In the Beginning...

Spring 1987

The hum of laughter, a gut vibrating bass line, and a whooping catcall greeted Richie Sambora as he stepped over the threshold of C.C. Rider’s.  But it was the twisting coil of smoke that drifted up to the rafters with the leading scent of pot that made that him grin.  Even at a showcase, they managed to sneak the good stuff in. 

Stage lights blared yellow then blue, and finally, an eerie grey, telling him it was probably red.  The club was full of people, a rainbow of colors and sizes—maybe seventy-thirty on the female to male ratio.  He stood head and shoulders above most of the crowd, so he had a clear view to the stage.

A well-worn boot propped on a speaker led to a coltish length of leg wrapped in ripped-to-shit denim. A glossy black and white Fender, rode across the woman’s thigh as she leaned into the solo.  Long fingers blazed across the fret, and a shredded lace glove hung onto her knuckles by a prayer. 

Jamison Sambora still played her guitar like the very notes were torn from her soul. He’d gone out and gotten her a proper Fender on the day she’d dotted the I’s and crossed the T’s to Devotion’s contract. His schedule had prevented him from actually seeing her use it on the stage. Pride, followed directly by a raised eyebrow—he’d have to ask his baby sister about that little technique—swelled inside him.

The pumping fists and singing crowd split his grin wide.  “Looks like Jamie’s doing all right for herself, huh?”

Jon’s cool gaze surveyed the room, his non-committal half smile said little. As usual, Jon was looking for the flaws and the strengths in the room.  Did he even soak in the excitement of the stage anymore?  Did he see the huge smile on Ashley’s face as she climbed on the drum set to get the crowd to sing along?  Sure the ceilings were too low, and Jamie could probably touch the rafters with the tips of her fingers, but who the hell cared when the music was this true?  Who the fuck cared that the room was far too small for the amount of people crammed in there?

The kids on the top level sure the fuck didn’t care.  The floor level bounced with the beat and screamed for more sure as fuck didn’t care.  Clubs were where the pure music lived if you let it.  Jon used to remember that, once upon a time.  He still remembered that sometimes, but the business of music was starting to take over and that scared the hell out of him.

Instead of dwelling on Mr. Cranky, he smiled at the long, cool blonde who flashed a wicked grin his way.  Her lips were slick with gloss that made a guy think with his dick.  Unfortunately tonight was not a night for him and his cock to have a discussion about the virtues of a good blow job. 

He was there with a purpose. Their buddies, Cinderella, wouldn’t be able to tour with them for the foreseeable future thanks to Tom’s busted vocal cord.  Of all the people he’d known, Tom Keifer had been one of the most underrated voices in the industry.  Not to mention a solid Vodka man, like himself. 

They’d wanted to give their band a chance to break out.  Strong songs and a hot look already guaranteed them stage time.  All they needed was a few months as an opening act to get them off the ground.  It sucked ass that Tom had gotten such a shit break.

But instead of allowing Bon Jovi to shop around for another band, Mercury dropped the hammer.  Hot new girl band and oh…lookie, lookie—Sambo’s little sister?  Gee isn’t she in a band on our label?  Perfect opening act.

In theory.

Fuck, man.  Jamie was going to have his head on a pike.  Prideful little shit that she was, she hated to use his name to even get a table—let alone be an opening act for Bon Jovi. 

The fact that they were on the same label was bad enough.  She was convinced he had something to do with her damn contract. That he’d been in Japan, touring at the time, and hadn’t a clue she was even thinking about recording a damn record was inconsequential.  That was Jamison, always worried about being in his shadow.

As if a shadow had a chance in hell around her.  She was an individual to be sure.  Where he was laid back, Jamie was intense.  He was self-taught, she’d sucked down every lesson available from New York to New Jersey.  She was a force of nature in all ways from personality to talent.  The day he paved the way for her was the day he flamed his way into the grave.

Anyone else would use their older brother to name drop and grease some wheels.  Jamie would rather cut off her damn arm—she’d find a way to play one handed.  She’d even contemplated dropping her last name just so people wouldn’t associate her with him.  Thank God she’d had the good grace to drop that idea…it would’ve killed their Pops.

It was her own style and her own talent that got her up on that stage.  His molars crunched together as she leaned forward for her solo. Devotion blasted through their hit single and there was his baby sister with just a damn bra under her leather jacket.

Son of a bitch.  The brat that had followed him around in diapers was not allowed to be a sexual creature in any way.  Man, it was just wrong. Dragging his eyes away from the stage before he did damage to all the fuckwads staring at her tits, he followed Jon to the back of the club.

They cut through the crowd until they found the bar.  Richie held up two fingers and mouthed Michelob.  If the bartender recognized him, there wasn’t a flicker of it showing in his eyes.  He caught them as they slid down the bar, handed one to Jon and leaned back for his first swallow and choked. 

Déjà vu hit hard as Stephanie Loren came to the forefront of the stage and one black lycra clad leg wrapped around her mic stand.  She held it tight to her body, rolling it across a wide black and silver belt that clung low on her hips.  A purple scarf hung from her mic and slithered across her exposed belly before she snapped it back into its stand.  Long fingernails, in the same purple shade, trailed down her neck, between breasts that could make a man beg, and scraped along her belly where the scarf had just been.

Just like that, he was stone hard. 

The mic stand tapped against the floor as the bass and drums ticked out the end of the song.  She stared into the crowd, chest heaving through the last strains of the song.  She dragged out, ‘Since You Been Gone,’ until he was fairly sure every male in the room was ready to show her just how fast they could help her get over the bum she sang about. 

Before he could find a shred of sanity, guitars ripped through the low ceilinged room and Steph’s voice went from sultry to husky.  Again, she wrapped her leg around the chrome of her mic stand.  This time, she shoved it between her legs and leaned into the crowd. 

Once upon a time there’d been a pole and a chair that she’d manipulated just as effectively.  It was years ago, but the image in his mind was no less potent.  She was lean and tight—except for the sway of her tits under a scrap of black she called a shirt.  A matching buckle cinched under her breasts, parting them until all he could think about was putting his face right there in their warmth, and dying a happy man. 

A blue light flared hard on her until silver sparkles tracked every line of her elegant neck and perfect curve of her chest.  She stared at the ceiling, stomping one heel into the hardwood stage, then faced the crowd and their eyes met.

Was it a memory or reality shuddering through his brain right at that second?  It had been gold dust that had nearly killed him on that long ago night.   He’d tried to put that night in New York City out of his mind, but here and now, the memory was so clear.

Stephanie became Rosie for one moment in time.

Until the words to the song poured out of her, deep and gritty as Jamie’s guitars, the only thing left was Stephanie.  Older, and if at all possible, even more beautiful.  The sultry curve of her mouth, the insolent cocked hip and a room of people at her mercy showcased her as part goddess and all woman. 

Jamie’s heavy guitar suited the song, but the way Stephanie moved and interacted with the crowd was pure, mesmerizing talent.  And in that moment, he knew they’d blow the arena’s away with their style.

“You all right?”

Richie nodded, deflected his reaction by pointing to a pair of big tits in the crowd. “I didn’t think they made fake ones that big.”

Jon stared at him for a long moment, then shrugged.  “You know I’m not a boob man.”

“Everyone’s a boob man,” Richie muttered and slipped on his sunglasses.  Jon saw too much.  He didn’t want to have to explain a slack jawed bought of lust.

That’s all it was.

He ruthlessly squashed the little voice that screamed, riiiiiiight. 

Lust he could handle.