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.