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.