45:#SomethingFishy

  

“How’s Teddi Bear? Did you make your move like I told you?”

 

Sighing to himself, Jon leaned back in the desk chair where he'd been hunched forward for uncounted hours.  He only knew the sun was a lot higher in the sky than it was when he’d come into his Navesink office to make a “couple of quick calls”.

 

The one to the lawyer’s office wasn’t short, nor was it pleasant.  Frankly, Jon was pissed that they didn’t consider dual representation a conflict of interest, particularly when they did it in a single house call.  He just knew the greedy bastards were double billing the time, and by making his displeasure known, he’d hoped to get some information on the flunky they sent to blur the lines of ethics.

 

He’d only wanted to know some basic facts about the guy – like his address and salary.  That was the point where the firm grew a set of ethics and told him they couldn’t release personal information on their employees.

 

Fuckers. 

 

They were at least going to look into the legality of Endicott’s purchase attempt, however.  They evidently weren’t aware of the very specific stipulations involved with the buying and selling of Peabody shares.

 

After that, he’d called to check in with Stephanie, who played the role of a psychologically scarred child suffering in the wake of a cancelled dinner with her father.  Basically, she felt it her duty and honor to give him hell, and she did it well.  The tongue-lashing/guilt trip was a thorough one that ended with the reminder that the companion from last night was coming to the Hampton house the first week of August. 

 

Honestly, he could’ve shortened the whole spiel by spilling the real reason for the kiboshed plans, but he didn’t.  Jon left it at a simple “something important came up” and told her to invite the friend for a whole month if she wanted.  It was a grand gesture to make up for giving her the short end of the stick last night, which came back to bite him in the ass when Stephanie said she might take him up on it – and then reminded him that the kid’s divorced mother was coming along, too. 

 

Swallowing an overwhelming urge to rescind the offer, he only mildly cautioned her about butting into things that were not her concern.  The brat laughed and said she had no idea what that was supposed to mean. 

 

Yeah, right. 

 

In summary, this morning had been a mentally hectic one, and David was the psychotic cherry on his melodramatic sundae. 

 

“I assume Teddi’s fine.  She was fine when I left her last night.”

 

“You left?  So you didn’t make a move like I told you?”

 

“Lema, when have I ever done what you told me?” he demanded with boredom while pulling back his shoulders and flexing knotted back muscles.   A very long run was in order for both his body and sanity, and he would take one as soon as he could get off the phone.

 

Checking his watch, he found it to be three minutes before one o’clock.  This call would self-destruct in three minutes, one way or another.

 

“About as often as I’ve done what you tell me.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

A warbled sound of disgust found its way over the airwaves, causing the corner of Jon’s mouth to twitch.  His friend was the one usually making him crazy.  Turning the tables was a nice change of pace.. 

 

“Dude.  You’re gonna fuck this up.”

 

Maintaining the air of boredom, he played dumb with a bland, “Fuck what up?”

 

“The chance to get the girl!  You’re gonna lose to the guy who actually admits being into her.”

 

Jon highly doubted that after the claim he’d staked last night.  Teddi Montgomery was well-aware that she belonged to him for the time being.  He’d made it clear in no uncertain terms.   

 

You do realize she never acknowledged that you said it, though, right?  Much less agreed to it. She let you fuck her, but after…

 

After, he’d suspected that she might go all cuddly and clingy.  Maybe even curl against his chest for the night, while purring with contentment at hooking her fantasy man into a quasi-commitment. 

 

Reality was a far cry from that scene, because in true Teddi fashion, she’d thrown him a curveball and basically kicked him out of the house.  She wanted to be alone, which was fine.  He didn’t even like clingy women but would’ve been cool with cuddling – if that would make her feel better about the evening.

 

“You’re assuming I want the girl.”

 

“Stevie Wonder could see that you want the girl, dumbass.”

 

"Oh, that's bullshit!  Even when I am interested in a woman, it's not that obvious."

 

His friend’s guffaw was both loud and obnoxious.  "Okay there, Casanova.  Whatever you need to tell yourself.  Me, the band and everybody who knows your name can recognize the signs."

 

Jon didn't believe that crap for a minute.  He'd made a casual profession out of acting and was pretty damn good at it, if he did say so himself.  David was just being David by jerking his chain.

 

"What signs, Sherlock?"

 

"Well, for one, you have that creepy ass little smile on your face,” the assault was launched without hesitation.  “The sly one when you sneak looks at a girl and think nobody notices.  And - God, I don't believe you're making me say this - there's that perverted twinkle in your eyes while you figure out what you wanna do with her."

 

Talk about generic.  First of all, those "signs" had been written in every romance movie or novel since the beginning of time.  Secondly, they didn't apply to Jon.  The only time he had a sly smile or perverted twinkle was during an album promo shoot, because that’s what sold records.

 

"Lame and untrue."

 

"Lame, yes, but that's on you not me.  Untrue, no, but I don't feel like arguing with your delusional ass.  Good thing I've already taken care of things this morning.  Just call me Cyrano de Bergerac."

 

Say what?  In an instant, Jon went from a reclined position in the desk chair to sitting up straight with both feet on the floor.

 

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

 

"You'll find out soon enough, when TB calls gushing over how thoughtful you are."

 

Harsh fingers dug into Jon's forehead and tried their best to knead away a sick feeling of dread.  "We both know I'm not thoughtful."

 

"Truth, my man.  Truth.  But with any luck, maybe she doesn't know that."

 

Teddi had been following his career for decades and was far from being dumb.  Hell, she’d already proven her awareness of things that most people didn’t know about him.   Whether that was due to some kind of cosmic Gypsy intuition or a hyper-astuteness to his press had yet to be determined, but she knew.

 

Maybe she doesn’t know.  You did send her those flowers.  That could be viewed as thoughtful. 

 

Honestly, Teddi’s perception was neither here nor there.  The hot topic was whatever cockamamie plan Dave had underway.

 

"How about you tell me what you 'took care of' before I come to Colts Neck and kick your ass?"

 

The giggling on the other end of the call was more appropriate to a teenage girl than a middle-aged man, but it was classic Lema, regardless.

 

"Oh my God," he breathed during a pause for breath, and then sniffing away what Jon could only assume were tears of laughter.  "You.  Kicking my ass.  That's priceless, since you can't pull my ass off the couch.  But... in gratitude for a laugh that probably extended my life a good two hours, I'm going to tell you about your thoughtfulness."

 

Agitatedly pushing to his feet, Jon paced toward the office window that overlooked the river.  He was blind to the view as he crossed one arm over his chest and gripped the opposite bicep.  Sheer determination to get through this call and on with his run was the only thing that kept him from going off on his friend.  Because he’d love to point out that curling twenty-five-pound dumbbells were more effective strength training than throwing back Fireball shots, which was what David considered a workout. 

 

Instead he just muttered, "Thank fuck."

 

"No, it's 'thank Dave'," the other man corrected.  "Because you sent TB the gift that keeps on giving – goldfish."

 

The Navesink was glittering under the midday sunlight, but it wasn't the brightness that had Jon blinking.  Utter disbelief took credit for that and his dumbly repeated, "Goldfish."

 

"Oh, don't worry.  I know she's not a plain goldfish kinda gal with that PhD and all.  I sent fancy ones with the extra flowy fins and tails.  Kinda like your hair in the eighties."

 

Running a hand through his significantly shorter and grayer locks, he gave up on the window.  Jon restlessly turned from it and bypassed the desk in favor of the sofa, where he dropped with a grunt of defeat.

 

"I don't want to ask.  Honest to God, I don't... but I have to know.  Why in the ever-living fuck did you send the woman goldfish?"

 

"They're emotional support fish, of course," he supplied with dry sarcasm, as though it should've been obvious to any schmuck.  "I thought it was a better choice than a dog.  Dogs are a pretty big commitment to spring on somebody, even if you go with a hypoallergenic breed."

 

Emotional support fish?  Dogs?  Christ Almighty.  Either Dave's curls were wound too tight or he'd been doing the Fireball power workout this morning, because nothing that came out of his mouth made a damn bit of sense.

 

Jon let his head fall against the back of the sofa.  It left him staring at the ceiling when conceding in a dead voice, "Okay, you got me.  Whatever elaborate practical joke this is to punk me… you win.  I give up."

 

"Well, that’s groovy, but this is a rare instance of sincerity.  No joke."  Oddly enough, the other man sounded genuine.  "Lots of people have emotional support animals to help them cope with anxiety.  After seeing TB in action, it's obvious she needs something besides booze at her disposal, and fish are supposed to be soothing.  They also don't shit on the floor."

 

Aside from the fish feces rhetoric, he had to admit it was a logical – and thoughtful – gift.  Question was, would Teddi intuitively understand the purpose behind it any better than Jon had?  Doubtful.

 

"Did you happen to put any of that in a note with the delivery?  Or is some kid just going to drop off a fishbowl without any explanation?"

 

"Oh, the kid's delivering a book on support animal therapy, too.  Or she's supposed to.  Gabby tends to go rogue on me sometimes.  If she forgets, I'm sure she'll explain.  She's the one who suggested a dog last night, after I told her about what went down at Teddi's."

 

"Gabby - your daughter - is delivering the fish?" 

 

"Yeah.  She went to the pet store and picked everything out.  You know how she loves making people happy."

 

The personable young woman was an aspiring comedienne and reveled in all things quirky or off-beat, so an emotional support fish sounded right up her alley.  Jon could easily envision it being incorporated into one of her skits somewhere down the line.

 

He wasn't sure how Teddi would feel about being part of a comedy skit, but chances were that she'd never know. 

 

But wait…

 

She was making this delivery on his behalf.  If Jon didn’t think she was going to deliver it with her usual flair for the dramatic – to make the skit more colorful in the re-telling – then he’d already reached the age of dementia.  With David Bryan as a father to teach that there were no limits to crazy, God only knew how this delivery would play out.  He had to put a stop to it.

 

“Has Gabby already made that delivery?”

 

As fate would have it, the subtle tone of a text message chime undercut the answer to his question.  Praying it was still Stephanie giving him hell, Jon squinted at the screen and then swore to himself.

 

[1:15 PM]TEDDI:  Gabby Bryan just brought me fish. LIVE fish. 😳