Chapter 10 Bad August #3
But Jon Bon Jovi in his prime. Maybe he was born later in this timeline?
He’s got the hair—full eighties hair. He’s got an earring.
He’s got a leather jacket all covered in studs and tassels, and he’s got insanely tight ripped jeans.
He’s wearing fucking cowboy boots. And worse than all of that, now he’s got both his ring-adorned and perfect hands on August’s cheeks.
I want to vomit blood and hit him all at the same time.
August lifts his chin to pull back. Those same hands slip to his shoulders, then to his hips again, tightening, and the guy doesn’t let go this time. His voice is a gruff, flooring New Jersey accent when he yanks August’s pelvis flush against his own and says, “You’re the one who called me.”
August doesn’t move. He takes a moment to look him dead in the eye, the space of a breath between them, then replies, “And you’re the one who hung up.”
Jon Bon fucking Jovi leans in, and Jon Bon fucking Jovi kisses August.
I can’t even describe the flare of emotions in my chest. It’s like a gas canister explodes, and it’s all fire. I don’t like it. I don’t fucking like it, and it’s over as soon as it began, physically, but not inside me. Inside, it’s like he’s grabbed me, and kissed me, and I hate him for it.
I’m on the edge of my seat, ready to jump up and throw him off, but August’s already shoved him against the closed door and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “You have no right to do that.”
“Bullshit,” he throws back. And as though it could possibly mean a thing, he says, “I still love you.”
“You never loved me,” August spits out, rapid fire, and I get the feeling this is old ground for them.
Dickwad proves me right when he replies, “You’re going to start this again?” He says it on a bitter scoff, then turns away with a roll of his eyes, but that’s exactly when his gaze lands on me.
He turns whiter than a full moon, just for a second, then his eyes are straight back to August. Then back to me.
I don’t think the look on my face is going to help him settle comfortably into the new situation.
It’s the way his shoulder dips towards August then that really sets me off. It happens automatically. Like they have something unspoken. Like he’s close to August.
He doesn’t know what being close to August is. I am fucking August.
And I must be looking death straight at this guy.
No one’s saying anything. I like it like that. I want him to feel uncomfortable. I want him to know he’s outside of this. Whatever we have.
But August plasters his hand over his eyes, and sends me deeper into what I’m well aware is a jealous spiral when he evidently feels the need to explain, “He’s my… cousin. He’s…”
Yeah, sure. I’m your cousin. Your cousin, who spent the whole night dreaming of kissing you.
Asshole’s eyes are on me again, squinting like I’m a slide in front of a microscope. A dumb microscope that uses too much hairspray. “Your cousin?” Again, he looks at August. Again, he stares at me. “That’s…”
He’s coming over now, and I’m wondering how mad August will be if I punch him in the face. He hasn’t mentioned him once, so he can’t be that special to him. But who wouldn’t mention they have a thing with Jon Bon fucking Jovi?
The same Jon Bon Jovi who’s leaning in way too close to me, who then drops the remarkably astute, “Has anyone ever told you, you two look really similar?”
“Can’t see it myself,” I deadpan.
He stares at me a moment, confusion swimming in his stupid blue eyes. “But… you’re…” Then his face cracks, and the teeth in that smile are fucking perfect. If you consider bleached, blinding white and straight as a row of fresh gravestones to be ‘perfect.’ And I don’t. Obviously.
Prick.
“You had me,” he laughs out in that annoying accent of his. With an intimate something in his eye, he says to August, “I didn’t know you had a cousin.”
Why should he know? Why should August tell him anything? But August’s fumbling about for excuses. “Um. We’re… He’s… This is…”
He doesn’t know what to call me. He’s trying not to make it weirder than it already is by saying our name.
“August,” I helpfully finish for him.
August’s eyes flare at me, but I’m ignoring him in preference of unseating this dick.
That’s right, motherfucker. Same name, same face, same sexual preferences.
Probably.
Beat that.
“Jon,” he introduces himself, and now I’m the one looking to August for an explanation. This cannot be real. I am not dating Jon Bon Jovi in this reality.
Although I am really fucking hot in this reality. And irresistible even to myself, apparently. So why not?
But more pressingly, Jon Bon fucking Jovi is actually probably quite difficult to compete with, all things being considered. I bet he has a dumb mansion and everything. Not good news.
“Hasn’t…” Jon Bon fucking Jovi turns to August and lowers his voice. “You haven’t mentioned me to him?”
“No.” The word comes out short and tight, and it carries some weight I don’t understand.
Not until the atmosphere spins again, and before I can tell him we’re busy right now and to go away, Jon says to August, “Can I talk to you?”
August fixes his eyes on me. It’s like he doesn’t know what to do. There’s nowhere to go. It’s a studio apartment. And I’m certainly not leaving.
It’s a long look between us, and Jon Bon Jovi notices.
He slips his jacket off and drops it on the couch, like a cat spraying urine on the furniture. And my heart stops right about then.
He’s wearing a tank top, and his arms are so fucking beautiful. He has half a dozen bracelets on his dumb sexy wrists, and he’s got a goddamn superman tattoo. The goddamn superman tattoo.
He’s actually Jon Bon fucking Jovi, and he’s dating the guy I want.
I am going to be sick.
He’s taking him by the arm, walking him over to the bed, and all I can think about is how many times he’s pushed him down onto that bed. What they’ve done there. What he’s going to say to him, and if this is my one chance with August about to be blown.
I walk over to the kitchenette, very casually of course, and get my thwarted Coke out of the fridge, just to be close enough to hear them. They’re paying no attention to me anyway.
Straining to listen, I get snippets from Jon. “All those years.” “I never meant to hurt you.” “Baby.”
Don’t call him that.
I’m about to fucking explode.
August’s even quieter, like he doesn’t want me to hear any of it.
“Please,” Jon begs him.
“I can’t. I’m busy. With August.”
The place goes silent, then I have just seconds to rip open a cupboard and pretend I’m looking for mugs before those stupid cowboy boots tap down on the linoleum right behind me.
“August?” I turn around, as though I wasn’t expecting him, just to be greeted by that huge, white smile of his. I hate that he’s so much better looking than me. Him and August, both so handsome together. I bet they look amazing when they fuck.
I can’t even form an answer between my anger and this vicious jealousy, but I don’t need to. He goes ahead with his announcement: “You’re on the door for my show tonight. VIP room. Free drinks. Full backstage pass. Everything you want. You’ll come, won’t you?”
“Jon!” August snaps from over his shoulder.
With a flash of bleached teeth, he spins around. “What? Your cousin’s in town, let’s show him a good time. Whatever else you had planned won’t be as good as that, will it?
August declares, “I’m not going.”
So Jon Bon fucking Jovi turns back to me and slaps his stupid hand down on my arm. “Koko. We’re on at ten, but you should plan to stay late. Make him come, alright?”
But now, on top of all the confusion and fury, the logical part of my mind is playing over Koko. A special, small, intimate show there? Or did he never make it in this reality? Maybe hair metal didn’t happen here? What the fuck kind of shitty universe is this?
Thinking out loud, I look at Jon, but I say to August, “In my reality, he was only valid in the eighties.”
It’s indescribable how happy it makes me when this motherfucker’s eyes flare to triple their size. I hadn’t even meant to piss him off, I was just stating a fact. But he’s instantly furious at the comment, so before I know it, I’ve added, “If he was ever ‘valid’ at all.”
If looks could eviscerate, I’d be all over the wall right now. Jon Bon Jovi seethes at me, “‘It’s My Life’ came out in the year two thousand.”
His words are confounding. He can’t be older than mid-to-late twenties. Some kind of weird interdimensional glitch?
Although something isn’t quite adding up here, I’m not even going to attempt to hide this smirk. “And?”
“Ever heard of a little album called Keep the Faith? That was nineteen ninety-two. ‘Blaze of Glory’ was nineteen ninety! What the fuck, man?”
This would have to be the funniest thing that’s happened to me in years. If August didn’t step forward just then, his hand on Jon’s stupid naked shoulder. “He doesn’t mean it like that. He’s… not from around here. He’s very culturally stunted.”
“I’m not culturally stunted!”
“Yes you are!” he snaps pointedly, as though I’m supposed to play along with that.
“No, I’m—”
“Jon, please.” His nice hand slips into Jon’s hand, and suddenly he’s leading him towards the door. “I’ll try to come by, okay?”
“We have science to do tonight,” I call out. “Deep science. Heavy maths. All night long.”
Jon thinks I’m mad, I can tell. Little does he know, I’ll be seducing his lover with long algebra faster than he can worm his way into leather pants for his show.
Stupid tight ass in his stupid tight pants.
But even if he’s looking at me like he thinks I just crawled out of the sink, Jon says to August, “You’re doing maths with him?”
“It’s just a project,” he scrabbles out, opening the door. “For his, um, university. He’s a quantum physicist, actually.” There’s a warm hum of pride in the comment, accompanied by a fond flicker of his eyes towards me. “He wants my help.”
“Your help?”
The way he says that makes the whole room go cool.
It’s three heartbeats, yet it feels like years.
Because that’s when I see it. August colouring, not because I’ve complimented him, but because he’s embarrassed.
This fucker raising his chin, like August owes him something in exchange for giving a piece of himself to someone else, even for a few short hours.
This is the guy—this is the ex who makes him think he’s not beautiful. The ex who’s been fucking other people. The ex who doesn’t treat him like a king, like I would.
And that ex puts his hand on his cheek, and whether August wants it or not, he kisses him.
It’s excruciating.
It’s cold.
August doesn’t move at all, just stills his lips like a corpse and lets it happen. Jon finally pulls back, but his voice stays low and intimate. “I love you. You know that.”
August gives him a half nod.
Jon says, “I’ll see you tonight.”
It’s neither a question nor an invitation. It’s an expectation.
He sends me a half-glare as a goodbye, then walks out the door.