41:Nice is Overrated

August 19

It was with a sigh of relief and a double-shot of Jack Daniels that Jon sequestered himself in the study – away from his brothers and their families.   He slumped down in the stuffed armchair and let his head drop against the back  while the remnants of daylight faded outside the French doors, taking with it the last of his energy and patience. 

Six days. 

Six... endless... fucking... days of Lilah dropping overly casual comments about “Charlie this” and “Charlie that” while Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee egged her on was his limit, and he’d told them all as much before locking himself up with something more potent than the wine they’d had to accompany dinner.  There were enough enduring memories of the counselor’s body, her split personality and that tender frigging parting kiss without a bunch of meddling clowns throwing hints in his direction about how lonely she must be with her boys leaving for school.

The woman was amazing in bed, and she’d lured his hormones to heights they hadn’t reached in years.  His only problem was that those hormones had gotten quite attached to heights while she was here, and his dick was having trouble with the transition from frequent, intense sex to its former sedate life.

The withdrawal had almost been enough to entice him into making another bad decision.

Saturday night at the Apollo event, there were a number of divorcees who were ready, willing and able to help him off the wagon.  One in particular had flirted with him voraciously over the years, even in front of Dorothea.  That night, she stopped short of grabbing his package and giving him a hand job under the table, but just barely.  Her nails had scraped over his thigh until Jon was finally forced to excuse himself and go find Bob Kraft.

The thing was, if the following day hadn’t been his kids’ last one with him, he might’ve gone home with her and scratched both of their itches.  She didn’t turn him on the way the counselor did, but a good set of lips might’ve made him overlook it.

Fatherhood had trumped hornyhood, however, and he went home at a semi-reasonable hour to get up early Sunday morning for brunch and the beach with his brood before they went back to the city.  With the following week the last before Stephanie returned to The New School in New York, Jesse to Notre Dame and the younger two embarked upon a new year in junior high, they would spend it doing school shopping and all that stuff with their mother.

Whom he had never called to have that heart-to-heart chat about staying involved with his children’s lives. 

Having not spoken to her in almost a month, Jon considered that this might be a good time to talk.  With the encroaching darkness and a drink in his hand, he would welcome the aura of calm she ordinarily possessed. 

And she doesn’t know anything about me and the counselor.

With enough whiskey in his bloodstream to induce a self-satisfied smirk, he shoved a hand in to withdraw the phone from his cargo shorts.  It took only a moment to flip open the case and find the familiar contact listing, and Jon casually crossed his legs while waiting for Dorothea to answer.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he returned the informal greeting with a smile in his voice.  There were times when he was able to forget how much he missed the woman who was a staple in his life for so many years, but hearing her voice reminded him anew of what he’d lost.  “You have a few minutes to talk?”

“Sure.  What’s up?” 

She had a smile in her voice now, too, upon realizing that he wasn’t in asshole mode over something divorce related.  He was a bit embarrassed to say that was the driving force behind most of his calls during the last four months.

“Eh.  I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page with the kids.”  The empty highball went on the side table, patiently awaiting a refill while Jon’s hand came to rest across the Patriots logo on his chest.

“Okayy.  They all said the Hamptons were ‘awesome’, as usual.  I have to admit I was a little wistful hearing about the cookouts, beach and Montauk.  We had a lot of good years there.”

Romeo was just a baby when they bought this place.  Their kids had practically grown up here, with the better part of every August set aside for family.  The walls whispered memories and the floors echoed with footsteps of summers past, and at the beginning of the month, Jon found their noise almost deafening. 

It was quieter now.  New memories and even a few new faces were steeped into the essence of the house that no longer belonged to them but him.  He found it bittersweet in some ways and reassuring in others.

“We sure did.  It hasn’t been quite the same without you.”

“I know how you are about change,” she chided softly.  “You hate it, but you adapt.”

“Adapting and liking it are two different things.”

When she went silent, Jon thought maybe he should’ve kept that reflective comment to himself.  It wasn’t intended to come across sounding pathetic but that’s exactly how it echoed in his ears, and he swore silently.  His mind was muddled with alcohol, his matchmaking family, the counselor and ghosts of summers past.  All of those things congealed into a massive, living lump of stupidity that refused to be quelled.

“You wanna get together and fool around?  That is, if you’re not already getting laid.  Because I wouldn’t mind.”

If it wasn’t for an uninhibited week of sex followed by an abstinence that wasn’t sitting well, he never would have uttered something so blatantly ridiculous.  If he’d gone home with that divorcee Saturday night, it never would have occurred to him to try and hook up with his ex-wife.  If he had a sex play date looming ahead on his calendar with anyone, he would’ve been focused on it instead of the fucked up thoughts that led to this.

The situation was what it was, however, and any sliver of hope he had to convince himself it wasn’t as absurd as it sounded was erased by Dorothea’s harsh laughter.

“You’re an idiot,” she chortled in his ear.  “And I hope that you haven’t used or plan to use that line on anyone – unless you want to be single for the rest of your life.”

Snapping on the lamp with a grunt of annoyance, he stood and snatched up the empty whiskey glass.  Bare feet padded over the hardwood as he crossed to the bar and tucked the phone into his cheek.  After jerking the lid out of the decanter, amber liquid splashed animatedly as he poured without caution, exceeding two fingers’ worth of booze.

“Thank God I have pretty blue eyes and a nice ass, huh?  Otherwise I’d be screwed,” he observed bitterly, slinging back a swallow and savoring the slight burn the traced its way into his stomach. 

She was still chuckling, but Dorothea was kind enough to dial back the brutality.  “It’s not all that bad.  You’ve just never been forced to be nice to get someone in your bed before.  You’ll figure it out before you get blue balls.”

It was all he could do to bite back a retort about how being an asshole was working out pretty well for him so far and that nice wasn’t necessary for phenomenal sex, as proven by the counselor.  Hell, he would almost prefer the open animosity they had than the game playing required to embark in a “real” relationship.  Jon simply didn’t give enough fucks to go there yet.

“Whatever,” he muttered.  “Listen.  Jess met a couple of guys last week.  I was talking to them about them going off to college and some of the things they said made me start thinking.”

“What kind of things?”

“Things that I was compelled to make sure we’re in agreement on.  Like any decisions regarding the kids – even our grown kids.”

“Jon – “  The way she drew out the ‘o’ in his name was a clear indicator that she was on the verge of being pissed. 

“Don’t get on your broom,” he ordered shortly.  “This isn’t a control freak moment, but I’m going to be pissed if I’m not included in the discussions about where they go to school, where they live, weddings and houses and shit.  Please don’t encourage them to treat me as an afterthought.  That’s all I ask.”

The soft sigh echoed his as Jon settled back into the armchair with the remaining half of his drink. 

“I don’t know the family in question or what was said, but our kids are just that.  Ours.  All those times you were out roaming the globe while Stephanie shopped for prom dresses or Jake picked out Halloween costumes, we snapped pictures to send, as you may recall.  They always took your input into consideration and I see no reason for things to change now.  If anyone’s an afterthought here, it’s them.”

The rest of the whiskey careened down the back of his throat and was swallowed with a grimace.  Partly from the burn, partly from the pain of Dorothea’s burn. 

“I believe I’m familiar with how the rest of this conversation goes.  ‘You’re never here, Jon’.  ‘Your kids don’t know you’. ‘Enough is enough’.  Well, guess what?  I paid millions of frigging dollars to close that dialogue, and since you’re living off the proceeds, there’s no reason to keep launching your poison dipped darts at me.  I repeat: don’t leave me out of my kids’ lives.  Please, thank you, and your check for the Hamptons house will be there when promised.  Goodbye.”

Jon dropped the phone in his lap and jabbed the disconnect icon.  It was smacked down on the side table none too lightly as he rose to get just one more drink.  If this next one didn’t improve his mood, maybe it would at least put him to sleep. 

He jerked the top off the bottle at the same time a text message chimed from across the room.  Figuring it was Dorothea throwing one last jab, he didn’t hurry over to check it.  Jon took his time pouring his drink and replacing the whiskey lid.  He was just sinking into his seat when the second text chime pealed, giving him a sense of belligerent satisfaction that he hadn’t jumped quickly enough to suit her. 

Fuck her.  God knows I won’t be.

One disinterested finger nudged open the leather phone case to unsurprisingly find Dorothea’s name waiting.  What did come as a surprise, however, is that only one message was from her.  The other was from the counselor.

[9:33 PM]DOT: That was uncalled for and I’m sorry.  You won’t be left out.  Xoxo.

Yeah, whatever.  Until the next time I get on your nerves.

The only way to guarantee it wouldn't happen was to make sure he kept the lines of communication open.  Daily, not once or twice a week.  His relationship with the kids was on him, not anybody else.

[9:35 PM]JON: Thx

That was as good as it got tonight.  Now to see what the counselor had to say.

[9:34 PM]BITCHLAWYER: Took the boys to the airport earlier and saw a departure headed for Vancouver.  Hope you got everything worked out and have a good show.

Well.  That was… civilized.  Nice, even.  The Chiara personality obviously had control of her phone tonight, and talking to her tempted him greatly enough to bring Lilah’s speculations into play.

[9:37 PM]JON: Thx.  House feeling empty?

[9:39 PM]BITCHLAWYER: Very.  Want to come over and keep me company?  I have beds.  Haha  ;-)

The muscles in his lower abdomen clenched and his cock stirred at the mere suggestion.  It was a bad idea.  Phenomenally bad – or it would be when booze wasn’t lubricating his brain cells.  Right now, it felt pretty brilliant to kill two birds with one stone. 

One, he could scratch his testosterone itch.  Two, he could mentally snub Dorothea with the reiteration that nice wasn’t a requirement in a bed partner. 

And three, you might meet the woman with the soft kiss again.

[9:41 PM]JON: Tomorrow night.  7?

The glass went dry again while he waited for her to compose what could very well be a scathing answer from the counselor with a lot of those little picture thingies of a middle finger alternated with the smiley face with tears of laughter.  Or maybe Chiara was trying to gauge his sincerity. 

He tapped his thumb impatiently against the edge of the phone until up popped the message that would tell him which it was.

[9:44 PM]BITCHLAWYER: Date, quickie, or sleep over?

Any and all of those were acceptable as far as he was concerned.  Except…

[9:45 PM]JON:  Don’t want to go out

Again, her response seemed to take forever and he ended up pouring one more little drink before it finally appeared.

[9:48 PM]BITCHLAWYER:  Bring wine.  45 Willow St. 

He was tapping out his agreement with a slightly drunken grin when she – the soft Chiara – surprised him with another message.

[9:48 PM]BITCHLAWYER:  btw… I was right.  I miss it.