Thirty-Two

Happy Birthday ... to Me

  

March 2, 2011

Wells Fargo Center, Philadelphia

 

Another birthday spent under arena lights. If his night ended half as good as it began, he’d call it one hell of a birthday.

Last night’s show in Boston had wrapped late, and instead of going home, they’d flown straight to Philly. By the time they got to the hotel, the plan was to sleep in. His wife had other plans — plans he’d never dream of complaining about. Hell, every morning should start like today.

Lazy, dirty, and absolutely worth the loss of sleep. He’d barely had time to catch his breath before they were tangled up again.

Second trimester for the win — her energy was back, and he was the very grateful beneficiary.

By the time she finally rolled off him to go deal with her trucks and crew, he was grinning like a pig in shit, feeling both utterly content and stupidly lucky.

Now, hours later, he was sitting in his dressing room with a half-empty tea cooling beside his notepad. The top page was a mess of scrawled song titles, arrows, and circled numbers — tonight’s setlist was slowly taking shape. Philly. It was always a wild crowd here, always ready to rock.

With that in mind, he scratched out the opening song and replaced it with one he knew would light the place up.

His phone buzzed quietly against the cluttered wood table. Half-empty bottles of water, crumpled paper, and rogue Froot Loops. Lily’s sippy cup and tiny pink headphones made up the usual collage of his tour life.

He glanced down and smiled. The group chat with the kids lit up the screen — four messages, four personalities, all armed with the same sharp wit he’d come to expect.

[2:36 pm] Jesse: Happy birthday, old man. Try not to break a hip tonight. 

 

[2:37 pm] Steph: Don’t party too hard. You’re not getting any younger.

 

[2:38 pm] Ro: HAPPY BIRTHDAY DADDY! I LOVE YOU!!

 

[2:39 pm] JAKE: HBD! Don’t forget your walker when you head to the stage. 

 

Jon smirked, fingers flying over the screen.

 

[2:40 pm] Thanks, you little smartasses. I miss you. See you tomorrow. 

Before he could put the phone down, it rang — the familiar ringtone bringing another smile to his face.

“Happy Birthday, Jon.”

“Thank you, Ma.”

“I’m here too, son. Happy Birthday.”

“Thanks, Pop. What are you two up to today?”

“Missing you,” his mother said, her voice soft and a little wistful.

“You saw him two days ago, Carol,” his father chimed in, teasing. “And you’ll see him tomorrow.”

“Oh, hush, John. It’s a mother’s right to miss her children, especially on their birthdays.”

Jon laughed. “I know, Ma. Hey, we’ll pick up at 3:30, and then we’ll head into the city to grab the kids before dinner.”

“Yes, Ariana called us,” his father said. “We’ll be ready.”

“Okay, I gotta go get ready.”

“Kiss Lily for us, will ya?” Carol said.

“Will do. Love you both.”

“Love you too, Jon,” his father replied.

The line went dead, and Jon tucked the device into his pocket. Pushing off the couch, he headed out to find Ari and Lily.

♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱

 

Ari sat at one of the long catering tables, her laptop open in front of her, fingers flying across the keys as she made a few last-minute changes to the Uncasville show schedule. The steady hum of conversation and clattering dishes surrounded her, but she was lost in her own world, the chaos fading as she typed. She was deep into the rhythm of work and wanted to get it finished before Gloria would be back with Lily.

Her phone buzzed, pulling her out of focus. She glanced down to see a FaceTime call from Romeo. A smile tugged at her lips, and she swiped to answer.

“Hey, buddy!” she said, her voice warm and bright.

“Hey, Ari.” His voice brimmed with the kind of excitement only a six-year-old could muster. “I got new names for the baby.”

Ari grinned. It was a daily ritual now — one of the many things she looked forward to. Name suggestions came by text, call, or the occasional FaceTime, sometimes from all the kids at once. And Jon’s absolute certainty that the baby was a boy only fueled the chaos. Ari wasn’t convinced; she still felt like it was another girl.

“Are these a group effort,” she asked, “or just yours?”

“Mine. They always say no to my names. Mommy was yelling at Jake for his homework, so I took his phone so I could send them.”

Ari laughed, shaking her head. “Oh, maybe we should wait for the others. I don’t want you getting in trouble too.”

“Who’s getting in trouble?”

Ari looked up and saw Jon standing in the doorway.

“Hi, Dad! Having a fun birthday?” Ro asked.

Jon chuckled. “Yes, Ro. Now tell me, who’s in trouble?”

“Jake. He didn’t do his homework, so Mommy took his phone away.”

“And you’re calling from his phone?”

“Yes! I needed to give Ari my name suggestions.”

Ari nodded at the screen, still smiling. “The others always say no to his.”

“Ah, I see.” Jon folded his arms, trying not to laugh. “I don’t want you getting in trouble too, buddy. Why don’t you hang up, and you can give your suggestions when we are all together tomorrow?”

“But Daaad!” the boy scowled. “These have a special meaning.”

“Special?” Jon asked, his tone softening.

“Yeah. For Ari.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “For Ari, huh? Sounds important.”

“It is,” he said, sitting up straighter. “’Cause her birthday’s the Fourth of July, right? But she doesn’t really like it…” He paused, glancing up like he was checking if he’d said something wrong. “So I thought maybe if the baby comes close to it, we could give it a fun name to help her like her birthday again.”

Caught off guard, Ari felt her throat tighten, tears pricking unexpectedly at the corners of her eyes. “You’re something else, kiddo. That’s really sweet.”

“Wanna hear them?” he asked eagerly, the seriousness already giving way to excitement.

Jon leaned back, resting a hand on the back of Ari’s chair. “At this point, I think we have to.”

“Okay! I got four names,” Ro announced, wiggling the piece of paper like it was some top-secret list. “First is Liberty, ’cause of Ari’s birthday. Then Sky, uh… ’cause that’s where we look when we shoot fireworks. Number three, Star, because they look pretty.”

He paused for dramatic effect. “And number four… Blue.”

Ari laughed softly. “Blue, huh?”

“Yeah! ’Cause Lily really likes blueberries. And maybe this baby will too. Or maybe not. But I like it, so that counts, right?”

Jon nearly choked trying not to laugh.

“Uh oh, Mom’s calling me. Kiss Lily and Meatball for me. Bye.”

The screen went dark, leaving Jon and Ari smiling at each other.

♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱

Jon stepped up beside her as the band gathered at the bottom of the stage stairs. Tico tapped his sticks lightly against his thigh, Richie rolled his shoulders, and Lema bounced on his heel — all the pre-show rituals Ari had grown used to over the years.

“See you after,” he said, brushing a hand across the small of her back.

“Knock ’em dead,” she replied.

Jon gave her that quick, private grin, the one that still curled something warm in her belly, and jogged up the steps, swallowed by the dark lights and the rising rumble of the crowd. Ari waited until they were fully out of sight before disappearing down into the underbelly of the stage where she’d be watching tonight.

Tony sat in front of a wall of screens, each one showing a different angle of the stage or crowd. When he saw her approaching, he scooted over a bit to give her space.

“Doing your version of a front-row seat tonight?” he asked, arms crossed against his chest.

“It’s the best one,” Ari replied.

The house lights dropped, and the building exploded.

The roar hit like a physical wave, vibrating through the floor, up through the metal rails, right into her chest. On the row of monitors, the flood of light caught Jon as he burst onto the stage.

“Jesus,” Tony muttered. “Gonna be a good one tonight.”

From the first note, there was a sharpness to him — that determined, hungry edge he only had when he was set on delivering a monster show. The band locked in immediately.

He was on fire.

Just Older. Of course he’d open with this one. She couldn’t help but grin when he kicked off the solo before trading off with Richie, who effortlessly took it the rest of the way.

Song after song, the energy built. His vocals were strong, the band tight, and somewhere around the halfway mark, Ari realized the show had taken on that unmistakable momentum — the kind you couldn’t fake, couldn’t force, the kind that just happened when everything aligned.

And the circle set? That was always her favorite part. No matter where in life they were, he always had a knack for picking songs that reflected their story. He stepped out alone first, the spotlight catching that glimmer in his eyes as twenty thousand hearts hung on every word of What Do You Got.

“You good?” Tony asked, passing her a napkin.

“Pregnancy hormones,” she said, accepting it to wipe her tears. “If you tell anyone…”

Tony held up his hand. “I know better. Don’t ’cha you worry.”

They both laughed as Jon called Richie to join him. Richie’s bluesy solo tonight on Diamond Ring sliding through the speakers had to be one of her all-time favorites, ever.

I’ll Be There for You turned the whole arena into a choir, phones glowing like stars from the floor to the rafters. As the final notes faded, Jon paused, eyes catching on a woman on the rail wearing a ridiculous plush birthday-cake hat, candles wobbling as she held up a sign.

Ari watched his face, saw the smirk twitch before he even walked to the mic.

“I don’t know…” he drawled, shaking his head. “Naaah. I’m not the goofy hat kinda guy.” He turned to look at Richie. “That’ll be on the internet tonight!”

The crowd roared.

“I’ll play pin the tail on the donkey with you, though,” he added, grinning. “Blindfold me, spin me around the room a bit…”

Tony snorted beside her.

Jon turned over his shoulder. “Hey, let’s get Dave and Tico out here.”

While the guys made their way onto the circle, Jon stood in front of the mic, mischief written plain as day across his face.

“I’d like to spank a couple of asses in this room,” he announced.

The place lost it.

Ari dropped her forehead into her hand. “And this is before wine.”

Tony cackled. “The plane ride home sure is gonna be fun.”

The night barreled on, the crowd feeding them energy like a live wire. When they finally closed with Blood on Blood, the entire arena was swaying, shouting, arms raised. A song about loyalty, about friendships that outlived everything — but as always, he sang it like he meant it for them. The fans who had carried him for decades.

On the monitors in front of them, he stood in a wash of golden light, sweat-slicked and smiling, owning every inch of that stage.

Tony let out a low whistle. “Hell of a birthday show.”

“Definitely one for the record books,” she said, handing back his headset.

“Going somewhere?”

“Gonna grab Lily from Gloria.”

“Mm hmm.”

She rolled her eyes at him and slipped out from under the stage as the final chords faded and the arena lights began to rise. Crew members rushed past in practiced chaos, but she moved through them easily. Gunnar and Gloria were already heading her way with a wide-awake Lily chewing on her crew pass.

“Hey, my sweet girl,” Ari said, taking Lily into her arms. “Let’s go see Daddy.”

By the time she reached the bottom of the stairs, Jon was coming down them — sweat-soaked, flushed, chest still rising hard with the high of the show. He spotted them instantly, that wide, exhausted, boyish grin breaking across his face.

“There’s my girls,” he said, voice rough but full of warmth.

Ari shifted Lily slightly. “Say hi, Daddy.”

One pudgy hand reached for him, and he pressed a gentle kiss to it, then leaned in to brush another soft one across Ari’s cheek.

“You were incredible tonight,” she said, brushing a sweaty curl off his forehead.

He huffed a laugh. “I was fueled by birthday sex and parental harassment. Powerful combination.”

Ari snorted. “Whaddaya say we blow this popsicle stand?”

“Ask me that again later,” he replied, winking at her, then motioned to Matt and Cliff that they were ready to head out.

Lily stretched her tiny arms toward him. Jon grinned and scooped her up from Ari, holding her close as she wriggled happily in his arms. Together, they began weaving through the bustling crew and equipment, the afterglow of the show still humming in their bones as they headed home.

Thirty-One

 

The Stones, The Scale and The Smartass

 

D.C. went smoothly last night. Thank God.

It had been Gloria’s first time witnessing what our in-and-out city runs actually look like, and for a trial-by-fire, it wasn’t the worst one to get thrown into.

They were wheels down in D.C. just after 9 a.m., no hotel, no buffer, straight into the fire. Normally, they’d arrive just in time for soundcheck, but since this was a union city, Ari needed to be there for load-in in case Kennedy ran into issues. Jon drew the short straw this time. Before they left, Ari made sure that his dressing room was the first thing they prepared. So, he didn’t pout… too much about the early call time.

The crew was already in the thick of it by the time they arrived: cases flying, cables coiled, radios chirped, and caffeine flowing. Gloria barely had a second to adjust before they were weaving her and Lily through the maze of road cases and forklift traffic.

She didn’t flinch when the dock alarm blared or when someone accidentally flipped the audio switch and that squelch echoed through the venue. She asked smart questions, kept Lily fed, changed, and on schedule — which, in Ari’s world, was nothing short of Olympic-level coordination. By lunch, she had even picked up on the way everyone communicated exclusively in acronyms and half-sentences.

And when Lily wasn’t mad-dashing through the venue halls in her walker, giving Gloria a run for her money, she was in Jon’s arms, babbling over his shoulder while he wandered back and forth between catering and front-of-house.

Today was technically an off day, which just meant no venue, no plane to catch, no pre-show drama. Instead, Ari was catching up on emails at the kitchen counter while Lily scooted and bounced around with Meatball hot on her trail.

There were a couple of inquiries wanting to hire SAMCO. Twenty-seven years in the business, you pick up a few friends here and there, so word travels fast when you start your own company. She wasn’t complaining. Not at all. The inquiries were coming in faster than she could hire a second crew.

Scrolling through her inbox, she flagged a couple and made a mental note to reply later. It wasn’t until she came across a familiar name that she started grinning.

---

From: m.jagger@rollingstoneshq.co.uk
To: AM@samcoproductions.com
Date: February 28, 2011 – 1:43 PM (London time)

Subject: Little Moretti, you never stop, do you?

Ari, darling—

I hear congratulations are in order — again.

Another baby on the way? At this rate, you’ll have your own crew in a few years. I can already see it: nappies in the cable trunks, bottle warmers on the rider, and you still outpacing lads half your age without spilling your coffee.

Tell Jon he’s a jammy sod.
He somehow married the only woman alive who can run a tour, pop out two small humans, and still manage a death glare that silences an entire lighting team. You’re terrifying, in the best way.

I miss your mug on the road. And your clipboard of doom.

Your dad always said, “She’s a miracle with boots and a mouth on her.” Still holds up, if you ask me.

Now, I know you’re knee-deep in Jon’s circus (no judgement, we’ve all done mad things for love), but I wanted to cause a bit of mischief and float something your way. We’re in the early throes of putting together the 50 and Counting tour for next year. Anniversary, big to-do. Tongues already wagging.

So, here’s the question:
What would it take to nick you from your husband? Just for a bit. We’d return you more or less intact, depending how civil Keith manages to stay.

The crew’s already muttering your name. Don’t make me grovel. I’m far too dignified, but I will send you another one of those hideous souvenir berets from Paris if you try to ignore me. You know, the glittery kind you love so much with the Eiffel Tower stitched on the front.

Let’s have a proper chinwag soon. And truly, I’m chuffed for you. Hope this new little one inherits your scowl.

Say hello to that wanker of yours.

All my best,
Mick
X

---

Ari huffed a laugh through her nose, startling Lily, who let out a squawk from where she was bouncing near the pantry. Meatball, ever the loyal guard dog, sprang to attention with a bark like someone had broken in.

“Sorry, sorry.” She kissed the top of Lily’s head, gave Meatball a quick scratch behind the ears, and went back to her laptop. Still grinning, she clicked Forward, fingers pausing over the keyboard for half a second. The moment she typed a J, Jon’s name popped up. She rolled her eyes, clicked it, and started typing.

---

—Forwarded Message—

From: AM@samcoproductions.com
To: JBJ@BJM.com

Subject: Poaching Season?

Breaking News: Moretti’s still irresistible to rock legends.

Hold on to your guitar… the Stones are trying to poach me. AGAIN!

Also, if I find one of those glitter Paris berets in my closet, you’re a dead man.

With all due respect (and none whatsoever),
Moretti’s, best in the business circa 1969

---

Her inbox pinged before she had a chance to slide off the stool, and when she saw it was from Jon, she couldn’t help but smirk. One glance at his reply had her shaking her head, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.

---

—Reply from Jon—

From: JBJ@BJM.com
To: AM@samcoproductions.com

Subject: Good luck with that

If he wants to ‘nick’ you, he’s going to have to pry you out of my cold, calloused, guitar-playing hands.

And for the record — if a glittery Paris beret does show up, I’ll reimburse his costs. 😉

No one’s taking my girl.
Still surviving the Moretti war since 1986

---

She set the laptop aside with a huff, then carried her mug to the sink, the grin still tugging at her mouth. “God help me,” she murmured under her breath. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱

Jon and Ari sat side by side, the soft hum of muzak filling the silence of the empty room. Whenever possible, they took the later appointments — less chance of causing a stir. Both were scrolling through their phones, oblivious to the door opening.

“Ariana? We’re ready for you.” Penelope gestured to the door. “Step on the scale for me, hon.”

The scale. Her nemesis. She’d been bracing for an uptick, given the steady negative trend.

“Oh, the scale.”

“Moment of truth, Crash.” Jon’s hand landed on her shoulder.

She shot him a glare that could curdle milk. “Say one word, and I’ll bury you.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Ari shuffled toward the scale, every step a mix of dread and defiance. The clicks of the weight adjusting echoed through the hall like ticking clockwork.

“Alrighty,” Penelope said, scribbling on the chart. “You’ve gained thirteen pounds.”

“Come again?” Ariana gasped, eyes widening.

Jon tried to stifle a laugh but failed miserably.

Penelope smiled reassuringly. “It’s perfectly normal, sweetie. After a rough first trimester, your body’s just catching up.”

Ari stepped off the scale and pointed a finger at Jon, still grinning. “Not a word.”

He sealed his lips with an exaggerated lock gesture as they followed Penelope down the hall into an empty exam room. Once the door clicked shut, Ari climbed onto the crinkly paper, pressing a hand to the slight curve beneath her sweater.

“Okay, wiseass. Let’s have it before Dr. Barnes comes in.”

Jon’s grin widened. “Just saying, it’s a good thing I didn’t stop for those cannoli you wanted.”

“I remember enjoying one this morning,” Ari said dryly. “Probably my last for a very long time.”

Jon’s grin stretched wider. “Yeah, heard that one before. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Before she could fire back, there was a soft knock on the door.

“Come in,” Ari called.

Dr. Barnes stepped in with a warm smile and tablet in hand. “Good afternoon, you two. How are we feeling today?”

“Depends,” Jon said, glancing at Ari. “Are you asking me, or her?”

Ari sighed. “Ignore him, he’s been insufferable since the scale.”

Dr. Barnes laughed as she washed her hands. “I see nothing’s changed. How’s Lily doing?”

“Crawling everywhere,” Jon declared proudly. “She’s got her mother’s fire.”

“And your stubbornness,” Ariana shot back, though a soft smile played on her lips.

Dr. Barnes rolled her stool closer, typing notes into the tablet. “Alright, twenty-two weeks today. Let’s take a look here.”

She glanced up with a smile. “You’ve gained thirteen pounds since your last visit. Exactly what I hoped to see after the rough first trimester. You’re catching up beautifully.”

Ari gave a short laugh. “That’s one way to spin it.”

Jon leaned back, grinning. “Told ya. The scale’s not plotting against you.”

Dr. Barnes smiled behind her glasses. “Nope, just doing its job. Blood pressure’s a bit high — nothing alarming. You know what I’m going to say. Just try to limit stress when you can.”

“Define ‘limit’ when you’re traveling circus now includes a seven-month-old and you’re the CEO of your own company.”

“Fair point,” the doctor said with an amused glance. “Maybe take a few extra minutes for deep breaths now and then.”

She measured Ari’s belly with practiced ease, the tape gliding across the curve. “You’re measuring right on track. Early July due date still looks solid.”

“Perfect timing,” Jon said. “We have a week off around that time.”

Dr. Barnes applied gel and pressed the Doppler wand to Ari’s stomach. Static buzzed for a moment before a steady gallop of a heartbeat filled the room.

“Strong heartbeat, good rhythm,” Dr. Barnes confirmed, setting the probe back in its holder. “Everything’s looking great. I’ll call as soon as the amnio results come in — should be any day now.”

Ari nodded casually, her tone steady. “I don’t remember it taking this long with Lily.”

“No news yet doesn’t mean bad news,” the doctor reassured.

Jon squeezed her hand. “We’ve got plenty to keep us busy until then.”

Dr. Barnes smiled. “Exactly. Rest when you can, eat when you’re hungry, and try not to boss your blood pressure around too much.”

Jon grinned immediately. “Oh, this is gonna be tough. You know she’s the CEO of Bossing, right?”

Ari shot him a look, shaking her head.

Dr. Barnes gave a small smile. “Well, that’s my cue to go.” She picked up her tablet. “I’ll see you in a month.”

“Take care, Doc,” they both said.

With a final glance over her shoulder, Dr. Barnes stepped out, leaving them alone in the room.

Jon squeezed her knee. “July’s gonna be one hell of a month.”

As the door clicked behind her, Ari hopped off the table, adjusting her sweater. “Keep living on that prayer that this little one arrives on July 4th,” she said with a sly grin. “It’s not happening. Even if I have to lock my legs and squeeze.”

“Now, there’s a visual I could do without.” Jon grimaced playfully.

Ari shot him a side-eye. “You’re welcome.”

Thirty

 

Exactly Where We Fit

 

Ari was very, very pleased with herself.

She was curled against Jon’s side in the plush hotel bed, their limbs tangled beneath a mess of white sheets and room service crumbs. The city outside the window buzzed low and distant, but up here, everything felt warm and still.

Like the calm after exactly the right kind of storm.

The screen flashed to a photo from the night before: Jon helping her out of the car in front of Trattoria Verita, her wine-red dress clinging all the right ways, that unmistakable bump front and center.

“And in entertainment news this morning — a very different kind of headline from music royalty Jon Bon Jovi and his wife Ariana Moretti–Bon Jovi. After a flurry of rumors sparked by a photo taken yesterday afternoon in New York’s West Village, the couple made their own statement last night, stepping out for dinner at Trattoria Verita.”

“Ssh,” Ari murmured, pressing a finger to his lips. “This is my favorite part.”

“Sources close to the couple say the timing was intentional — not reactionary. While the media speculated, the Bon Jovis quietly handed an exclusive to a single trusted photographer, allowing the announcement to unfold on their terms.”

Ari grinned like a cat who’d just eaten the canary and the press release. “God, I’m good. You just know Josie’s somewhere choking on a kale shot and her own bitterness.”

Jon didn’t look up. One arm tucked behind his head, the other lazily traced the curve of her thigh under the sheets, slow and absentminded.

“You’re dangerous when you’re smug.”

“Damn right I am.”

Onscreen, a still from the night before: her boots, his hand at the small of her back, the ring catching light like it knew what it was doing.

“Think Ken gave the photog a heads-up?” Jon asked.

“Of course. But I picked which guy. Told Ken: find me someone who doesn’t owe Josie a single favor.”

Jon let out a low laugh. “Note to self — never underestimate you.”

She smirked. “Please do. I like proving you wrong.”

Just then his phone buzzed on the nightstand. He reached for it, glanced at the screen, and read the message aloud, smirking.

Gloria: Lily slept ‘til 9. We did baby yoga. She’s letting Meatball lick the syrup off her fingers and giggling like a maniac. Enjoy your morning. I’ve got her all day.

She arched an eyebrow and stretched, slow and smug, like someone who knew exactly what she was doing — the sheet slipping just enough.

“Well, would you look at that.”

Jon’s gaze tracked the exposed line of her collarbone down to the edge of the sheet like it was a roadmap he’d memorized.

“Careful.”

“Why?” she asked, already sliding over him, sun catching the faint bite marks across her shoulders. “You said you liked trouble.”

“I like it slow,” he growled, his hand finding her waist, possessive and patient. “I like it smug. I like it when it talks back.”

“Oh, baby,” she smirked, settling over his hips, “then you’re in luck.”

Jon flipped her beneath him with practiced ease, the sheet tangling around them as his mouth found hers. His hands knew the path by heart — every curve, every sun-kissed freckle. The kiss started soft, then turned greedy, like someone who’d already had too much and still wanted more.

Hungry.
Deliberate.
Still not done.

“You planning to worship me,” she murmured against his mouth, “or wear me out?”

“Both,” he said without missing a beat. “In that order.”

She laughed. Then stopped.

And it was just skin and heat and history.

The kind of quiet where breathing got loud, and time got lost in the softness of tangled limbs and whispered names.

Jon took his time.

So did she.

Every movement was familiar but still electric — like they’d never stopped discovering each other, never stopped learning new ways to say you’re mine.

They didn’t surface for hours.

When they finally collapsed against the pillows again — sweat-kissed and breathless — she was flat-out wrecked and didn’t care who knew it, one leg tossed over his hip like she’d melted there on purpose.

He traced slow, possessive circles along her thigh. “Still smug?”

“Smug?” She gave him a satisfied smile. “Baby, I’m glowing.”

He chuckled against her skin, lips brushing her shoulder. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet…” She turned her head to kiss him, slow and lingering. “You’re addicted.”

Jon pulled her in tighter, his voice low in her ear. “Guilty as charged.”

They lay there in the quiet hum of a well-earned morning, wrapped in sheets and each other, the city alive beyond the window. Somewhere, headlines were being written, and rumors were already spreading.

But in here?

They were just Crash and Jon. Untouchable. Unbothered.

Exactly where they wanted to be.

♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱

The shower had steamed the mirrors and softened the ache in their muscles, but Ari still moved like someone satisfied and slightly smug. She towel-dried her curls at the counter while Jon stood behind her, black button-down unbuttoned, watching her in the mirror with a look that belonged in a private collection.

“You’re staring,” she said without looking up.

“I’m remembering,” he murmured. “And mentally cancelling everything on my calendar for the next twenty-four hours.”

“Nice try, Rockstar. We have a show tomorrow.”

“Cruel woman.”

“It’s called responsibilities,” she said, straightening his collar.

He leaned in and kissed her neck, just behind her ear. “It’s called torture.”

She laughed, already crossing back into the bedroom and sliding into a pair of soft, perfectly broken-in jeans and a faded Eagles tee.

“Hey, where did my clothes come from?” she asked, pulling her damp curls up into a bun.

“I had concierge pick them up from The Fade.”

She raised an eyebrow, then glanced down at her feet. “And the Chucks? You forget to ask them for those?”

“Forget?” He grinned. “Told them to hold those back.”

She shook her head, amused. “You and those boots…”

“Hey, I’m happy to indulge whatever you’re into these days.”

She laughed, slipped them on, slid on her sunglasses, and met him at the door.

“Let’s go home.”

They stepped into the elevator together, fingers laced, the soft click of the closing doors sealing them off from the world outside. The smooth, muted hum of the descent was a quiet pause, a bubble of calm amid the city’s relentless energy. Ari leaned into Jon, the steady rhythm of their breaths falling into sync with the gentle movement of the elevator.

The elevator slowed, a soft chime signaling the lobby floor approaching. Jon gave her hand a quick squeeze, grounding them both in the moment.

The doors slid open.

Cliff stood waiting in the lobby, dressed down in jeans and a black thermal, but still unmistakably the quiet wall of calm that followed them everywhere. He looked up from his phone, gave them a nod, and subtly tilted his head toward the glass doors.

“All clear,” he said. “Car’s out front. One photographer on the opposite corner, but he’s keeping it low-key.”

Jon gave a half-grin. “Our guy?”

Cliff said nothing, simply opened the door with a knowing look.

Outside, the city was alive again. Brisk wind, honking cabs, the steady rhythm of a Sunday morning in New York. But there was no frenzy. No flashbulbs. Just one long lens watching from across the street.

Ari slipped closer to Jon as they slid into the waiting SUV.

Inside, the air was warm. Still. Familiar.

Jon’s fingers brushed the back of her hand. “Back to normal?” he asked.

“At least our version of it.”

Her phone buzzed on the seat. She glanced down and the corners of her mouth tipped up.

Ken: Nice work. Headlines hit. Ms. Johnson? Seething. She’s already asking questions. Just a heads-up.

Jon leaned in, eyes narrowing. “Who’s that?”

She handed him the phone. “Ken. Our little exclusive worked. She’s pissed.”

“Good,” he chuckled low, setting the phone down between them. “Let her stew. We’re done playing by their rules.”

As the car pulled away from the curb, Manhattan’s noise softened into a distant thrum behind tinted windows. Ari sank back into the seat, letting herself breathe  for what felt like the first real moment since stepping outside the hotel. Jon rested his hand on her knee, thumb tracing slow circles that matched the steady rhythm of the road.

“Feels weird,” she murmured, watching the skyline shrink behind them as the
SUV merged onto the Holland Tunnel approach.

Jon glanced over. “What does?”

“To have an adult sleepover in the city.” She smirked. “We should do it more
often.”

He gave a low laugh. “We could. Strictly for our peace of mind, of course.”

She elbowed him lightly. “You’re only saying that because you got lucky twice.”

“Three times,” he corrected, waving three fingers at her.

She rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her mouth betrayed her.

The tunnel lights flickered over them, the echoing hum wrapping the car in a strange little cocoon. When they emerged on the Jersey side, the air seemed calmer, the noise a little softer, the world a little smaller in the way home always was.

Ari felt something warm settle in her chest that had nothing to do with smugness or headlines. Home. Lily.

Thirty minutes later they pulled into their driveway.

Gloria and Lily were on the living room rug, surrounded by books and toys. Lily’s curls were wild like her mother’s as she concentrated very seriously on smacking two blocks together. Meatball lay beside her, snoring like he’d earned it.

On the TV a local news segment replayed Ari stepping out of the car last night—her dress, her bump, Jon’s hand at her back.

Lily looked at the TV.
Then at Ari.
Then at the TV again.

Her eyes went huge.

“Ma-ma-ma-ma!”

Ari froze.

Jon’s eyebrows shot up.

Gloria didn’t even try to hide her grin. “She’s been testing out sounds all day. That one is brand new.”

Ari dropped to her knees so fast Jon let out a startled laugh. “Lily bug, come here, come to Mama.”

Lily crawled forward at top speed and practically launched herself into Ari’s arms. Ari scooped her up, smothering her in kisses, laughing so hard she could barely breathe.

“Say it again.”

Lily patted her face enthusiastically. “Mmm-a!”

Jon knelt beside them now, and Lily immediately reached for him — like always — fingers grabbing his shirt.

Ari shifted her slightly and tsk’d. “Nope. Back off, buddy. She said my name first. I get custody for at least five minutes.”

Jon raised both hands, defeated but grinning like a fool. “Fine. I’ll just sit here and observe my loss.”

Lily babbled proudly, still patting Ari’s cheeks like she’d accomplished the greatest feat in human history. And honestly? Ari felt like she had.

Jon leaned in, kissing both their heads. “Guess she wanted her own headline.”

“Yeah,” Ari laughed, pressing her forehead to Lily’s. “And it’s my favorite one.”

Home wrapped around them, warm, loud, soft, imperfect, perfect.

Mama.

Once, that word had scared her more than death itself.
Now?
Hearing it felt like the bravest thing she’d ever done.

 

Twenty-Nine

 

Worn In, Not Worn Out

 

 The door hadn’t even closed behind her before she heard his voice.

“…I don’t care how she got the photo. FIX IT! Pull it down, shove it up her ass. Just get it done!”

Ari froze in the entryway, the word done still vibrating in the air. Lily shifted in her arms, startled by the noise, small fingers tightening against Ari’s sweater. Cliff stepped quietly around her, setting the bags at the foot of the stairs before following her into the living room.

He’d already voiced his concerns after they dropped Cara off at the airport—paparazzi had been lingering since the West Village, and he hadn’t liked how many angles they’d had.

She’d waved him off at the time. Just noise, she’d said. And maybe she’d wanted to believe it. That after MSG, after all the chaos and adrenaline, the universe might grant her one peaceful day to come down.

But the face on the television as they entered the room confirmed what both of them already knew. Cliff had been right.

Jon paced like a caged animal in front of the screen, phone pressed to his ear, voice sharp enough to cut glass.

“I said clean it up, not fan the flames, Ken,” he barked. “I want it gone!”

He turned just as the segment began to roll.

“FUCK!”

The word hit like a thunderclap. He yanked the phone from his ear, disconnected the call, and hurled it onto the couch.

Ari’s breath caught. Slowly, she bent and lowered Lily to the rug, her eyes locked on the television.

There she was—caught mid-stride, Lily in her stroller, Cara walking beside her. Both of them laughing. A paparazzi shot, clearly taken without her noticing.

The headline scrolling across the bottom read:

Is the Bon Jovi Family Growing… Again? Moretti Bump Watch is ON!

“That’s right — Ariana Moretti Bon Jovi may be expanding more than just her production company empire.

Cameras caught the forty-four-year-old head of SAMCO Productions earlier today in New York’s West Village with her seven-month-old daughter Lily and longtime bestie Cara Francis, following two sold-out shows at Madison Square Garden.

Everything looked picture-perfect… until this little moment: a tiny black onesie with the words new to the crew.

Coincidence… or confirmation in cotton?

Ari exhaled slowly, one hand pressed against her ribs as she listened to the smarmy lilt of the anchor’s voice.

Dressed in her usual oversized Stones hoodie, the rocker’s wife has sparked fresh speculation. A Stones classic… or a classic cover-up?

After all, fans will remember the last time the couple shocked the world — a sudden divorce, a whirlwind romance, and a baby announcement that practically wrote itself.

No comment yet from the couple. Or from Bon Jovi’s ex-wife.

So… are the Bon Jovis gearing up for baby number two?

Stay tuned. Josie Johnson will keep you updated.”

Jon ran a hand through his hair, tension clinging to his shoulders like armor. “Josie,” he muttered, pacing again. “Of course it’s fuckin’ her. She’s been quiet too long.”

Ari crossed the room toward him, her voice steady but edged with dry humor. “I’d ask how your day was, but…”

He huffed, jaw working. “Right? Did you notice the lenses?”

“I did, Boss,” Cliff said from behind them, his tone level but firm. “But they weren’t close. The onesie photo had to come from the store’s internal camera. If you want, I can go back tomorrow and check it out.”

Ari turned on him. “You will do no such thing.”

“Why not?” Jon snapped.

Ari’s voice cut through before Cliff could answer. Calm. Clear. “Because she’s not wrong.”

Both men looked at her. Cliff blinked in confusion. Jon’s brow furrowed, temper pausing mid-breath.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

Ari didn’t flinch. “The speculation. The headlines. They’re not wrong, because I am pregnant.”

For a heartbeat, the room went still. Jon’s jaw flexed, his eyes dark with something between anger and fear. “It’s none of her fuckin’ business.”

“True,” Ari said softly, sinking onto the armrest of the couch. She smoothed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the picture of control. “But where’s the harm?”

Jon’s voice cracked through the quiet. “Because it starts here, and then it snowballs.” He let out a bitter breath, pacing again. “Or did you forget what she did last year? The way she framed it like you were some homewrecker sneaking through the back door with a baby on your hip?”

Ari’s gaze followed him, unshaken. “That’s not what this is anymore.”

He turned, his voice low but sharp. “Doesn’t matter. She’ll twist it. That’s what she does.”

Ari met his eyes, calm and unyielding. “She can only twist what we let her have.”

The silence that followed pressed close, the hum of the television still flickering in the background. Cliff shifted, clearing his throat quietly. “If you two are good here, I’m gonna do a perimeter sweep, then head out.”

Ari looked up and managed a small smile. “Thanks, Big Red.”

He gave her a respectful nod, then looked to Jon. “Let me know if you want me tomorrow.”

Jon didn’t respond—just a curt nod, jaw still locked tight. Cliff took the cue and disappeared down the hallway, the sound of the front door closing breaking the tension for a beat.

The quiet that followed wasn’t heavy, exactly. But it was wide.

Lily babbled from the floor, crawling toward the coffee table, one hand clutching her favorite teething ring. A moment later, the rhythmic click of claws echoed down the hall, and Meatball trotted in, nose to the ground. He flopped beside Lily, as loyal as ever.

Ari watched them for a long moment before lifting her eyes back to Jon. “I’m not hiding,” she said simply. “Not anymore.”

He exhaled hard, staring at the floor. When he finally sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, his hands tangled in his hair like he could squeeze sense into the situation.

“We’ve done this dance with her before,” he said, his voice rougher now. “We know how she plays. She doesn’t care about facts—just the story.”

Ari tilted her head slightly. “And what story do you think she’s gonna tell this time? We’re married. Our daughter’s seven months old. We have another baby on the way. If she wants to make that look dirty, then let her.”

Jon looked up, eyes flicking to Lily, who had now rolled onto her back, teether half in her mouth, Meatball snoring beside her. He looked back at Ari, his expression softer but weighted.

“You say that like it doesn’t cost us anything,” he murmured.

Her voice steadied even more. “Last year was different. I was scared. So were you. Everything felt fragile. But now?” She lifted a shoulder. “Now I’m just a mom who spent a day with her kid and her best friend. That’s all it is.”

He studied her for a long moment, searching for cracks that weren’t there.

“So, you don’t want me to chase this down?” he asked at last. “No calls, no damage control?”

Ari shook her head. “Let ’em talk. Let Josie write her article.”

“And if she keeps going?” he pressed.

Ari met his gaze. “Then we beat her at her own game—before she even starts.”

Jon’s brow lifted, curiosity edging out frustration. “And how do we do that?”

Ari’s smile curved slow and deliberate, a flicker of mischief warming her composure. “Well,” she said, voice dropping a note lower, “you call Ken and tell him to hold off.”

She stepped closer, crossing behind him, fingers grazing the back of his shoulder as she passed. He stilled but didn’t turn, eyes following her anyway.

“And while you’re doing that,” she continued, “I’m gonna go upstairs… slip into that sweater dress you like…”

Her steps slowed at the doorway, the air between them humming. “And those boots you can’t ever keep your hands off.”

She let the words hang, a teasing grin flickering across her face. “I’ll be down in twenty. And then, we’ll give them something worth printing.”

Jon shook his head, but for the first time all evening, his mouth curved into something dangerously close to a grin.

“God, you’re trouble,” he muttered.

“With a capital T-R-O-U-B-L-E,” her voice floated back, playful and unbothered as her footsteps faded up the marble stairs.

Jon sat there for a long beat, the sound of Lily’s soft babbling grounding him back in the moment. Finally, he reached for his phone.

“Hey, Gloria,” he said when she picked up. “You available to watch Lily tonight?”

He glanced over at the baby, flat on her back, kicking one leg while Meatball licked her hand like it was made of bacon.

“Great,” Jon said, a low sigh escaping. “Better make it a sleepover.”

Twenty minutes later, Ari appeared at the top of the stairs. The wine-red knit dress hugged her curves and the gentle swell of her belly—just enough to show, just enough to make him forget the rest of the world.

The ribbed fabric clung like it had been made for her alone. Every step down the staircase was a slow reveal of confidence and quiet grace. One hand skimmed the banister, the other held a black leather jacket.

Her dark curls fell in soft waves, catching the light with every move. She rarely wore jewelry—never needed it—but tonight, her engagement ring caught the glow. A sea-glass aquamarine set in platinum, pale green-blue and clear as morning. A row of delicate diamonds traced the band, just enough shimmer to make it hers.

The black boots echoed softly on the steps—strong, steady, unapologetically feminine.

Jon stood at the bottom, silent, breath caught. His eyes followed every step like lyrics writing themselves.

Ari reached the last stair and lifted her brow. “These the boots?”

He blinked once, then, low and deliberate, said, “Mercy… grrrrrrl.”

The smile that followed was crooked, intimate—the kind reserved for late nights, old songs, and memories that stayed warm.

Ari grinned, slow and dangerous. “Good.”

She tossed the jacket over her shoulder, pausing long enough to make him sweat.

“You coming, Rockstar? Or am I gonna make headlines without you?”

With Gloria tucked away in the living room, Jon grabbed his jacket, tossed her a crooked grin, and followed Ari to the door.

By the time they hit the street, the city was alive—all noise and neon and Saturday-night heat.

A black car slowed at the curb, headlights sweeping across the sidewalk. Just beyond, Trattoria Verita shimmered like a secret. Candlelight. Crisp tablecloths. Quiet money.

Jon opened the door for her like he always did. She stepped out like she owned the block. The wine-red dress did its job. So did the boots.

At the edge of the sidewalk, a single photographer stood waiting. Not Josie. Just one lens.

Jon didn’t flinch.
Neither did Ariana.