82:Spa Day

“I have a love/hate relationship with these kinds a' places,” Lilah said as she, Charlie and Izzie stepped from the elevator onto the thirty-fifth floor of the Mandarin Oriental hotel in mid-town Manhattan.  The spa here was supposedly one of the best in the city, and two of the three women would be testing that claim out for the first time today.

The trip from Brooklyn to Mid-Town had been relaxed and easy for Charlie, with Lilah making most of the conversation.  There had been a moment of awkwardness when Lilah hugged her a little too tight and said, “I’m so sorry”, but when Charlie simply smiled and nodded her thanks, the sweet Southern woman hadn’t dwelled upon it.  She’d easily shifted gears into talking about the kids and how they were having their own spa day at John and Carol Bongiovi’s house.

Then there was that one other, more significantly awkward moment when they met up with Izzie downstairs.  One look at Charlie had Izzie’s eyes watering and they ended up in a hug that was way too tight and personal for a hotel lobby. 

“I’m so glad you’re getting help,” Izzie had whispered.  “You have no idea.”

Blinking away her own tears, Charlie nodded and let her think that it revolved solely around unsettled issues with Joey’s death while she knew it was only step one.  Step two was the real reason for the leap – she needed help in working through the shit with Owen in order to be with Jon, which gave the rest of her crazy pockets much more weight than they previously carried.

Introductions were made between Lilah and Izzie, and here they were with Izzie sighing, “Me too.  I love go in and hate to come out.”

All three were dressed in comfortable workout clothes with their hair in ponytails, and Charlie felt a twinge when Lilah turned to laugh over her shoulder.  The scars on the other woman’s neck were readily visible today and, since Lilah had never gotten around to telling her the story behind them, she still had trouble imagining what could’ve caused such an assortment of markings.

“Not exactly what I was talkin’ ‘bout,” she said in a drawl that Charlie would swear was more pronounced than usual.  “Watch this.”

Strolling up to the reception desk, she propped a forearm on the top of it and leaned in toward the aloof woman stationed there.  Looking to be of Scandinavian descent with pale blond hair and sculpted cheekbones, the receptionist's smile was politely cool. 

Lilah’s however, was warm enough for both of them as she once again pulled out the heavy drawl.  “Hi there.  My friends and I have appointments.”

Disinterested blue eyes flicked over their little group, and Miss Norway intoned, “Your name please?”

“Bennett.”

That surname wasn't one that Charlie had heard before, leaving her to stand back and listen with curiosity.

“Yes, I see your party on the schedule,” the arctic queen confirmed.  “It says that you’ve been a guest with us before, but I don’t find it in our database.”

“Silly me,” was Lilah’s chuckle.  “You’ll probably find that under my married name.  Bongiovi.  B-O-N-G-I-O-V-I.”

As the receptionist dutifully typed in the information, Charlie could see a visible change come over her.  Once her translucent eyes skimmed across the screen, it was as though the midnight sun dawned in Manhattan. 

“Ah yes, Mrs. Bongiovi.  Here we are.”  Discreetly pressing a button, she assured the trio, “Monica will be out momentarily to escort you to our VIP suite.”

“Thank ya.”  Turning her back on the desk, Lilah rolled exasperated eyes and said under her breath.  “Happens every damn time.  They act like I’m somethin’ on the bottom of their shoe until they find the note about my family connections.  Then it’s like angels sing and the gates of Heaven open wide.  I love the service here, but hate how frazzin’ snotty they are.”

“So why do you book under Bennett, then, if you hate the hot and cold?” Izzie’s question was the same one Charlie wanted to ask.

It was also one that prompted another exasperated roll of the eyes and snorted.  “Because the one time I used my current name, there were photographers waiting downstairs.  For me.  They were a little disappointed, but they didn't wanna waste their time, so my picture still found it's way online in a couple of spots and I hated it.  Bennett isn’t quite so conspicuous.”

“I’d file a lawsuit against them,” was Charlie’s quietly heated remark.  “If they’re leaking information.”

“Oh, Tony made sure it would never happen again.”  Lilah waved off the sympathetic indignation with a wave of the hand.  “But he made a complete ass of himself and embarrassed the hell out of me in the process.  I don’t want to go through it again.”

“Seems like it would be easier to find a new spa.”

Smiling at them with a covetous excitement in her eyes, she said, “Once you see the amethyst crystal steam room, you’ll know why I don’t.  Crystals have become part of my psycho shit, and if Tony knew it, he probably wouldn’t let me come here.”

“Psycho shit?”  Izzie slid a look of concern to Charlie.  “Should I have brought the couch?”

“No,” came the chuckled response.  “It leans more to psychic than psycho, but the Bongiovi men consider those one and the same, from what I can tell.”

At that point, a gingery red-headed attendant joined the group with a much more sincere smile than the receptionist had graced them with.  “Lilah,” she greeted with pleasure.  “It’s good to see you again, and I’m glad you brought friends this time.”

“It’s good to get a break from the kids,” Lila sighed dramatically.  “Amy, this is Charlie and Izzie.  We need an escape today.”

“I can hook you up,” the freckled woman assured them.  “Let me show you to the locker room.  You can change into robes while I find some beverages.  Mimosas?”

“Perfect,” was Lilah’s consent after receiving nods from her partners in crime for the day.

Locker room conjured up images of metal doors, combination locks and sweaty men in Charlie’s mind.  The spa’s locker room, however, didn’t have quite that vibe.  There were several rows of “lockers”, which were actually keyed cherry cabinets with brushed nickel handles.  The benches in the centers of those rows had the same brushed nickel to support cherry bases and thick, creamy cushions, and without looking at the shower facilities, Charlie knew they would be just as luxurious. 

She wouldn't mind having her own sweaty man in this place.

After slipping on her plush robe that was the same cream as the bench padding, Charlie reached into her bag for a hair clip.  As timing would have it, her phone rang at just that time, vibrating against her hand as it sang a generic tune. 

“Don’t answer it,” Izzie ordered from the end of the row where she and Lilah had paused to wait.

“It might be one of the boys.  I have to at least see who it is.”

Withdrawing the phone, she thought she heard Lilah mutter, “This ain't gonna be good.”

Charlie didn’t think much of the dire prediction until seeing whose name was on the screen.  That’s when she decided that Lilah’s psycho shit wasn’t so psycho, after all.

Not today, Owen.   Jesus, not today.

“Don’t answer it.”

Glaring impatiently at Izzie’s repeated admonishment, Charlie decided she couldn’t afford that indulgence.  He’d contacted her exactly once since May.  If he was calling there was a reason, even if it wasn't one she wanted to hear.

“Hello?”

“And she still freaking answered it."  Her friend's sigh of disgust drifted along the row of lockers.

She shook her head with an impatient frown and waved the other two women on as Owen’s voice came over the line.  “Where are you, Charlie?”

“I’m out with friends,” she said coolly, not sure why it made a rat’s ass of a difference to him.  “Why?”

“You might want to have this conversation in private.”

The grim tone of voice had bile rising in her throat, as she sank onto the nearest bench in the deserted locker room.  “Is it the boys?”

“Not yet, it’s not, but if you don’t keep away from Jon Bon Jovi, I’ll be calling to say they’ve disowned you.”

Now that she knew her sons weren’t sick, injured or worse, the bile receded to leave behind the taste of anger. 

“My friends are none of your damn business.”

“The Facebook video of him singing to you at Vivi’s party made it my business.  Does your family know you’re fucking him?”

Oh, Jesus.  That song.  She'd become obliviousness to everything around upon realizing it was directed at her.  Whatever video Owen was talking about wasn't one she'd seen, but it didn’t take much imagination to visualize what it could look like. 

“No, and neither do you.  This is nothing more than your resentment of a man who can actually make a living in the music industry.”

“This is knowing from experience that any musician - especially one with a smooth voice and a song - can drench your panties,” he spat back nastily.  “There’s no way you’re not fucking him like you fucked every other one you could get your hands on.  I won't tolerate you presenting anything other than the illusion of a happy marriage, Charlie.  Or you'll regret it."

That’s what she got for being too forthcoming in the early days of their relationship.  He knew too much about her wilder days.

“Look what the last musician got me,” she hissed.  “You think I’d repeat that mistake in a million years?  Think again, dumbass.  And, if you really believe anybody thinks our marriage is happy, you’re an even bigger dumbass than I thought.”

“It’s your fucking job to make sure that’s what they think!  Do you not remember how this works?”

Oh, she remembered alright.  The rules and regulations of the marriage of Owen Foster read that his wife was to keep him financially solvent and stay married.  In turn, he hid her dirty secrets.  She was just about sick to death of the whole arrangement. 

“My brothers are cops, Izzie’s a psychiatrist, and nobody is an idiot.  There’s only so much I can do!”

“Then maybe it’s time for me to come back and make this marriage real again.”

The hell he would.  She would pull her nine millimeter from the foyer table and shoot him right between the eyes before he’d step foot in her brownstone. 

“Stay where you fucking are,” Charlie advised grimly with words of braided steel.  “You show up on my doorstep and, so help me God, you will regret it.”

“No, Charlie…”  His laugh was sinister enough to make him Hollywood's next serial killer.  “You’re the one who will regret it.”

“Fuck you, Owen!”

Charlie jabbed her finger at the screen to disconnect that sleazy bastard, then growled through gritted teeth.  If she wouldn’t throw up at being so close to his dick, she’d tweeze his pubic hairs out one at a time.

“You okay, honey?”

She was so engrossed in her personal rage that Lilah’s quiet question made Charlie jump and squeak with surprise.  “Shit, Lilah!  You scared me.”

“I’m sorry,” came the apologetic drawl and matching smile.  “Forgive me for bein’ nosy... But...  Well, I get the feelin’ that Owen is the source of those problems I've been sensin'.”

Jon’s family did not need to know that she had a husband, or that he was a monumental dick.  Charlie kept repeating that to herself as she struggled to corral her temper and speak in a moderated voice.

“That’s right.”  Rising to her feet to toss the phone back in her bag and close the locker door with purposeful ease, she confidently informed the other woman, “But not for much longer.”

Because, rather than intimidating her, Owen’s call had merely given her one more solid reason to end this whole charade.  She had to cut the leech from her ass, as Jon so eloquently put it.  

Had to.