in Richie’s dark eyes that looked awfully like hatred, though he wasn’t too sure why he was surprised by that. God knew, it had been obvious enough the last few weeks.

Staring outside again, Jon thought back over the last year or so, trying to work out where - why - it had all gone wrong. Right now, he couldn’t even fathom why the hell he’d worked so hard for this. If this was success, then it sure as hell didn’t seem worth what it was costing them. Somehow, somewhere, all their dreams had turned to shit, in spite of the blistering success of Slippery and the neverending rollercoaster that had taken them from that to the New Jersey tour.

At first, it had been a blast. Their gang of five guys from the ass-end of New Jersey, taking on the world and damned well winning. Nothing they couldn’t do. Nothing - nobody - they couldn’t have. Beautiful girls willing to do just about anything for them, and of course the booze - and the odd illegal substance - flowing freely.

Somehow, though, they’d taken a wrong turn. To the point that Richie - closer to Jon than his two real brothers - had punched him out twice in the last month. The first time, Tico had pulled the taller man away, yelling to David to ‘just get Jonny the fuck out of here’. Second time, the little drummer had just walked away and left them to it. Or, rather, left Richie to it - though Jon knew he was lucky that Richie had stopped at just one punch. One punch that landed him flat on his back on the dressing room floor. Even now, the memory smarted like a fresh bruise - the guy had a fist like a fucking blacksmith, and he certainly hadn’t been holding back.

Jon sighed, leaning his forehead against the cool window. Even their stewardess, Vicky - who’d been part of the package when they chartered this private plane - was keeping well out of everyone’s way - she’d bring them their drinks and snacks, then vanish back to her galley station, staying away in case the tangible anger boiled over. Again.

“What’s the fucking point?” Jon mumbled, his breath fogging the window. “Why the fuck did we want this so bad? Nothing but a heap of dogshit.”

He closed his eyes, hoping for sleep, embarrassed to feel the hot streak of a tear trickle down his cheek, and he tilted his head further, letting his hair fall over his face, hiding behind the tangled curls.

In a timely pause between songs on his headphones, Richie faintly heard Jon’s voice, and he flicked a curious glance across to his……could he still call Jon his friend? Whatever. He glanced across, only moving his eyes under hooded lids, not willing to let Jon see his interest. He realised then that Jon wouldn’t have noticed, anyway, since his head was pressed to the window, his face hidden behind his over-long hair, and Richie closed his eyes again. Whatever Jon had said clearly hadn’t been aimed at anybody but himself.

He couldn’t figure where it had gone wrong. Hadn’t even really realised anything was wrong, until the night he found himself standing over Jon’s stunned form, Tico’s strong grip on his arms pulling him away as David scraped the shocked singer from the floor and took him out of the room. When Jon was safely out of sight, and Tico released him, Richie remembered turning to the drummer in shock.

“Teek, what the fuck did I do?”

“Nothin’ he didn’t deserve, probably.” The drummer grunted. “Not entirely sure why I pulled you off the pissy sonofabitch either. Shoulda let you beat some fuckin’ sense into him.”

“Jesus, T!” Richie was shocked. He and Jon were like brothers - or they had been - but Tico was the one who always sided with Jon, no matter what, so to hear him say that rocked Richie back on his heels.

“What?!” Tico spat. “He’s been actin’ like a fuckin’ primadonna for weeks - like he thinks he’s the only one this tour’s killing. Had to happen sometime. Don’t worry about it, Mookie.”

Richie could vividly remember his shock at himself - he’d actually lashed out and hit Jon. The guy who was the brother he’d never had, and he’d been so disgusted with his behavior that he’d actually hit him. It had almost been worse, the second time it had happened, just a few days ago, because he’d heard Tico mutter something in Spanish, and braced himself to be grabbed, then watched as the drummer walked out of the room, leaving him to either help Jon up or beat the shit out of him. In the end, Richie had done neither - he’d just glowered down at the singer then followed Tico from the room. He and Jon had barely spoken since.

As another song ended, Richie yanked the headphones off and got to his feet, stalking wordlessly past Jon and up to the galley, finding Vicky sitting in the dim light.

“You okay, darlin’?” He asked, seeing the strain on her face, and she looked up with a sad smile.

“I’m fine, Richie. Just……I just hate how unhappy everybody seems to be. Is there anything I can do?”

He grinned at her. Even though he was pissed as all hell with Jon, and to a lesser degree with Alec, it wasn’t Vicky’s fault, and Richie had enough sense to keep his anger aimed at the right people.

“Yeah. Gimme a hug, sweet thing.”

She chuckled at that, getting off her fold-down seat and hugging him tightly, Richie hugging her back just as hard. There was nothing romantic between them, but even though she was only a couple of years older than him, Vicky treated him - and the rest of the guys - like their mother, cajoling them into eating even when they were so exhausted that the simple action of lifting food to their mouths seemed too strenuous. She cooked them down-home, comfort food like meatloaf, and she usually whipped up a batch of cookies for them, already knowing Jon’s weakness for the sweeter side, even though she’d only been with them for a few weeks.

“Everything’s fine, Vick.” Richie murmured, releasing her, but she looked into his dark, expressive eyes, and read the lie.

“No, it isn’t, Richie.” She disagreed. “But thanks for lying to me!”

“Hey - you know me, darlin’. If there’s one thing Sambora’s good at, it’s telling lies to pretty ladies…..”

“Asshole.” She muttered with a grin. “Did you want something? Other than the hug, I mean.”

“Nah. Just stretchin’ my legs. But, since I’m here……what you got?”

Shaking her head at his boyish grin, Vicky made him a sandwich, thick beef generously spread with mustard, and Richie helped himself to a bottle of beer to wash it down. He didn’t even go back to his seat, standing in the galley chatting with Vicky while he ate his snack, then the voice of their pilot announced they’d be landing in twenty minutes, so he let her usher him back to his seat as she went through her pre-arrival rituals of tidying and making sure everybody was seat-belted in. Richie was tempted to tell her to just leave Jon alone - who the hell cared if he got hurt - but he kept his mouth shut, grimacing when Jon was just barely polite to Vicky when she asked him to put on his belt. Another black mark against the singer.

They landed in California, where the foresight of their manager, Paul had separate cars waiting for them, and with barely muttered goodbyes, the band split up - Jon and Richie climbing into two cars and being driven from the airport, while the rest of the guys stayed aboard, waiting with Vicky for the trip back to Jersey.

Jon sat silent in the back of the car until the driver pulled to a halt outside his Malibu home, just grabbing his bag and letting himself into the cool, slightly dusty house. He hadn’t been home in so long that he felt like a stranger here, and he just went straight upstairs, dropping his bag to the floor and stripping naked before falling exhaustedly onto the bed. Closing his eyes, he was almost instantly asleep, his last thoughts painful, following him into sleep to torment his dreams.