Jon Bon Jovi had given up everything for a chance to see stardom, including his highschool sweetheart Amelia Sambora.
Now as Jon approaches the most important and most dangerous moments in his professional life, Amelia has a way of making it back in...
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March 7th 1987 / Montreal, Canada
After travelling all day, Amelia settled down into the Montreal hotel room. She always wondered how the band was able to afford such luxuries.
She situated herself at the vanity and began to wipe her face clean of the small amount of makeup she'd worn. Tomorrow, she told herself, was going to be the big day. She hadn't really seen Jon with all the travelling of the past couple days, and when she did he only gave her fleeting glances that didn't look all too pleased.
And she couldn't blame him, not one bit. She hadn't treated him well. Sure, she looked after him physically but emotionally she wasn't the most tender with him. In fact, she was totally harsh.
She settled into the cold covers with a sigh. It was late and dark, and cold considering the country she was in. The bed was far too large for one woman, nevermind someone that hardly scraped five feet and four inches. Laying in the middle of it, when Amelia spread herself like a starfish her hands and feet didn't even begin to reach the edges. The bed might've been comfortable for a broad, burly man that stood around six and a half feet, but to Amelia it felt nothing but lonely. She'd gotten used to being cosy and cramped when she shared a small single bed with Jon.
Amelia had just about shut her eyes when she heard a noise. A quiet, muffled sound almost like a voice. Melodical, yet not quite the timbre of human song. She peered over to the source of the sound; she hadn't realized until she'd switched the lights off that she was in an adjoined room, the light of the neighbouring room filtering through the small gaps in the door frame.
She hadn't thought much of it at the time. She figured she was next door to a member of the crew and that they'd soon switch their light off. Grumbling a string of tired curses, she kicked off the covers and padded over to the door.
The melody became more comprehensible the closer she got. It wasn't a human voice, it was a guitar, she could hear the very quiet thuds as the mysterious music man- or lady, plucked the strings. Suddenly far less grouchy, she pressed her ear closer to the gap in the door and listened.
The playing could only be described as lovely. The musician had an ear for musicality, and from the small excerpts she was hearing she was able to discern that they valued emotion and tunefulness far more than any sort of technical skill.
And then she wondered the identity of the player. It wasn't Richie, she knew that. Her brother rarely fumbled over notes, nor did she imagine he'd ever mute his playing in an attempt to cater to neighbors; he was far too obnoxious for that.
David played no guitar, nor did Tico. Alec knew some basics, and she knew that a number of crew members carried their own guitars with them on tour.
A small part of her hoped it might be Jon.
She waited a little longer by the door. The playing soothed her, and her suspicions were confirmed when the man began to sing. Or hum.
She could pick that voice out of ten thousand. A smile spread instantly across her face. A part of her wanted to scold him, his voice was supposed to be off limits, but the other and far larger part of her just swooned over the gentle grittiness of the melody.
