Eight: A Prequel to Sugar Fix

V

Jon let his head sink back against the sleek leather of the car's backseat, and closed his eyes. The evening was cold, colder than Jon had anticipated, and though the cars were always preheated to receive the band members, Jon still shivered a little when his damp hair touched the leather.

He had put on a sweatshirt backstage, but decided against getting a shower until he was at the hotel. Still carrying the vest in front of him, he had slipped as quickly from the building as possible and, in the process, lost track of Richie. Most of the time they shared a car, but Richie was nowhere in sight, and as soon as Jon had ducked into the car, the driver had taken off. It was common practice, to ensure his safety, and Jon hadn't protested, figuring Richie was either grabbing a shower in the dressing room, had already found himself in another car, or was busy with some groupie, possibly tucked into the same corner he and Jon had occupied only moments before, but not fearing discovery since the arms that would be wrapped around his neck would be unmistakably female this time.

Jon turned his head, dropped the side of it against the seat so he faced the street his driver was exiting onto, and thought of Dot. It had been twelve days since he'd watched her disappear in that taxi, and she hadn't once tried to get a hold of him. Jon hadn't tried to get a hold of her, either. As he watched the streetlights and neon business signs of the city flash by him in a blur, he was surprised to realize that he hadn't much thought of her.

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After sitting on the bed, staring stupidly at the suite phone for more than half an hour (with occasional breaks to glance at the door, as though he could will a knock on it through sheer mental determination), Jon sighed and heaved himself up. For whatever reason, Richie wasn't going to show, and as Jon peeled off his stage clothes on his way to the bathroom, he pretended not to feel the heat bubbling up into his face. How stupid could he be, not to think that Richie would be fucking some pretty little stranger right this moment? To think that Richie, the single biggest man-whore Jon had ever known, would somehow pass up the throngs of half-naked young women clamoring for his attention, because a couple of clumsy encounters with another man would capture his imagination that much?

We should wait for the hotel, Jon had said. I want you now, Richie had responded, and at that moment, Jon had thought it was proof of what was happening, proof that Richie was just as much into it as Jon was, but which he now realized was simply Richie's way of saying, this is it, this is all you get, at the hotel I'll have my dick in two blonds and a redhead just in the time it takes you to realize I'm not gonna show up at your room--

"Fuck it," Jon said, his voice echoing a little around the spacious marble of the bathroom, and made sure not to accidentally glimpse himself in the mirror before he got in the shower. If he didn't see the flush in his face, he could say it was never there. Why hadn't he been thinking of Dot in all this time? He wondered if she was still awake.

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After his shower, Jon briefly considered getting dressed again and joining whatever party was going on tonight. In the end, he just pulled on the over-sized tee shirt and sweatpants that constituted his pajamas, and rubbed at his hair with a towel until it fuzzed out from his head. He finally dropped the towel on the floor and ran his hands through his tangled curls and opened the bathroom door to find Richie sitting on the edge of his bed. He was dressed similarly, his hair also damp from a shower, his gaze on the floor a few feet in front of him.

"You came," Jon said.

"I almost didn't."

Jon's back straightened but he remained quiet. Richie looked up.