V

On their way to the restaurant, Richie asked Frédérique how the drive home had been, and she told him about the deplorable state her jeans had been left in. They laughed as they remembered the incident and they were still trying to compose themselves when they got into the restaurant.

The restaurant was a créperie, traditional from the region of Bretaigne, where Frédérique was from. It was a little warmer than outside and since it didn’t have very big windows and the walls were deep burgundy, the interior was rather dark. The pictures hung on the wall and the soft, warm lamps on the white tablecloths made for a cozy atmosphere.

They sat down on the back section and he instinctively sat with his back to the front door. He had tried to pull the chair out for her but she grabbed it herself and sat down. The mechanism of pulling out the chair was still a mystery to her: a few times she had tried to “master the art” but had given up on it.

“This is one of my favourite places here in the city”, she sounded almost proud of being there, as if it were her own dining room.

From her place on the table Frédérique greeted – or at least Richie assumed, since she did so in French – the barman and the waiter, who in turn, exchanged a couple more sentences among themselves. The men laughed and giggled, but she blushed a little and then smiled and rolled her eyes, her left hand under her chin supporting her head, elbow on the table.

She saw Richie’s questioning face and smiled again.

“Oh, it’s nothing, just men being silly. They are the closest thing to family I’ve got here in New York”. 

“The food is amazing, it’s the only place that actually makes me feel homesick”, she continued, trying to diverse the attention from the previous scene.

“Mmm…In that case – he said – I’ll take your suggestion, you’re the expert”.

“Let’s not lose more time, then, I’m starving”. She grinned and clapped her hands together as if cheering. She called the waiter, Jean-Marc, and again spoke to him in French. He quickly brought them a couple of glasses and a bottle of cider, and poured the liquid into the glasses. Before Richie could even utter a word, Frédérique spoke.

“It’s a tradition in Bretaigne to have cider with the crepes”, she said and took the glass to her lips, giggling at the reaction the cider did with her lipgloss, it tickled. It was such an intimate moment, like she had been turned on by that sensation. He found the way she pouted her lips utterly sexy.

He tried to give the conversation a more decent level: “For a French woman, you speak very good English I gotta tell ya, have you lived here long?”.

“Oh, no, I actually moved here less than three months ago. My father’s a Beatles fan, I grew up listening to them so the language was never a mystery to me. Then of course I took courses in England”, she replied.

“Wow, I really like the Beatles, too, but I only got the guitar part - still working on the English, ha ha”, he said and they both burst out laughing so hard a couple of patrons looked at them.

The crepes came and they started eating.

“So you were born in…?” Richie started

“France, yes, Bordeaux - well, a little village just outside Bordeaux” was all she said, then threw it back at him: “What about you? Were you born here?” – pointing to the floor meaning New York, before she took a bite. She honestly didn’t know.

He chuckled. Who am I kidding, I can’t expect every person in this world to know who I am and where I was born. “No, I’m from the glorious state of New Jersey” he said proudly in a deep, manly voice.

“Now… tell me about the recording studio, you play in a band, right?”, Frédérique asked.  

He almost spit the bite of crepe he was chewing: “Boy, I knew they weren’t crazy about us in France, but…”.

“But that’s what you do, is it not? Whether you’re famous for doing it or not misses the point of my question – she gestured with her fork - what matters to me as an architect is what you need the building to do for you. The building is supposed to fulfill its purpose regardless if you’re famous or not”

“Uh-huh”, Richie nodded, thoughtful: he was surprised … and amused. I need to have her talk to Jon, I’ll watch them while I eat my popcorn. The cider made him feel relaxed and bubbly.

Before he could go on Frédérique suddenly dropped her fork to the floor and they both reached down quickly to grab it, with such bad luck that their heads collapsed in the air. They laughed as they waited for Jean-Marc to bring a clean one.

“I told you I’m clumsy. I think I should wear a label with a warning that read: ‘Hazardous weapon’”, when she spoke in laughter her voice was deep and guttural. Richie just smiled, but his mind wandered…I bet you are.

“So…the studio?...” Frédérique encouraged Richie to continue to talk. Richie filled her in on the details about what they did in the recording studio and what facilities it should have, an approximate idea of the size he wanted it to be, answering her questions when she wanted to clarify some of the points.

The restaurant was pretty quiet - rush hour had long passed, they poured what was left of the cider in the glasses and sat back enjoying the intoxicating atmosphere and the relaxation the cider provided.

“Let me see that”, Richie extended his right arm towards Frédérique. She frowned. Wha…He took her left hand and gently pulled it towards him. The calluses covered the tip of her short-nailed fingers and made it look flat, the skin a little darker. He examined them and felt her reaction, how sensitive she was, she seemed to be able to obtain pleasure from everything that surrounded her: the food, the music, the setting, the cider…and he didn’t seem to be the exception.

“Ya play the guitar?” he asked and Frédérique's heart warmed at his endearing tone, as if just the thought of a guitar made him happy.

“Oh, no, I’m not a musician if that’s what you mean. I don’t stink, but I’m not by any means good at it. I just love the way it sounds”. Richie listened, brushing his thumb through the tips. Frédérique's hand was so close to Richie's face that she found herself resisting the urge to touch his lips.

They were interrupted by Jean-Marc, who apparently asked if they needed anything else, to what she just shook her head and gave him a full-teethed smile.

Much to her resistance, he paid for the lunch and they were reluctantly out the door – that place was a haven. The fresh air of the early afternoon knocked some sense back into them and they said their goodbyes this time without hesitation - with a kiss on each cheek.

As she walked back to the office she felt intoxicated, she knew the feeling the cider provoked and this wasn’t it.

Back at Sanctuary, Jon was gladly surprised when Richie arrived.

“Look who’s all breezy today” he said to his friend as he pulled him close for a hug.

“Hey man, what’s up”, Richie replied, then patted Jon’s back and grabbed his shoulder: “you ready?”, ignoring Jon’s comment’s undertone. He was dying to lay his hands on the guitar, a riff had popped into his head on his way to Jon’s house. Updates on their respective lives were pointless: they knew as much about each other as they did about themselves, if not more.

While recording the solo, Jon was amazed: Richie was on fire. He nailed the new solo the first time and Jon was more than satisfied, but they recorded a couple more versions, just in case. He knew his friend was the best at what he did, but sometimes he was more inspired than others, like this time.

As it was already a kind of tradition, Richie stayed over at Jon’s house. He had his own room and kept a few changes of clothes there permanently. He immensely enjoyed the activity always going on at the Bongiovi household, in comparison to his empty apartment in Philadelphia. Here in Red Bank he felt much more at home and that also helped him miss his daughter a little less. Yes, his daughter spent some time with him in Philadelphia, and then he spent some time in the house in California and did all the father-and-daughter stuff. And yes, he visited his mom and aunts from time to time…but it just wasn’t…

He was navigating deep in his thoughts hugging a guitar at the studio when Jon told him that dinner was ready. During dinner, Jon and his wife commented casually on the fact that they would be celebrating their 20^th wedding anniversary and the plans they were making for that date.

Wow, 20 years. “I got it right the first time” said Jon as he smiled and placed a kiss on his wife’s cheek, squeezing her thigh. Richie reacted to that line by examining his own love life: he had been extremely lucky at love, multiply that by ten thousands and add two zeros, but somehow he hadn’t managed to quite “get it right”. How many more chances do I have? I’m not getting any younger.

Richie noticed that most of Jon’s strength and inspiration came from the woman next to him, who cut away all the weeds and kept his feet on the ground. A woman Jon admired for being nothing more than just herself, no bullshit. Richie thought about the women in his life. Apparently he had dated and married almost exclusively celebrities. Ha.

He cut his train of thoughts and retired to his bedroom and got himself into bed. Richie was slowly dozing off when a comment Jon had made earlier in the day popped in his head without warning.

Of course Jon was right: he could read him like an open book. Richie did feel like a draft of fresh air had washed over him, taking away a dark cloud that was hanging over his head or as if a veil had been taken off from over his eyes. He smiled to himself when he realized who the person responsible for that was: Frédérique was not only attractive, confident and easy going, but she also seemed to carry her own universe with herself, a universe were he was just a human being, normal, good. A universe where everything was pleasurable, enjoyable and sensual. 

All the ramblings he had entertained during dinner suddenly dissolved into thin air, and Frédérique’s lips appeared in front of Richie’s eyes: “Hazardous weapon”. He smiled and his dick agreed with him.

Hell yeah, and I want in.