6...We Wish You a Merry Christmas

“Attention.  Attencion, por favor!”  Gavin clapped his hands loudly from the center of the impeccably decorated Angel Orensanz Center. 

It looked just as stunning as it had yesterday when Mrs. Petey had taken the nose-dive that currently had her with one sparkling pink combat boot propped on a chair, sipping the alcohol-free witches’ brew that was the signature cocktail of tonight’s event.  The only change from yesterday’s initial unveiling of his superlative soiree swag was the addition of the brown paper bags over the top-hatted Day of the Dead skulls, reading “Maybe next time”, because today’s celebration was about the living princess still cosseted the in the secure fortress of her mommy’s love shack.

“Oh behalf of my Bongiovi besties, I would like to welcome you to the holiday haps that they’ve so graciously funded for the benefit of you, their friends and family.  I would also like to be the first to officially announce in a public venue that Baby Girl is having a baby girl!”

The appropriate applause and catcalls accompanied his proclamation, and Baby Daddy slid an arm around the bride whom he hadn’t let wander any further than arm’s reach so far this evening.  Tipping up the impish face that Gavin had bedecked with his now-signature sparkling cobwebs, Jon kissed his wife in a way that oozed more sweetness than the sugar skull dessert buffet that would be paraded out later.

“Because the disgustingly-in-love parents possess a combined net worth of ‘fuck you world’ and don’t need all the cliché blankies and pajamas that come with a typical baby bash, we’ve gathered tonight with the mission of bestowing something far more precious upon the little bambina.”  He fixed the demoness of honor with a prickly glare and pointed an accusing finger in her direction.  “Which I would’ve TOLD you, had you remained in an upright position for thirty seconds longer.”

He felt free to snark now that the crisis itself was over.  Never in his life had he been so relieved to see printouts of a golden-orange blob or the deeply grooved dimples of the little Tinkerhell that waved her baby pictures in his face from discomfort of a wheelchair.  It had almost been enough to bubble up a tear or two, because if something had happened to that baby, Petey would’ve been heartbroken and Gavin would’ve died a little inside himself. 

There wasn’t anyone in his life who meant more to him than that little dark soul.  She’d come along and changed his life with the three-ring circus of hers, and as a result, he’d found his missing soul-sister.  When she hurt, he was sarcastic, when she was happy… Well, he was sarcastic. 

Only Gavin knew that there were differing emotions behind his shades of sarcasm or that Petey had those emotions wrapped around her demonic pinky finger.  He liked it that way.  No one else need bother themselves with the fact that he was anything other than a stylish, cold-hearted bitch.

“Shut up and get on with my hijacked holiday party,” she sniped good-naturedly, blowing a kiss his way. 

There was nothing that could piss on her parade today, and it made Gavin just a bit misty-eyed.

“In due time, Mrs. Imp-Patience.”  One hand flew up to cover his mouth.  “Oh, snap!  I’ve just astounded myself with how clever I am!  Please feel free to applaud.”

The room erupted into laughter as he arrogantly waggled his eyebrows and beamed in acceptance of his well-deserved adoration.  No one could manage his level of wit and sarcasm on the fly, but this time his mouth even out-witted his brain, he thought, huffing on his fingernails and buffing them against the navy turtleneck from boyfriend’s new clothing line. 

Horribly drab and basic, but good quality, so he’d take the freebies and smile.

“Could we get on with it?” 

Gavin would know that dry sarcasm anywhere and flicked an admiring chin at his snark sister-in-law, Mr. JBJ’s ex.  “Cool your jets Mrs. Bongiovi Bongiovi.  You’re just anxious to resume the honeymoon we’ve so rudely interrupted with this soiree.  There is a coatroom near the back, if you’d like to take your new hubby on a quickie tour of it.  Just stay away from my cashmere outerwear, and we’ll be here to entertain you in the afterglow.”

Her middle finger was a couple’s event as the middle Bro Jo joined in on the traditional salute of their native state. 

“That’s not your ring finger, Kitty Snark, but you can show me the jewels later.  Now… where were we?”

“Neck deep in regret with my decision to let you preside over this.” 

His dapperly coiffed head snapped toward the daddy of the hour.  “Oh please.  You’ve toured with the likes of men called 'Ratt'.  I’m not even close to the biggest embarrassment in the limelight at a Bongiovi show.”

Boyfriend rolled his eyes, but did a splendid job of biting his tongue instead of biting back.

Pity.  A good battle of wits with the dental diety could often be quite entertaining, but he was clearly riding the same cloud of bliss as his adoring wife.  Jon said nothing further, but merely scowled while playing with his loved one’s black bouffant. 

Repeatedly, Gavin had told her not to wear her hair like that.  She was not a society matron who could pull off the up-do – not without his help, anyway.  He didn’t care how lazy she was feeling, the twist she’d jammed a few pins into was more suited to her mother instead of a pint-sized purveyor of evil, who had a fetal skeleton on the front of her black t-shirt tonight.  Why could she not settle for a ponytail?  Boring as hell, but at least more age-appropriate.

In fact… 

He searched the crowd through narrowed eyes.  Yes, there was Mother Teresa now, with hair more youthfully designed than that of her daughter.  Then again, catching a glimpse of big brother Hillbilly Henry with his mountain man beard that belonged in somebody’s backwoods, Gavin supposed that Petey wasn’t the homeliest Heinz in the land.  Poor Mother Teresa missed the fashion fleet on refining those two.  At least her other boys and Senator Stepdaddy were looking trendy in their high-priced couture this evening.

“As I was saying…”  Gavin cleared his throat pointedly, casting defiant eyes around the room that dared anyone else to interrupt.  “We are each prepared to give the gift of ourselves – no returns allowed, so keep it zipped Shadow Siren and Sailor Smiley.  Friends and family, in the center of your tables, you will find some lovely skull-themed notecards along with devilish pitchfork pens.  I’m allotting two minutes of soul-searching and two minutes to spill your soul on the card.  The gifts will presented along with the next round of cocktails.”

“We can’t get drunk before we do this?”  Gavin’s favorite member of da boyz called out. 

“Jew boy, who the hell are you kidding?  You’ve been pickled since the late eighties.  It’s impossible for you to be any drunker.”

“He might be an ass, but he’s right,” Richie Slambora snorted, drawing the arched brow of judgment.  Gavin could diss his friends, but nobody else was permitted to do so.

“Uh, Detox Dude… people who live in shot glasses shouldn’t throw whiskey bottles, no matter how expensive they are.”

“Gavin!”

Whirling around to find the preggo of honor her using telepathy to transmit a hex in his direction, he lifted both hands.  “What?!  We’re all friends here.”

“It’s cool, Pretty Dark Angel,” Richie assured, using the pitchfork pen for his presentation of the Jersey salute.  “Nobody takes him seriously, anyway.”

Pious purple eyes rolled to a ceiling that shared a similarly evil glow.  “Even so…  Gavin, could you possibly be nice for one evening?”

“That sassy little shit couldn’t be nice if his life depended on it.” 

Flashing a grin at the only person in here that could keep up in the bitch department, he preened, “Why thank you Mama JBJ.  Why be nice when you can be honest, right?”

God knew the woman had been honest enough at the beginning of this demonic fairytale, when passing judgment on Petey as nothing more than one of Satan’s minions.  Little had she known that her new daughter-to-be was the very rich mastermind behind the Hades Horde, not simple one of the impy gang.  Gavin’s favorite bedtime story was how Old Mrs. B got her starched panties handed to her on a cobwebby platter after trying to cut Petey off at her petite knees.

As far as he knew, the mistake wasn't made a second time.

“Jesus, I have no idea how Jon puts up with him.”

Gavin directed his barracuda grin to the behemoth brother on the other side of the bridal aisle.  “He considers himself blessed, I’m sure.  As should you, because you don’t interest me enough to spar with.  You have the rapier sharp wit of a potato, Little Big Jovi, but let’s start with your gift to the newest Bongiovi heir.  What will you be supplying?  Tutoring?”

His mountainous body leaned to one side to look around Gavin.  “Can I kick his ass just once, Petey?  Please?”

“Where’s the fun in that big boy?  We all know you could snap my neck with one hand.  Impress us all and shove your very thoughtful and appropriate gift down my throat.  Hmm?”

“Shooting lessons.”

The dry, flat proclamation ripped a guffaw from deep within Gavin.  Honest to God, he’d no idea that the big dumb ox had the ability to be droll.  He was going to have to reassess his opinion of Matt Bongiovi, especially when he saw the look of horror on the Mini Mistress of the Dark’s face when silently asking her better half if that was a serious gift. 

Priceless.

“Might wanna wait until the first birthday for that, Bodyguard Brother, but that’s excellent.  Baby Blue, are you jotting all these down for us?”  The eldest of Jon’s progeny was rolling her eyes at the entire clan, but she dutifully nodded and held up the black journal with purple pages that she’d been assigned upon entry to the gathering.  “Thank you, dearest.  Okay, who’s next?”

“I’ll go,” came the offer from the newlywed Bongiovi, also known as He Who Shooteth Tweedy Birds.  Gavin personally thought TBJ should be the one ponying up shooting lessons, but maybe little brother’s scope was more limited than anyone suspected.  “This is probably not a surprise, but I’m going to give her a video history of the Bongiovis that I’m working on.  I’ll also document all the rest of her important moments like birthdays, Christmas and all that.”

“Oh, Tony!  How perfect!  Thank you so much!” 

Good.  Tinkerhell was pleased so Gavin was pleased.  Snark Kitty’s man had set the bar for the rest of the offerings, and the round robin of elite one-upmanship began, just as the Fairy Gaymother had planned. 

Baby sitting from the grandmommies, trips to the zoo from Senator Stepdaddy, cooking lessons from Grandpa B, bouncer service from the little one’s three older brothers, blacksmithery from Hillbilly Henry, love of football from the Heinz uncles, an eye for art from the Cuban drummer, the understanding of how to only see the best in people from Rehab Richie, underage drinking venue from Liquored Lema. 

All were fairly predictable, and perhaps Gavin’s gift to the celebrated offspring would be just as predictable to the remaining partygoers, but he had no choice.

“Last, but not least, I shall be providing my impeccable fashion sense to the beautiful babe, as well as her name.  I’ve decided upon Bronwen Gavinia.”

Peteykins spit purple witches’ brew all over the table.  “Excuse me?”

“Honey, someone has to bestow fashion sense on this child.  She will be the most beautiful creature roaming the earth, and we can’t have her looking like white vampire trash.”

“Okay, first of all, I know you didn’t just call me trashy.  Because if you do, we're going to start transitioning you to a woman right here and now.”  Kohl cobwebs shimmered as she narrowed her vicious violet vision his way.  “Secondly, I was talking about her name.  You’re not naming her.”

Rising from his seat and cocking one hip, Gavin crossed his arms and obstinately jutted out his chin.  “Bronwen means ‘dark and beautiful’.  I fail to see how there could be a more appropriate name for this child, but you can call her whatever you wish.  Auntie Gavin will be addressing her as Bronwen.”

“We will have this argument later.  In private,” the pixie hellion decreed through teeth that were being ground to dust at this very moment.  “But, for the record, her name is Gianna.  The Italian feminine version of 'John'.”

Gianna. 

He blinked absently at his dark friend as he let that sink in. 

Gianna.  G Jovi.  Gia.  Gigi.  Giggles.

Giggles. 

Oh, that was toooooo ridiculously cute.  He was going to have a little Giggles to dress up and play dollies with.  Yes, yes, yes please!

“Very well,” he deigned after deciding it would be wisest to keep those adorable nicknames to himself until the birth certificate was printed, lest they choose something that was hideous beyond repair.  “I concede Gianna.  What about her other name?”

“Milsèan,” came the firm assertion from Papa Bear.  “It's Irish for 'sweet', and with the Italian Gianna for my side of the family, both sides of her heritage are represented."

Fixing both of them with a peevish pucker that was only for looks, Gavin realized that it didn’t matter what they named the little Valentine’s Day Darling.  He would still call her whatever he liked.  That was his prerogative as the godparent they would surely name him to be.

“Perfection, Daddy Dearest,” Gavin conceded, letting his pucker puss slide into a more congenial smile as he reached for his cocktail.  “Let’s all lift our glasses in a toast to baby, shall we?  Health, happiness and love – from her first day to her last, a hundred years later.  To Gianna!”

For once, there was no quibbling, snarking, back biting, or arguing among the vocally diverse group.   The room abounded with nothing but fond smiles and well wishes as fine crystal was raised to reflect not only a prism of purple, but the love of family and friends.

Miss Gianna Milsèan Bongiovi was going to be very blessed, indeed.

5...I'll Be Home for Christmas

They were home.  Thank God, they were home and Jon had sent both David and Gavin away with love and thanks, without allowing them to tag along.  It was one of many reasons that Petey was completely in love with her husband.

Those back spasms had truly been just that, and when she'd felt the inkling of a new one, Dr. Spanos ordered a muscle cream that had done the trick.  No contractions.  No premature labor.  Only a beautiful ultrasound experience revealing that they did, indeed, have a daughter on schedule to arrive with Cupid on Valentine's Day.

“Easy, Sugar,” he murmured, visibly straining to keep his hands to himself and let her navigate the stretch from the in-home elevator to the master bedroom, even though she huffed and grunted with the unfamiliarity of the crutches that were her new friend for the next week or so. 

Her great concession had been in actually using the elevator instead of hopping the steps one at a time.  Standing by to watch that would’ve caused his very pretty head to explode, and it hadn’t sounded like a good enough reason to exhaust herself – and her daughter – any further than they already were.

“Gianna.”

His handsome face was creased with perplexity as his eyes flicked up from the floor – and the rubber crutch tips squeaking across it – to her face.  “What?”

“Gianna,” Petey repeated, as she finally arrived at the side of the black cloud that was their bed and passed the crutches over to Jon.  “I want to name her Gianna.”

“I thought you’d decided on Angelica?”

Plopping gingerly down onto the mattress, she fixed him with a half-hearted scowl.  “You’re really going to question a pregnant woman’s impulses?  Especially after she managed to keep your bun in her oven instead of delivering eight weeks premature?”

With a snorted chuckle of  resignation, he knelt to ease her boot from the ankle that was securely wrapped in an elastic bandage.  “Fuck, no.  I think Gianna’s a beautiful name.  We should have seven more girls and name them all that, but am I allowed to ask what inspired it?”

Petey flashed her dimples and ruffled fingers through the tousled mop of hair that was bent over her other boot.  He was so exceedingly tolerant of her pregnancy quirks – of all her quirks, for that matter.  She’d never expected to find someone who could love everything about her, and while her husband would occasionally get frustrated by her stubbornness or sarcasm, he didn't complain much.  He was actually more likely to remark on his good fortune in convincing her to marry him and carry his baby.  

Yes, she realized that there was probably only a short window left in this honeymoon phase of theirs.  Eventually, he would grow callous or tire of it altogether, and that’s why she didn’t take his open lovingness for granted now.  She made herself acknowledge and appreciate every single indulgence – as long as her hormones weren’t making her a bitch. 

“I love you,” she murmured, prompting him to laugh as he tossed the second boot aside. 

“You always say that when you’ve got me on me knees with my dick in my hand.”  The affection twinkling in the crystalline blue irises was made all the more brilliant by his relief that she and the baby were no worse for the wear.

“You don’t have your dick in your hand now,” was her logical observation.  “Although, I think it would be therapeutic for both me and the baby to do some skin-on-skin cuddling with you.  To recuperate from the trauma and all.”

“You just want me to suck your nipples.”

She wasn’t going to object if he wanted to.  As sensitive as they were now, it was almost enough to bring her to orgasm all by itself, but it wasn’t what she’d had in mind.

“I’d rather sit between your legs in a bubble bath that washes the hospital stench away, but slippery surfaces and my impaired mobility aren’t a good combination.  I just want some intimacy with my husband.”

His grunt should’ve implied surliness, but Petey read it for what it was – emotion.  Jon still wasn’t great about conveying his in the light of day, but she’d learned to interpret the signs. 

While his lift of her braced leg was all business, he was tender in swinging it around to rest on the mattress while she reclined on the palm of her hands.  Getting her undressed was going to require some maneuvering, but he already had two fingers pushed into the back of her sock, stripping first one and then the other.

Petey was going to get the intimacy she asked for, and once he’d meticulously wrangled the brace off without pain to her knee, Jon just as painlessly removed the rest of her clothes.   She lay on her side, tucked under the covers and watching as his jeans and sweater hit the floor.  Every morning, there was a pile of dirty clothes at the bedside awaiting transport to the hamper, and she normally quibbled at him about his slovenly habits during that transport, but she couldn’t bring herself to fuss at him about it this time. 

“Gianna is the feminine, Italian form of John,” she said instead, as he slid between the sheets and across the width of the mattress.  “Since it’s pretty likely this will be my only baby, and we have so many Johns in the family – my dad, your dad, my stepdad and you – I thought it appropriate that she carry the name.”

“If she’s going to have my name, then she’s going to have yours, too.”  The warm scrape of his palm over the side of her belly had Petey sighing in contentment.  His touch was magic. 

“Petey or Patience?”

“Sugar,” he breathed, warming her skin with the word in the instant before reverent lips came to touch the swell of his child.

“We’re not naming this baby ‘Sugar’.”  The statement was as firm as the fingers tenderly combing through his hair were gentle. 

The angle of his cheekbones was striking.  So was the silhouette of the closed eyes and nose that fell into pursed lips, conveying a daddy’s love to the little girl he couldn’t yet hold in his arms.  The exquisiteness of it had Petey’s heart constricting, and she longed for a camera to capture the moment, even knowing that his superb physical attributes didn’t hold a candle to the beauty of his soul. 

It was her fervent prayer that their baby would get more of his soul and less of the Jersey attitude that kept it hidden.

“Then find something that means ‘sweet’, because if you don’t…”  Perfect lips paused in their adoration of his daughter, and determined eyes cut up to find Petey’s.  “I will, and it’ll go on the birth certificate before you’re fully aware that she’s been born. I mean it.”

He could be such a stubborn ass, but then again…  So could she.  “Make love to me, and I’ll consider it.”

“You’ll agree to it, and I’ll consider making love to you.”

“Stop being a prick.”  Petey used her grip on his hair to tug backward until his head was tipped at an angle that had them eye-to-eye.  “I’ve had a very trying day, and I’d like for my husband to make it better.  Can’t everything else wait for now?”

“Yes, dear.”

He graced her with that sexy half smile that had also graced People Magazine, proving that the man knew what he had to work with – and he worked it.  Reaching a hand behind his head, he disentangled her fingers and bent low to capture a plump nipple, rolling it over his tongue before latching on with his lips.  When she mewled with pleasure, he drew it deeper and caressed the curve of her belly on a southerly journey.

“That feels good,” she praised softly before her nostrils flared with a deep breath of surprise.  No matter how many times he’d touched her in just that way, slicking practiced fingers along her seam, it never failed steal her breath.  The first few times, it was anticipation of what he might do.  The hundreds of times after, it was with expectation of what he was going to do – what she knew he would do, which was make her unduly grateful that she was a woman.

Because her husband possessed the innate knowledge of exactly how to please a woman.

“Love your body.  Sweet cotton candy nipples, so pretty and pink.”  This was whispered as he transferred his attention from one to the other and pushed his middle finger from her clit backward, surging deep to massage the secret spot that always wept at his touch. 

“Cotton candy whale,” she breathed and rocked to incite deeper penetration while simultaneously trying not to move her knee or ankle.  Nothing would ruin the mood faster than a further strain of already strained muscles. 

“No.”  The heat of the word seared her aureole as his tongue swept the circumference.  “You’re living proof of why men want to reproduce.  Nothing is sexier than the woman carrying our baby.”

Petey audibly sucked air between her teeth, moved by both the efforts of a self-proclaimed unromantic and the graze of his skilled thumb over the bundle of nerves knotted with expectancy.

“So soft,” he murmured, dragging his nose up her sternum, kissing a path to her neck.  “Yet so strong.  So beautiful.”

The last was force-fed to her along with the devouring kiss that claimed her mouth.  While his fingers danced through the saturated folds of her womanhood with the proficiency of the prima donna in the Nutcracker Ballet, he boldly possessed what belonged to him and him alone. 

Her soft palate, the silky recess beneath her tongue, the sensitive valley between her teeth and lips…  Petey’s mouth had belonged to him since that first kiss in Washington, D.C., and she’d never once regretted giving it to him.

“Your lips were made for the very best sin, my wicked imp.”   His chest heaved deeply as each stroke of his fingers enticed her to sin with him. 

Debauchery was never so sweet as it was in their bed.  Nothing was wrong and everything was right when he manipulated her body in the ways she hungered for.  Touches that should be vulgar were nothing short of divine perfection when it was the two of them.  They came together in ways that some may never find pleasurable, but that was the unique beauty of who they were.  Uninhibited, unfettered, unabashed, and unhindered, they only sought every possible way to bring a sigh of satisfaction or hiss of pleasure from the other.

“Jonnnnn….” 

“Does that feel good, Sugar?”  Her husband demanded, adding another finger to the duo that was sensuously reaming her femininity.  “Does that make everything better?”

“Yesssss!”  Blunt nails dug into the shoulders whose muscles rippled under her hands.  Jon knew which buttons to push.  Which switches to flip.  Which parts to bite, and which to caress.  “Fuck me, Jonny.  I need you.  What only you can give me.”

When she rolled onto her back, however, Petey’s knee didn’t appreciate the movement and she swore at the searing pain. 

“Shhh.  Be still, and let me do it.” 

She received only that quiet instruction before he was no longer in front of her, but behind with the covers thrown to the foot of the bed.  One strong hand grasped the thigh of her good leg, hooking it back over his while his other arm wormed beneath her.  A quiet grunt puffed in her ear and Petey was deliciously filled.  A square hand splayed over her swollen abdomen, and the other plucked at her nipples at the same time steamy, wet kisses bathed her neck and jaw. 

“Your pussy was made to fit me.  Nobody but me.” 

Each thrust of his hips hit the right combination of nerve endings, working them like a calculator with nothing other than a multiplication button. 

“Only you,” Petey agreed, tipping her head back into his shoulder and lacing the fingers together on her stomach as he opened the erotic Pandora’s box that lived within her.  “Nobody else has the key.  Nobody ever has.” 

Sharp teeth nipped at the standing tendon in her neck as he bucked harder into her backside, and the hand that was tied to hers became unknotted to find a more slippery knot.  Jon flicked two fingers repetitively over her clit, blowing it up like a helium balloon as he continued to pump her fill of the love, promise and everlasting commitment that renewed every time their bodies came together. 

Their lascivious lovemaking was a religious experience that fed the soul of their relationship.  It was the cement that kept them bonded.  No one could turn themselves so fully over to another person and not become a part of them.  A living, breathing part that required the other to live.  To thrive.  To…

“I’m going to coooommee…” the warning was ripped from her as readily as the orgasm that washed away everything but the tangible connection to the man who made her life complete.  “Nnnnghhnnnn!”

“That’s my…girl….  Let it go…  Let it… all…. Mmmmfffph!!   Unnnhhh!  Uhhhhhhh...”

Life as Petey knew it was restored to glorious order, and she whispered a prayer of thanks for… everything.

“I love you John Francis Bongiovi.”

“Mmmmm….”  The masculine purr reminded her of a contented lion, and Jon folded her against him with a tender squeeze.  “And I love you Patience Teagan Petey Bongiovi.  Thank you for keeping our baby safe.”

4... What Child is This?

“What in the hell is going on back there?” Gavin demanded – shrieked – in Jon’s ear.  “It’s been two hours and all we get is the request for a freaking playlist?  You’re pissing me off Mr. Ass-tastic.”

“Calm the fuck down,” Jon ordered, careful to keep his features schooled into a mask of neutrality.  With her headphones in, Petey couldn’t hear anything he said, but every so often her eyes would flick up for a quick scan of his face before returning to the little screen in her hand. 

“I will calm the fuck down when you tell me what is going on with my girl!”

Honestly, nothing was going on.  Two hours later and they had seen the orthopedist twice, but Petey’s obstetrician still hadn’t dragged her ass to the emergency room – and she was the only one his wife would allow to touch the baby or offer an opinion on her current state of pregnancy. 

While her obstinance should probably annoy the hell out of him, oddly enough, Jon was okay with it simply because Petey had spent three weeks at the beginning of this pregnancy vetting the good doctor.  She was the best and, thereby, the only one they were trusting with something of this magnitude.

That left his wife absorbing pre-term labor information at a pace that should have her qualified to take the medical board exam within the next hour, and Jon was left twiddling his toes.  The only accomplishments they had to their credit were a request for one of those 3D ultrasound things – which was being held pending the OB’s approval – and the continual monitoring of the still nameless and sexless Implet. 

Oh, wait.  There was one thing.  Maybe this tidbit would keep the Fairy Gaymother’s wings clipped for a while longer.

“Her ankle is sprained and the knee is just strained.  We do know that.” 

“What the hell is the difference and who really cares?  Bambino update por favor!”

I’m gonna clip him good – and permanently.

“Get the fuck off my back!” Jon gritted between clenched teeth, on the verge of going out to that waiting room and clipping the guy really good.  “I don’t have one.  If you need something to do, go home or pick out some names for the baby.”

“Names?  We’re naming the baby?”  Either Gavin had pulled in his fangs or he’d gotten better at talking around them, because he was sounding a whole lot friendlier now.  “Finally something I can get excited about!  You make sure the baby stays undead – like the Mama.  Curly Jo and I will find little Petey the perfect moniker.  If only the demonic diva would’ve found whether it’s a witch or warlock we’re having, this would be much easier.  You might wanna mention that.”

“We’re waiting on an ultrasound.  She’s decided it’s time.”

“Woot!  Raise the crypt roof!  Text me!”

And with that, the flamboyant man had moved on to things more interesting than talking to Jon.

“Thank God.”

“Is Gavin being difficult again?”

Knowing that he’d only murmured the last couple of words, Jon’s eyes zipped up to find that Petey’s phone rested on the baby bump and that her ear buds lay with them.  Inky hair was splayed across the little hospital pillow where her head now rested, leaving him with no idea how long she’d been watching and listening. 

“Is there a time when he’s not?”

“Not really,” she conceded with a weary smile before holding out her hand.  Tired wasn’t ideal, but it was preferable to her hyperanxiety, so he would take it without complaint and folded diminutive fingers into his. 

“You ready to hang up your shingle as an OB?”

“No,” came the husky chuckle that always warmed his heart.  “I’ll stick with electronic components instead of people, but at least I understand what might be happening and some of the options for dealing with it.”

“And did you find an option that you’re good with?”

“Not particularly.  They can give me medicine to stop contractions, then more medicine to speed the development of the baby’s lungs, neither of which appeal to me.  As much as I’m not ready for this, I think I’m going to have to trust that he or she is.”  Wet, pink eyes found his.  “I’m sorry, Jonny.”

Rising form the uncomfortable plastic chair, he propped his forearms on the bedrail and brought his other hand up to sandwich hers for a kiss.  “You didn’t do anything to be sorry for, Sugar.  It’s not like you were out skiing or skydiving.  You slipped, and shit like that just happens sometimes.

“You know I want this baby, don’t you?”

“Well I sure as hell hope so,” he drawled, swiping a thumb under her right eye to come away with a wet, black smudge of eyeliner.  “I’d hate to think all those fucking fertility potions were just a way to pass the time.”

It was just enough to coax her beautiful dimples out of hiding.  “Stop.  I just didn’t want you to think I was wishing it away or something, and that’s what happened.  Pregnant women aren’t the most highly rational creatures roaming the earth.”

“Unless they’ve got a magical playlist to channel their brainpower with.  What did Dave hook you up with, anyway?”

The dimples went shallow with the wry twist of her lips as she offered Jon her phone.  “I hate him, but it kept the reciting at bay, so my hatred isn’t really justified.”

Punching the button that would bring the screen to life, Jon quickly skimmed over the list: 

“Devil’s Child, Christmas with the Devil, Shout at the Devil, Sympathy for the Devil, Friend of the Devil and… an orca’s song?”

“Scroll down.  There’s also the Humpback whale’s birthing cry, a blue whale song and Weird Al’s Fat.”

He snorted and gently returned the phone to her belly, thinking that his friend had a wicked sense of humor and a big set of balls.   “You notice he only does this shit when hospital security is between you and him?”

“He’s a pain in the ass, not stupid.”  Petite fingers came to sweep his bangs out of his eyes.  “Are you hoping the ultrasound shows a boy or a girl?”

He had a daughter whom he loved dearly, and three sons that were the best and worst parts of him, so  Jon considered himself fulfilled in the child department.  There was no doubt that the newest munchkin would come along and fill a part of him that he didn’t realize was empty, but until then, his life was complete. 

It had been complete since this quirky little imp with her bad ass attitude and cotton candy heart had moved into all the vacancies of his heart and soul.  She was the one who filled him in a way that no one else could, and no one else would.

“I want whatever leaves my wife healthy,” he confessed openly into her eyes.  “I won’t know what I’m missing with this kid, but you…  I’ll know exactly what I’m missing and it’ll kill me.  I can’t make it without you, Petey.”

“Oh for the love of God!”  She pushed the thumb and forefinger of one hand into the corners of her eyes to stave off the tears that wanted to flow.  “Like I’m not having enough problems here?  Now you’re writing obituaries for both me and the baby?  Where’s Gavin?  He might piss me off, but at least I’ll stay alive.”

Okay, so maybe his heartfelt revelation wasn’t particularly well-timed.  It was sincere, but he was still a dumbass.  How did he salvage this?

Thank God an incoming text message chimed, and when he withdrew it from his pocket, Jon saw that Petey had summoned her best friend. 

“Nobody’s dying, but I might’ve made a grave mistake in telling Gavin he could suggest some baby names.”

“You did what?”  The tears were gone, and was quite sure about that, because her eyes were as wide as saucers.  “You did not tell Gavin he could name my baby.”

A quick skim of the names, accompanied by justification had Jon torn between laughter and horror.  “I told him to pick out some names.  I never said we’d use them, and Lord, God, Jesus… That was a brilliant stroke of foresight on my part.”

“Do I even want to know?”

“Oh, you’re gonna know,” he cheekily informed her.  “Would you like to start with the demons or the vampires?”

The plastic pillow crunched beneath her head when she let it drop back with a groan.  “I’d ask if you’re kidding, but I know you’re not.  As long as ‘Gaga’ isn’t on the list, give me the demons.”

“Diabolos, Abigor, Ravana, Seth are the male versions.”

“Seth is a demon?  I picture Seth in a pink button-down shirt and loafers.”

“Evidently, it’s Egyptian mythology.  ‘God of Chaos, Desert and Storm’.”

One dimple flashed as she shook her head.  “Whatever.  None of those are happening.”

“Not even David’s contribution?  ‘Samael, the Jewish Grim Reaper’.”

That brought the other dimple out to play, along with her husky laugh.  “That’s frigging funny, but no.  What about the girls?”

“Batibat, Lamia, Lilith, Pandora, Mara, empusa, Jezebeth, and Prosperine.  That last one has an asterisk and ‘nailed it’ next to it, since she’s the princess of Hell.”

“Pandora’s not horrible, but no hellacious princesses.  What about the vampire list?”

“Alaric, Spike, Vlad, Malcolm, Draven, Ambrosia, Bronwen, Zurie and Layla.  Bronwen also has the ‘nailed it’ notation for ‘dark and beautiful’.”

With her pierced brow lifted high, his imp scratched at her nose and gave Jon an assessing look.  “Well, the vampires are markedly better than the demons, but I don’t even want to see what the media will do with that – and my mother.  She will completely disown me.”

Jon doubted that, but Teresa would be none too happy.  “My mother would shit a brick.”

That made her snort loudly because one of Petey’s favorite hobbies was making his mother shit a brick.  She’d taken infant tattoo designs over to the house last week for that very purpose, asking Carol’s opinion on whether the skull or the bat would be more appropriate for the next Bongiovi grandchild.   Used to her daughter-in-law’s shenanigans by now, his mother had chosen the skull – with a bat on top.

“Fortunately for both of mothers, I was thinking more along the lines of Angelica.  Christmas angels, Angel Orensanz Foundation…  It just seems appropriate somehow.”

Angelica.  Trust his wife to come up with something that was the complete opposite of what everyone else was expecting her to do.  Jon recognized some of Gavin’s choices from his own foray into the demonic baby name websites – because he’d thought she might like them, too.

“It’s pretty.  What if it’s a boy?”

“I don’t know yet.”  She laid her palm over the tiny protrusion on her left side, stroking the baby’s kicking foot with her thumb.  “All the rest of your boys have names that start with J.  Do you want another J?”

“That wasn’t planned, it just happened, so don’t read anything into it.  I was into cowboys with Jesse, Jacob was just a name Dot liked, and Romeo Jon was…  Well, you know.”

“Thank God he got your name, because Romey is the spitting image of his mother.”

All of his kids had features that were like his in some way, but his wife was right; it was harder to see in Romeo. 

“I personally hope little Angelica is the spitting image of her mother.” 

A dark-haired beauty with ice blue eyes and dimples would suit him just fine, and if she happened to have the genius gene, that would be great, too.  His vanity hoped that she could sing and carry on his legacy, since none of the other kids were, but other than that, he was completely on board with a miniature Petey.

“I come up with a single name and you’ve suddenly decided we’re having a daughter?”

Jon’s head tipped toward the shoulder that lifted in a shrug.  “Better than having an ‘it’.  Makes me think of that goddamn clown.”

“I have yet to deliver an ‘it’,” Petey’s doctor informed him dryly propping reading glasses on the end of her nose as she entered the exam room.  “Good evening, Bongiovis.  I’m sorry it took me so long to get here.  Traffic was awful, and with the snow falling…  Yuck.  Tell me what brings you here.”

Jon suspected that was a ploy to keep his wife on an even keel while Dr. Spanos took inventory of the baby monitor and Petey’s vital signs.  Even so, as she probed the swollen orb of a belly, she nodded attentively until the very end of the tale of today’s adventure.

“So these back spasms,” the good doctor ventured, shoving the reading glasses into her short cap of silver hair.  “How often are they presenting now?”

Pink eyes darted in Jon’s direction.  “I…  At first they were about ten minutes apart, but I haven’t had one in…  at least an hour.”

“Excellent.  Sounds like you pissed baby off real good and maybe tweaked your back a little.  Just the same, I’m going to do an ultrasound just so we all have warm fuzzies about the whole thing.  The nursing staff said you requested one, anyway, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Petey confirmed.  “I’m ready to know the baby’s gender.”

An even, white smile found its way to Dr. Spanos’s face.  “I already know, so we can play this however you like.  Do you want me to just tell you, or would you like to enjoy the full experience of seeing blurry baby bits when you find out?”

“Blurry baby bits.”  The heads of both the doctor and his wife spun toward him in unison, wearing similar expressions of amusement and disbelief.  “What?  Just because it’s my fifth kid doesn’t mean I’m jaded to the whole thing.”

“Then blurry baby bits it is,” Dr. Spanos chuckled.  “Hang out here for just a few more minutes, and we’ll make sure everything looks good with your son or daughter.”

3... I Heard the Bells

“What in the hell is taking so long?”  Gavin snarked to the waiting room at large.  He was scared and he didn’t like it.  Not one bit.  It made him perspire and this silk shirt could not survive sweat stains.  If it was ruined after this fiasco, Petey Pursestrings was going to owe him a shopping trip. 

“Dude.”  The curly headed-one looked up from his phone to lift one eyebrow that was in desperate need of shaping. What was it with heterosexual men and their aversion to groomed eyebrows?  “It’s been twenty minutes.”

“And that’s about nineteen minutes too long.  I don’t have time for this cattle-herding methodology they’ve got goin’ on up in here.  Do they not realize whose perfect ass is stuck to that cheap deathbed on wheels?”

Some decrepit soul was coughing up a lung in the corner, Santa’s filthy step-brother was nursing a headwound across the way, and he was reasonably certain that Miss New Jersey 1932 was carrying the latest strain of bubonic plague behind that yellow surgical mask.  This is not where the likes of the Pagan Princess belonged. 

More precisely, this is not where he belonged.  There were only so many vaccinations available, and he had a delicate constitution.  God only knew what kind of merry malady he would end up with out of this deal. 

“Ever consider Valium?”

Snapping his head to the right, Gavin fixed the Jolly Jew with one of his more withering stares.  “How in the hell do you think I stay this calm?”

The mouth that always reminded him of a crayon scribble contorted into a sharper scribble as long piano-playing fingers shot up in the air to fend off the onslaught of snark.  “Then you might consider moving someplace where weed is legal, because man…  You’re the biggest fuckin’ Chihuahua I’ve ever seen.”

His snort ripped like Santa’s pants after eating all those frigging cookies in one night.  “You’re cute, Goldilocks Goldberg.  Not many can out insult me, so consider my laughter a gift of the Magi.  All we need now is another wise-ass man to get this nativity scene rockin’.”

“Pass on the nativity.  Even the Eastern Star dare not mess with Petey’s pregnancy schedule.  If Jesus Bongiovi comes tonight, there will be Tinkerhell to pay.”

“Ain’t that the friggin’ truth?” 

The nursery wasn’t even furnished yet, because Brainiac Bongiovi was waiting for the after-Christmas baby sales.  She had more money than a ketchup god, and was worried about saving twenty percent on a black crib.  Even her hubster found it ridiculous, but ever since that pee stick turned pink, he had doted on her like a pedigree poodle.

As though thinking of him had conjured the man himself, Jon came pushing through the doors into the waiting room. 

Immediately recognizing that Mr. Petey was not a happy man, Gavin did his best to stuff down the hyperspastic anxiety bestowed on him by too many episodes of Roseanne.  He popped his feet as nonchalantly as possible, but was unable to come across as anything other than melodramatic when demanding, “Deets.  I need deets.”

Rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, Jon told the two active members of his entourage, “They’re taking her back to x-ray the ankle, but they seem pretty convinced that both it and the knee are just sprained.”

“Okayyy…  That’s good, right?”

When the poster child for orthodontia didn’t instantly respond, Gavin felt his stomach knot with dread.  “Clearly not, Curly, or boyfriend here would be blinding us with that megawatt grin.”

That earned him the direct gaze of the infamous baby blues along with a solemn nod.  “The news about the knee and ankle is good, but those back spasms of hers…  Nobody’s said it out loud yet, but I think she’s having contractions.”

So much for not birthin’ any babies tonight, Miss Thang.

Turning to his waiting room partner in crime, Gavin lifted an impeccably groomed eyebrow and glumly chorused along with him, “There’s gonna be Tinkerhell to pay.”

* * * * * *

“Where have you been?” Petey demanded when Jon slipped back into the exam room.  She had only been back from X-Ray for a couple of minutes but expected that he’d be waiting, and when the glass cubicle was empty, her crankiness climbed another notch.  The combination of pregnancy hormones, anxiety and pain was doing a number on her.

“I just went out to talk to Dave and Gavin for a minute.  Ask them to make some calls and let everybody know all is well.”  His tone was deliberately soothing as he swept gentle fingertips over her forehead with a smile that didn’t quite banish the worry from his eyes.  “How ya feelin’?”

Waving an impatient hand toward the ice packs on her knee and ankle and the fetal monitors around her belly, she grumpily demanded, “How do you think I am?  I’m cold, I hurt and I’m about to start quoting War and Peace.”

“I know, Sugar.  I’m sorry.  Hopefully, everything looks good and we’ll be out of here soon.”

The mere fact that he was cosseting Petey like a child rather than telling her to suck it up, was enough to bring tears to her eyes.  Jon never babied her.  He had indulged her every whim the last few months, but he never treated her as if she were fragile china that had been glued together for the third time. 

Clutching at the hand propped on the bedside rail, she dug blunt nails in the meaty part of his palm and demanded, “What’s wrong?  What do you know that you’re not telling me?”

“Nothing.  Honest to God.”

If he didn’t, it was due to a technicality because her wedding rings were garnering more attention than she was right now.  The way he brushed a square thumb over the diamond in her pink engagement ring without meeting her eyes was not reassuring. 

“Then what do you suspect?  Ow, dammit!” 

Petey bowed her back off the excruciatingly uncomfortable mattress in an effort to escape the latest muscle spasm.   They were starting to become annoying, and since they couldn’t give her a muscle relaxant, she was stuck with them until they decided to fade.  Jon did know that acupuncturist, though.  Needles weren’t her first choice, but then neither were these stupid muscle spasms.

“What I suspect is that those are contractions.”

She froze in mid-massage of the odd pain that was starting to creep laterally around her midsection. 

“I have always thought of Christmastime, when it has come round...as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time;”

“Goddammit,” her husband huffed, hooking her chin between his thumb and forefinger to command her eyes.  “This is why I didn’t say anything.  I knew you’d have a panic attack, and that isn’t going to help anybody.  Especially you.”

She’d always thought A Christmas Carol to be an unusually morbid tale to celebrate the season.  All Dickens’s talk of death and regrets placed a significant damper on her holiday spirit, but now she understood.  Not everyone was fortunate enough to experience peace on Earth at this time of year, because tragedy and heartbreak didn’t recognize the same Federal holidays that were marked on her Gregorian calendar. 

They came without respect to day, time, wealth, intelligence, pedigree, fame or character, and Petey was tragically fearful that they were coming here.  Today.  Now.

“Our baby is alive.”

Square, solid fingers webbed themselves into Petey’s and the hard band of Jon’s wedding ring dug into her flesh when he squeezed.  “Our baby is very much alive.”

She allowed – begged – coldness to encase her heart, so that its iciness would freeze the tears that wanted to spring forth in a hormonal version of Niagara Falls.  Tears had never been the solution to any problem that Einstein, Edison, Freud, or Da Vinci had.  Only logic and science were applicable to solving problems, and Petey had an abundance.

“I need something from you.”

“What is it, Sugar?”

“I need your phone, David, my phone, headphones, a charger and an ultrasound.”

“Uh…”  Pink eyes flicked up to find blue ones riddled with confusion.  Her husband didn’t share the same logic highway that she did, and her thought processes didn’t always make sense to him, no matter how he tried to follow along – and he tried.

“I want to know the gender of the baby,” she explained concisely.  “A sexless fetus without identity is no longer working for me.  If I’m going to convince him or her to stay inside me, things are going to have to become a little more personal.”

Because he knew how she was, Jon didn’t offer anything that vaguely resembled an argument.  She needed what she needed to stave off the panic, and he’d give it to her as long as it was within his power.  Without question. 

“I’ll make it happen.  Now what’s the other stuff for?”

“That’s a three-fold purpose and one of those folds you’re not going to like.”

“Tell me anyway.”

A gurney went rushing down the hall, with rubber-soled feet chasing alongside as someone else met with catastrophe.  Electronic beeps monitoring the chasm between life and death created their own brand of morbid music.  Sobs were wrenched from someone whose life was being torn apart.  The sounds brought images of tragedy, which inspired emotion, which cruelly threatened to thaw the ice encasement of her heart.  She couldn’t listen to it and be expected to retain her sanity.

“Music.  I need music to drown all this other shit out before I lose my mind.  Take my phone to David and have him put together a fast playlist that races faster than my thoughts.”

Her husband wasted no time in withdrawing his hand so that he could use both of his thumbs to fire out a text message.  “He doesn’t need your phone.  I’m pretty sure he can make some damn thing online and send a link to it.  He’s done that with me before.”

A melodic chime came through, totally incongruous with the surrounding noises, but Petey mentally latched onto that noise as a trumpeter heralding the start of the great race.

“Dave’s on it.  Now what was my phone for?”

This was the part he wouldn’t like, but it couldn’t be helped. 

“Look at me,” she beseeched, black-nailed fingers coming to stroke the prickly whiskers along his jaw.  “Don’t react, just listen.  If you can get me the ultrasound and the music, I’ll be calm enough to think clearly.  I need information on trauma-induced labor with statistics and treatment plans, and I can get them online through Johns Hopkins.”

“Sugar, I know you think that’s going to help you, but knowing all that shit is only going to upset you more.”

His only interest was in her well-being.  Petey didn’t need to watch the pain swimming in the soulful depths of his eyes to know that, because she knew him.  When she hurt, he hurt and Jon simply couldn’t bear making either of their hurt worse.

“Jonny, you know I’m smarter than most of these doctors, and I care more about this baby than all of them.  If there’s a way to prevent this from happening now, I’ll find it and…”  She gave another mental blast of liquid nitrogen to her heart.  “If I don’t, at least I’ll feel like I’m doing something productive.”

His shaggy blonde head shook with disgust.  “And I’m supposed to just sit here while you solve the problems of our world?”

She could never do that to her alpha-male husband.  He needed to be the one in charge and in control of the situation – or at least contributing to the greater good. 

“No.  I can’t do everything at once, so you’re going to have to do the important stuff.”

“Which is?” he dryly demanded with a haughtily arched eyebrow. 

While some people might view this as a fluffy or frivolous task just to keep him occupied, as a mother-to-be, Petey considered it one of the most significant challenges that they faced.  If he knew what was good for him, he’d consider it the same.

“Find a name for our baby.”

2...Dashing Through the Snow

Jon would be lying if he said he wasn’t worried when stepping from the car into the snow that was beginning to fall heavily in front of the emergency room entrance.  Taking Gavin’s admittedly overdramatic nature into account and dividing the severity of Petey’s fall by half, his wife was still hurt at least badly enough to impair her mobility. 

Perhaps it was nothing more than an ankle, as she said.  That would be fantastic.  Then, they’d go home and prop her up on the couch to address the Christmas cards that still weren’t in the mail a week before Christmas.  Order some Chinese food in for dinner.  Life would be good.

If she’d rattled the Implet’s cage a bit too hard, though…

That was something he wasn’t qualified to judge, which is why they were here.  It would just make him feel better if somebody other than his genius wife would give the all-clear on the baby’s condition.  Jon trusted Petey know her own body, but when it came to the Implet…  This was her first time around the block, and no matter how many pregnancy books she read, there were some things a book just couldn’t tell you.

“You doing okay, man?” 

Pulling the bill of his black cap down low on his head as he walked side-by-side through the emergency entrance with his friend and keyboardist, Jon grunted noncommittally.  When he flew out of the studio as though his pants were on fire, the other guys had sent well-wishes and instructions to let them know how things turned out. 

Dave was the exception to that.  Without asking Jon’s opinion one way or the other, they curly-haired man had grabbed his jacket and followed out the door and into the car.  He and Petey were good friends, but then again, she was good friends with all of Jon’s bandmates.  Jon had no idea why he was determined to be here, but hadn’t felt like quibbling over it.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Dave reassured him casually – for the fourth time. 

It had ceased to be reassuring after the first time, and Jon didn’t bother responding as he glanced over the noisily humming constituency of the emergency room.  Petey and Gavin weren’t exactly the type to blend into the woodwork and, when he didn’t see them on the first pass, Jon presumed that they were either not there yet or had already gone back to an exam room.

The screech of an ambulance siren nearly deafened him as he stepped up to the desk and read the name badge of the guy sitting there.  Thank God the thing stopped before he had to scream over it. 

“Hi Casey.  My wife is supposed to be here, but I don’t see her in the waiting room.  Do you have a Bongiovi registered?”

“Can you spell that, please?”  Either the kid was too young to care about the relevance of the surname, or he simply didn’t care.  It was New York, and Jon sure as hell wasn’t the first celebrity to walk into this hospital.  If Petey was already here, she’d get more notice than he would.

From the moment the press found out that the Heinz heiress was his wife, Petey was not only the genius in the family but the rock star.  Part of that was because the media had a field day reporting on the secretive disappearance from her former staid life as a college professor, but most of it was… her. 

Cute, quirky and charismatic when she chose to be, she had instantly become a media darling.  Even when she got fed up with their “journalistic ignorance” and quoted the Constitution to them, they loved her.

They’d been following along closely since discovering her pregnancy and chronicling each step that they could catch.  Jon had seen numerous articles speculating on every frigging thing under the sun.  Whether the baby would have perfect teeth and dimples, be musically inclined or a genius.  They predicted that his next child could hold the title for bluest eyes in the world. 

The media was going especially nuts over the gender, because Petey had refused that particular information at every single ultrasound.  She wanted to do the old-fashioned thing and wait until the baby was born, which was only a pain in the ass as far as names were concerned.

It was another thing that the press was having a field day with, in fact.  At least once a week, some idiot was hypothesizing what they might use for their unborn child’s name, most of which were utterly ridiculous.  Ozzy and Einstein for example.  What the hell were these people thinking?   

He personally thought people should do something better with their fucking time.

“Oh, wait.”  Casey the ER registrar was frowning at his screen.  “Does she have initials instead of a name?”

“Yes.  P.T.”

Jaded eyes that had likely seen things horrific enough to give Jon nightmares slid to his before reverting to the screen.  “She’s in Trauma Room 6.  I’ll buzz you back, but whoever is with her now will have to come out to the waiting room.  Only one visitor per patient.”

“That means you’re stuck out here, too,” Jon told Dave.  “I’m sure she’s fine, so just go home.  We’ll call you as soon as we know something.”

“Nah,” the other man declined glancing around the waiting room, presumably for an empty seat.  “I’ll stick around and keep Gavin company, because I guarantee he isn’t going anyplace.  And if he’s as annoying about being left in the waiting room as I think he’ll be…  Both of us will end up back there before long.”

Jon didn’t have time to persuade him otherwise and, the truth be told, he was probably right.  “Okay, man.  I’ll let you know.”

Gurney’s whizzed by, monitors beeped and patients groaned with pain as he breezed down the back hallways of the trauma unit, checking room numbers until he found number six.  It wasn’t hard to locate, but he wouldn’t have required the room number to find his wife.  Gavin’s long, lanky arms were flailing outside the cubicle and his voice could be heard halfway down the hall.

“That bump in her belly isn’t a goiter, Nurse Ratched, it’s a bay-bee!  Do you think we could get moving to see if the little sucker is still doing the backstroke in there instead of dead man’s float?  Chop, chop!”

With a stifled sigh, Jon quietly apologized to the nurse who was exiting the room.  Stepping inside the curtained glass cubicle, he found that Petey was reclining on the narrow exam bed with her eyes closed, and to most people, she would seem relaxed.  His eyes, however, immediately logged the paler-than-normal porcelain skin, a rigid jaw and the slight movement of her lips.  His imp was stressed. 

“Gavin, thanks for getting her here,” he said, taking control of the situation while tugging his scarf off and reaching for the zipper on his black down jacket.  “I appreciate it, but they only allow one visitor per patient.  How about you go keep Dave company in the waiting room?”

The mouth of Petey’s best friend was pinched with displeasure.  “How about I just tell them to stick their single visitor rule up their rectal cavity, instead?”

“Marley was dead to begin with.  There is no doubt whatever about that.”

“Just relax, Sugar,” Jon soothed his wife, grateful that he recognize the Charles Dickens staple.  It was a fifty-fifty shot as to whether her literary choices registered with him, but A Christmas Carol was in his catalog, and he stroked the inky hair away from her forehead to press soft lips there.  With a meaningful look at the effeminate toothpick whose eyes skewered Jon like a holiday canape, he assured Petey, “Gavin knows you’ve got enough anxiety.  He isn’t going to cause any more.”

“Oh Great Liz Taylor’s ghost.  And you call me dramatic.”  A skeletal hand flapped in front of his face as he blinked away what looked suspiciously like a sheen of tears.  Shooing Jon to one side, he stepped in and placed his own kiss alongside her cheek.  “I’ll be right outside with Curly Jo.  If you need anything at… all… just shoot me a text and I’ll go all diva on their asses until you get it.  Comprende?”

“I need you to turn my Christmas party back into a Christmas party,” she murmured without opening her eyes.  “It’s tomorrow night.”

“You just cross your legs and keep that kid tucked in there, Holiday Hellion.  Let me worry about the party.”  With that and the waggle of his bony fingers, Gavin floated flamboyantly out the door.

A diminutive hand with hot pink nails was extended with its palm up, and Jon settled his onto it, folding cold fingers into his.  “Tell me what happened, Sugar.”

For the first time since he entered the room, her eyelids cracked open to reveal her favorite pink contacts.  “Gavin turned my Christmas party into a purple and black baby shower with skulls.”

That much he knew, because Petey was the only one who thought tomorrow night’s get-together was a Christmas party.  Everyone else was looking forward to a “one-of-a-kinda baby celebration event, the likes of which hasn’t been seen since Jesus hit the scene”. 

According to Gavin, anyway.  Jon had given him carte blanche to do whatever he saw fit, because the eccentric man seemed to have his thumb on the pulse of what Petey wanted when it came to these kinds of things.  Forget the fact that she didn’t want a shower in the first place.  That decision had been taken from her by both men.

“I’m more interested in hearing how you ended up on the floor.”

A demonic shadow crossed her scowling imp face as she planted a fist in the plastic mattress to try and push herself higher on the gurney.  “I was bitching at him and turned to leave too fast, I guess.  Maybe there was a slick spot on the floor or something.  I don’t know.  My leg twisted and, the next thing I know, I’m looking at the ceiling.”

“Is it your ankle?  Your knee?”  He didn’t want her to be hurt in any way, but a wrenched extremity was a damn sight better than belly pain.  She would lose her very logical mind if this baby decided to make its appearance two months early.

“Both.  And I’ve got a spasm in my back.”

Ah, fuck.

He was spared from commenting on that suspicious symptom by a smiling hospital staffer pushing a cart of electronics.  “Hello, Mrs. Bongiovi.  I’m Natalie, and all these scary looking stuff is nothing more than a monitor, so don’t be concerned.  I’m just going to wrap these stretchy things around you so we can make sure everything’s going okay inside your belly.”

Fierce pink eyes cut in his direction, and Jon was forced to swallow a laugh.  Petey could probably quote the brochure on that “scary looking stuff”.  At the very least, she could dissect it and reassemble it without thought, right down to the “stretchy things”.

“Natalie, let me save you some trouble,” he broached gently.  “My wife knows more than most people when it comes to electronics of any kind.  You don’t have to dumb things down for her.”

To her credit, the girl’s smile didn’t falter in the least.  “Good to know.  Let’s get everything hooked up then and make sure baby’s not too upset over your fall.”

His imp gave a begrudging nod, and Jon offered both his hands so that she could use them to pull herself into an upright position.  When she lifted the t-shirt so that the elastic belts could be fitted around her waist, the pain streaking through those pink eyes almost gutted him. 

“Something hurt?” Natalie asked casually, affixing the first of the fetal monitors and cinching it into place.

“Back spasm.”

At Petey’s grumbled admission, the nurse’s eyes connected with Jon’s over her head and what he saw was enough to make his stomach sink. 

That spasm had nothing to do with his wife’s back. 

1...Slip a Sable Under the Tree

“Girlfriend.  Impy Incubator.  Mrs. Bun-in-the-oven Jovi,” Gavin sighed with as much patience as he possessed, which wasn’t a lot.  “How in the hell did you not know this was a shower for Baby Bon Bon?”

Petey narrowed pink-lensed eyes at the rail thin man whose hair was no longer spiked but long enough to be fashioned into a blond-streaked pompadour.  She’d come here today to give input on decorations for the holiday gathering that her hairdresser-turned-event-coordinator friend was organizing for the family and friends of she and her husband.

However, rather than finding the Angel Orensanz Foundation bedecked in tasteful holiday regalia, it was decorated far more similarly to the circus-themed bachelorette party that Gavin had thrown for her in this same location almost two years ago.  The biggest notable difference was that this color scheme purple and black instead of pink and black.

That, and there was no ‘big top’ made from streamers and ribbons. 

Black linen table cloths covered at least a dozen round tables with each having lavender toppers for a splash of color, along with silver tulle around the edges.  Black covered chairs whose backs alternately bore lavender bowties and lavender pearl necklaces surrounded those tables.

As for the centerpieces…  Well, they were the best part as far as Petey was concerned, but her mother was going to die over the purple and black Day of the Dead skulls.  The male skulls had top hats trimmed in black and purple feathers, while the female version was adorned with lavender flowers and sprays of rhinestones.   The purple topiaries with black lights in the corners were kind of cute, too, but again…  Her mother.

“It’s December eighteenth,” Petey cuttingly pointed out the date to her remorseless event coordinator.  “Why would I think that, with the biggest holiday season of the year at hand, you would take my Christmas party and turn it into a baby shower that looks a hell of a lot like somebody’s senior prom?  I’m not due until Valentine’s Day.”

His hand flipping in the air, Gavin expressively rolled his eyes with an huff while circling the tulle-draped tables like an anorexic vulture.  “Because you’re entirely too friggin’ logical.  I love ya Dollface, but Jesus.  Why would I choose to do another lame Christmas party when my Bee-Eff-Eff is preggeroo?”

“Because I asked you to,” she bit out crankily.  “And I don’t want a baby shower.  We can provide for the baby without asking the help of friends and family.”

Rubbing her very swollen stomach, Petey made a mental note to research whether anyone throughout history had actually exploded during the course of pregnancy.  At only seven months, her stomach was nearly the same size as the ball that would drop in Times Square for New Year’s Eve in a mere two weeks.

Being short wasn’t one of her favorite physical characteristics to begin with, but growing a baby in an undersized torso was equivalent to housing Shaquille O’Neal in a Volkswagen Beetle for nine months.  Freaking uncomfortable for everyone involved.

Her husband wasn’t any help, either.  Jon merely smiled at her gripes and patted himself on the back for producing such robust offspring.  David was even worse by tagging the newest Bongiovi with nicknames like Whale Sperm and Baby Beluga, making himself persona non-grata at the apartment after Petey’s fifth month.  He could call and text all he wanted, but she wasn’t providing him with any more visual ammunition.

“Sweet Pete-tato.  Honey,” her lanky friend crooned while swiping a hand up and down the substantial length of his black silk turtleneck.  “In this case, I don’t give a flying Wallenda what you want.  Your friends and family want to shower you with gifts, so zip it and show up tomorrow night with your dimples in overdrive.  Capisce?”

“No.” 

She was turning to make a belligerent and only-partially hormonally induced exit when the heel of her combat boot spun too easily under her and sent Petey reeling.  The hardwood floor came at her hard and fast, and she was barely able twist herself around in time to land on her back instead of the baby.  In the process, however, her knee wrenched the wrong way and something in her ankle popped.  Both hurt like a mother trucker.

“Owwwww!”

“Petey!”  Gavin must’ve dropped to the floor a good ten feet away and skidded the rest of the distance on his knees.  Bony hands immediately started groping her all over, including the black t-shirted belly that had “Touch the Belly, Lose your Hand” printed on it.  “Are you okay?  What the hell happened?”

“I fell!” she announced crossly, feeling that what happened should be blatantly evident.  She was lying on her back with one leg folded at what felt like an awfully odd angle, and since they weren’t at the YMCA, it should be easy enough to guess this wasn’t a yoga pose. 

“I see that Snarkerella!”  Her friend was just as rattled as she was.  “Can you move everything?  You didn’t pop the kid’s water balloon did you?  Does your stomach hurt?  Jesus, I hope not, ‘cuz I don’t know nothin’ about birthin’ no babies!”

“There will be no baby birthing today, Butterfly McQueen.  I just twisted my ankle.  And maybe my knee.  You’re going to have to help me up.”   This was one of those times where Gavin’s flair for the dramatic wasn’t amusing.  It was as big a pain as the one in her ankle. 

“Uh, no.”  He was already thumbing over his phone screen in search of something.  “I will not suffer the wrath of Jovi for not taking the proper precautions.  I’m calling an ambulance.”

“Absolutely not!” 

She and Jon had a standing rule – if either of them was conscious enough to dispute it, there would be no ambulances.  Ever.  They both hated medical drama, and Petey reached up to pull the plug on this episode by snatching Gavin’s phone and jabbing the red icon that would disconnect the call. 

Pale gray eyes narrowed and fixed on her with the ferocity of an avian predator spotting a rodent lunch on the run.  “Give me that damn phone, Demon of Darkness.  If something happens to you or Jovi Junior on my watch, Mr. Ass-tastic will never let me hear the end of it.”

Gavin wasn’t wrong.  He and Petey’s husband had come a long way in the last two years, but there was still an uneasy prickliness between the two of them at times.  Considering Jon’s current state of hyper-protectiveness of Petey, and subsequently, their unborn child…  It wouldn’t go over well. 

“Here.”  She pushed Gavin’s phone at him and crammed a black-nailed hand into the pocket of her matching leather jacket to plunder for her own.  Huffing out a breath and then wincing at subsequent stabbing pain in her back, she briefly hesitated over the contact icon that bore Jon’s name before going through with it.  The fact that she didn’t want to tell him what happened didn’t change the fact that it had.  If he found out later, and through the grapevine no less, he would kill her and be justified in doing so.

“Hey, Sugar.”

“Hey,” she responded casually to his distracted greeting after the third ring.  Today was a studio day with some of the guys in the city, meaning there was a very good chance she had interrupted something important, but there was nothing she could do to help that.  “So, funny thing happened over here at the Orensanz Foundation.  I was checking out Gavin’s decorations and, as I was leaving, I kind of slipped and probably sprained my ankle.  Gavin’s freaking out and trying to get an ambulance so you don’t yell at him for negligence.  Please tell him that’s not how it works.”

“Give him the phone.”

Despite the terseness of his words, Petey knew he was going to call off the dogs – or at least one very hyper Italian greyhound.  Because if Jon insisted that she needed an ambulance for slipping on the floor when he’d flatly refused one after he was electrocuted…  Well, she would be exchanging words with her husband.  Loud ones.

“Listen up Mr. Petey, I know you will find this hard to believe, but I am not unnecessarily turning this into a scene.  Mrs. Thang didn’t just politely twist her ankle and hobble on her way.  She hit the floor flat on her back and is still lying there like a bloated turtle.”

“Because you won’t help me up!”

In a move that Bruce Lee would be proud of, he whipped his hand around and flashed Petey the slender palm so that he could listen to whatever Jon was saying.  “Ya think?  I don’t know about that…..  Fine….  If you say so, Daddy Dearest, but I’m gonna let you relay that tidbit of info.  She’s within clawing distance of my eyes.”

The referenced eyes were exaggeratedly wide and his mouth was twisted into a disfigured smirk when he passed the phone back into Petey’s possession.

“What is it that you’re telling me?’ she sniped at her husband while eyeing the man who wouldn’t quite meet her gaze.

“Sugar, you need to go get the baby checked out,” Jon broached quietly but firmly.  “No ambulance, but let Gavin help you out to the car.  I’m leaving the studio now and will meet you in the ER.”

“Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall;”

“Petey, stop.  This is an inconvenience, not a reason to freak out.”

Her panic episodes were more infrequent now than they’d ever been in her life, and Petey attributed it to the security Jon gave her in their marriage.    Since the day they’d said “I do”, he’d been hers and was every bit as faithful as he’d promised to be, even during her current state of blimpiness.

They were as close as any married couple could be, yet they maintained their individual identities.  He wrote music, recorded and had his favorite philanthropic endeavors while Petey continued her bio-electronic research when not tinkering with Bon Jovi productions and tours.  She’d even picked up a part-time teaching position at Columbia.

It was the perfect arrangement, because she supported him and he supported her – in everything.  Petey’s life, in fact, had been quite idyllic until her ass hit the floor a few minutes ago.

Now, because of one stupid wet spot on the floor, Jon seemed to think that their child was at risk.   He wasn’t the type to panic over nothing, and that’s exactly why Petey was panicked. 

They’d spent more than a year trying to conceive this baby – amidst a plethora of fertility schedules, predicted ovulation and basal temperature charts.  It wasn’t until her husband put his foot down and insisted that their sex life was going to bring them happiness first and a baby second that her body had finally relaxed enough become impregnated. 

“I should’ve let them tell me if it was a boy or a girl,” she muttered absently.  “What if I don’t find out until it’s… too late?”

“Petey!”  The sharp exclamation was only meant to draw her attention, and his tone immediately gentled afterward.  “Stop fucking recalling mortality rates and all that other shit.  Just go to the hospital.  I’ll meet you there.”

“Okay.”  The worst part about pregnancy was the hormones.  They made her emotionally unpredictable, and she hated it.  Like now, for instance.  With her ankle, knee and back throbbing with the rhythm of a Latin rumba, tears were pooling at the corners of her eyes.  “I love you.”

“Love you too, Sugar.  Now go.”