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.”