Twenty-Four

 

Friction Therapy

 

Her plan was simple: drop her laptop, track down Jon, steal five minutes.

Ten, tops.

Okay, fifteen—if he was shirtless.

She turned the corner toward backstage, nearly home free—

“Hey, Ari. Got a sec?”

Jeanie materialized like she always did, papers in hand and that hopeful smile plastered across her face. The one that meant she knew her timing was impeccable. Too fast to ignore, too indispensable to brush off.

Ari let out a slow exhale. “Is this a ‘can wait’ or a ‘Jon will kill me if this doesn’t get done’ situation?”

Jeanie’s smile tightened. “Definitely the latter.”

“All right. Walk and talk. Four minutes, tops.”

Jeanie rattled through her list—dinner plans for Jon’s birthday in Philadelphia, schedule tweaks for their March week off, all the little details Ari had no choice but to sign off on. By the time she scrawled her initials on the last page, Jeanie had already disappeared. Ari, halfway to her destination, pushed forward with renewed determination when—

“Ari! Just the person I needed.”

Matt’s voice snagged her mid-stride. She stopped, tilting her head like she was indulging a child. “Yes, Matt?”

“Guest list for MSG. No surprises, but you’ve got the final say.”

She snatched the clipboard, scanning with practiced speed. “Looks good. Add a couple more plus-ones for Cara—no clue what night or who she’s coming with.”

Matt’s smirk was pure amusement. “In a hurry or something?”

“Yeah. Something like that. We done?”

“Mm-hmm.” He reclaimed the clipboard, grinning like he’d caught her in the act. “Have fun.”

She didn’t waste breath replying. Just prayed she could actually make it to Jon this time.

But then—

“Ari, wait.”

A softer voice. No less insistent.

Nicole, tablet in hand, her expression all business. Medical mode.

“Time to check your vitals.”

“Right now?” Ari gave her a tired smile, half a plea.

Nic arched a brow. “You have somewhere you need to be?”

“I’m trying to get there,” Ari admitted with a grin. “But if we gotta do this now, let’s go. Catering, okay? Then I can grab an apple or something.”

Nic’s smirk cracked through her seriousness. “You grabbing the apple for your benefit or mine?”

“Definitely yours.”

They veered toward the catering spread. Ari snagged a red apple and a bottle of water, dropping into a folding chair as Nic wrapped the cuff around her arm.

“Still able to eat without nausea?” Nic asked.

“Most days. Today was a good one.”

The monitor beeped. Nic glanced over her tablet. “And sleep?”

“Still decent—aside from peeing every five seconds.”

“Water intake?”

“Plenty. Hence the peeing.”

Ari’s leg bounced, her gaze flicking toward the hallway like it might vanish without her.

“You’re free the second this stops,” Nic promised.

The monitor beeped its release. Ari yanked off the cuff, scrawled her initials across the screen, and was already halfway standing.

“Thanks. See you at showtime,” she tossed over her shoulder, moving again before Nic could pin her down.

Enough delays. Enough clipboards and checklists.

She cut down the hallway with quiet purpose, weaving through flight cases and crew who wisely cleared a path. When Ari moved like that, nobody dared slow her.

By the time she hit the dressing room door, her pulse was thrumming—for reasons that had nothing to do with the sprint.

She didn’t knock. Didn’t pause.

The door swung open, and she slipped inside like she belonged—because she did. The walkie hit the nearest chair with a clatter, her Chucks following with a muted thump.

Before Jon could even ask how her morning had gone, she was already in his lap, straddling his thighs, heat radiating off her like a second skin.

Her fingers fumbled with the hem of her crew shirt—the one that smelled faintly of sweat and French fries, the one she’d been running ragged in all day. She peeled it off, hair tumbling free, exposing skin that still burned with the memory of last night.

Jon’s hands were on her instantly, gripping her waist like he’d been counting every second.

The kiss came fast, frantic, familiar. Wild, like teenagers starved of each other for years, not just hours.

Breathless. Hungry. Fierce.

And as her body melted into his, every ache, every delay, every clipboard, vanished in the fire of his mouth on hers.

The kiss deepened. Messy, urgent, all tongue, teeth, and need. His hands gripped tighter, fingers digging into her hips through the thin fabric of her leggings, dragging her down against him like he couldn’t get her close enough.

 

She gasped against his mouth as friction sparked. Just enough to make her grind back, slow and deliberate.

 

“FUCK,” Jon muttered, breath hot against her jaw. “You’re gonna kill me.”

 

“You’ll die happy,” she whispered, already rolling her hips again.

 

There wasn’t time to strip down. Didn’t matter—her shirt was gone, his was bunched in her fists. His jeans strained under the pressure she was putting on him, dragged over the thick line of him again and again until his head dropped back, jaw tight, breath ragged.

 

She chased the pressure, the ache in her belly a slow burn that demanded more. The rest of her morning—all of it—faded into static.  All she could hear now was the ragged sound of his breath. His hands on her ass, his mouth at her neck, the way he swore into her skin like a prayer.

 

“Crash,” he groaned. “You keep doing that, I’m not gonna make it.”

 

“Not asking you to.” She said, breathless, smug, wrecked.

 

The friction between them hit that perfect, wicked rhythm—fast, dirty, controlled only by the thinnest thread.  Her body rocked into his with intent, and his grip tightened like he could hold back time.

 

One more grind.

One more clutch of his fingers.

 

And then—everything broke.

 

She collapsed against him, forehead resting on his shoulder, both panting. His hand stayed steady at the small of her back, grounding her as her body trembled through the aftershocks.

 

Silence stretched, thick and satisfied, sweat cooling her skin.

 

Finally, Jon let out a rough, low laugh. 

 

“Being used like your personal kitty scratching post is starting to get in the way of what I’m actually good at.”

 

“Oh yeah? And what’s that?” she bit her lip to keep from laughing.

 

He leaned back, smug as hell. “Sucking tits and licking clits.”

 

She nipped his earlobe and pulled back, breath still ragged. “Relax. Just needed the friction therapy to survive the next seven hours.”

 

He groaned, his head falling back. “I think I liked your lollipop phase better.” 

 

Without a word, she slid off his lap like it was a routine stretch break. Shirt, shoes, walkie, all back in place in under tend seconds.

 

“Lollipop. Scratching post. Same difference.” She tossed a wink over her shoulder as she opened the door.

 

Jon snorted. “The hell they are.”

  

♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱

 

The second she slipped out of the dressing room, the shift was immediate. Whatever heat they’d shared a heartbeat ago vanished, tucked beneath clipped commands and quick strides. The softness in her eyes hardened into focus. She was back in work mode.

By the time the house lights dimmed and the crowd roared, she’d already done a full sweep of her crew. A rigging delay on the left side had forced a reroute, a minor comms issue got patched in the nick of time, and one stubborn effects cue finally landed on beat after three tense attempts. Nothing catastrophic, but enough to keep her moving nonstop—and just barely making it to the stage stairs on time.

Until the very last second.

As the band lined up in the shadows behind the curtain, she reached him just as Rew pressed a guitar into his hands.

“Thought I was getting stood up.”

Jon’s voice was teasing, but his eyes searched hers for a beat longer than necessary.

She leaned in, brushing a kiss against his jaw instead of his lips—the best she could manage without throwing the rhythm of the night. “Trust me, if I was standing you up, you’d feel it.”

“Smartass.”

She blew him a kiss and was gone, swallowed by the dark wings of the stage.

For the first half of the show, Ari kept her head down. Spot checks, radio chatter, leaning on Tony for backup when she needed it. She thrived in the chaos, but tonight she stayed just a little sharper, ears tuned to every cue. It wasn’t until Jon and Richie started their shift toward the B-stage—or the circle, as the crew called it—that she allowed herself to slip closer.

The crowd hushed as the lights softened. Acoustic mode. Jon and Richie took the first two songs alone before the rest of the band joined them. Crew darted in shadows, ghostlike, bringing mic stands and cables into place.

Jon paced the small circle of light, strumming in a steady rhythm, his voice carrying over the swell of twenty thousand people. Ari crouched at the edge, tugging a line tight. She looked up just as he turned.

That grin. Crooked, sly. His eyes found hers like a compass locking north, playful and wordless: What?

Her lips twitched. She rolled her eyes, fighting it—losing. For a moment, in the middle of all that noise, it felt like they were the only two people in the arena. Their secret threaded in the space between a grin and an eye roll.

Then came the familiar chords of Something for the Pain. Jon’s voice dipped low, threading through the crowd:

Give me something for the pain,
Give me something I can use.

She shook her head, amused. He was laughing under the melody, the sound buried so only she would catch it.

The rest of the show blurred into adrenaline. The band tore through the setlist, the crowd roaring back every word. Ari moved like she always did—quick, precise, invisible in plain sight. But that flash of connection with Jon lingered, humming like an encore in her chest. Her favorite track of the night, no question.

When the final chords faded and the crowd’s cheers bled into the air, Ari exhaled. For the first time in months, a show wrapped without incident. No emergency IV bags. No Fruit Loops stashed as bribery or backup. Just music, chaos, and release. The high softened into exhaustion, the kind that made her crave the quiet. She knew the short ride home would be calm, steady—so different from the electric storm of tonight. And tomorrow morning, they’d be with the kids. That was the real encore.

The plane carried the hush of spent bodies. Crew slumped in seats, voices low, half-finished drinks sweating in cupholders. The adrenaline had burned off, leaving only fatigue and the soft hum of engines. Days off before the next show meant everyone was desperate to get home.

Ari, though, was already halfway there. Hoodie pulled over her head, feet tucked under her, headphones in. Her small bump rested lightly against her thighs, a constant reminder that her body was no longer entirely her own. She sank into her usual seat, pretending she wasn’t counting every second until takeoff.

Jon slid in beside her with the quiet gravity of someone who always got what he wanted. He didn’t say a word—just plucked a headphone from her ear and slipped something small into her hand.

She glanced down. A tiny plastic bag. Two cherry lollipops inside.

Her brows lifted. “Seriously?”

That smirk. Infuriating and irresistible. “Figured your emergency craving kit was running low.”

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” Her voice was flat, unimpressed, but the corner of her mouth threatened to betray her.

“Nope. I know I am.”

She shook her head. “This doesn’t mean I like you.”

“Sure, it does. You just don’t wanna admit I’m your favorite flavor.”

The engines roared to life, and Ari tensed, fingers curling white around the armrest. Jon noticed—he always noticed. Without comment, he leaned closer, shoulder to shoulder, his presence a steady anchor. Then, softly, he started to sing:

My boy lollipop… you make my heart go giddy-up.

She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “You’re the worst.”

“Why? It fits the mood.”

The wicked twist of his mouth deepened. You could hear the smirk in his voice.

I make your mouth go sticky sweet…

“Shut up, Jon,” she muttered, shaking her head. But even as she said it, the edges of her mouth curled upward. Because some things—thank God—never changed.