6th February 1987 / Detroit, Michigan

Much to the delight of all participants involved, Bon Jovi and Mötley Crüe's collaboration was finally coming to a close. To celebrate the small collection of shows they'd performed together the bands and their crews had decided to go out to the club.

Amelia was not much of a party person. She hadn't drank in many years, any time her University peers had invited her to join in on a night out she'd declined and instead chosen to study. Alas, the Bon Jovi boys had pestered her into submission.

Being best friends with the wardrobe manager had come in handy on a number of occasions, this just being one of them. Amelia was not one for dressing up and travelling in a suitcase had limited her wardrobe to a few modest outfits. Spankie, on the other hand, had an entire array of outfits and no shortage of evening-wear to lend Amelia.

Without much consideration she'd allowed Spankie to coordinate her outfit, her being so fluent in the profession and all. What she hadn't anticipated was the sheer sexiness of it.

"Don't you think this is a little too much?" Amelia asked in the mirror. Spankie had gifted Amelia the dress permanently and made some minor adjustments to it to fit Amelia's sizings, after which it hugged her body like an elasticated glove.

"Too much?" Spankie frowned, a make-up brush in her mouth as she applied some blush to Amelia's cheeks with her finger. "What do you mean?"

"Well, it's just a little revealing. I haven't dressed up like this in a while."

Spankie took a step back. "Revealing you say? I can tighten it and make it sit higher if you like. That way there won't be so much cleavage."

"Any tighter and it'll be a corset."

She smoothed her hands along her waist and hips in the mirror. Having a best friend that could sew was incredible, she'd never known of such a flattering dress.

"Nothin' wrong with a bit of cleavage anyway!" Spankie giggled, kneeling by the full length mirror to apply some lip gloss. Her own dress was nothing short of marvelous, though not quite so daring as Amelia's. Spankie wasn't much of a 'red' person. "You look like a million dollars, you could have your pick of any one of those men out there."

Amelia gave a somewhat awkward laugh. "Eh, I've kind of adopted your outlook on men. I'm not ready to deal with their shenanigans just yet."

"Damn right, they're all good for nothin'! That being said.. you wouldn't have to deal with their shenanigans for too long if it was just a one night stand. Why not get yourself out there? Find a gorgeous guy and live a night of endless fantasy."

"I don't know, Spank," she sighed. "Maybe it's the inner catholic in me but I never quite came around to the idea of one night stands. I've always longed for more of a connection with the guys I sleep with, I can't imagine going to bed with someone I didn't know."

"Well what about that Tommy Lee?" Spankie enquired. "You two seemed to be getting along, and there's no question that he's handsome."

"Handsome he may be, but he's certainly not my type." Especially not after everything Jon had told her. "Womanisers were never really my thing."

Amelia fiddled more with her dress. It was a skimpy little thing, she was going to be freezing out there.

"Mm," Spankie conceded. "It's a shame, really, s'always the good lookin' ones."

"It is." Amelia sighed wearily. "But hey, it'll be nice to go out without having to worry about men."

"Absolutely, we'll get drunk and dance the night away." Spankie proclaimed, throwing her arms out. She slapped Amelia's hands away from her dress, thwarting her endless fiddling. "Stop messing with it, your boobs look great."

Amelia wasn't sure why Spankie had bothered to apply pink powder to her cheeks, she already had a terrible tendency to blush at the littlest things.

Like a mother to a daughter Spankie fiddled with and adjusted parts of Amelia's hair, jewelry and dress, releasing a contented hum when all was perfect. "You look gorgeous," she stated absolutely. "Shame about the heels."

Amelia looked down toward her feet. Spankie was half a size larger in foot than Amelia, add to that she was already inexperienced in the sport of walking with heels. "Yes, I'm going to need you as a crutch until I get used to them."

Spankie was more than happy to be that crutch. After a little while of chatter and excessive make-up application, the girls left arm-in-arm find the rest of the group. Lo and behold the first two people they should stumble upon should be Jon and Richie, the ever inseparable duo.

Richie, evidently, did not appear to be impressed with her outfit. He made that fact very audible, very quickly.

"What's wrong with it?" Amelia placed her hands firmly on her hips. "Spankie made parts of it herself, she tailored it specifically for my size. It's lovely, don't you think?"

"Lovely it may be," he admitted, jaw visibly tense. "But.. aren't you going to put a jacket over it? Or somethin'?"

"Why, Richie? It's a little cleavage is all."

"A little?!" Richie sputtered, flailing his arms out in undiluted bewilderment. "You look like a hooker!"

Amelia and Spankie gasped in complete synchronicity. "That is not something you say to a lady, Richard." Spankie covered her mouth.

"Lady? Don't give me that, it's my sister. Jon, tell my sister she looks like a hooker."

Jon looked dismayed to have been dragged into such a conversation. Amelia looked at him expectedly, her hands still glued to her hips.

"I think she looks lovely," he smirked at his friend. Richie dealt him a look of pure scorn. If he had to choose between which Sambora he was more afraid of it was Amelia all the way.

"Look, put a jacket on, will ya?" He spoke a little more impatiently. Amelia was astounded by the sheer audacity of him, he was her brother! Not her father, and she was twenty five. "There's a lotta nasty men out there, I'd worry about you a lot less if you weren't so.. y'know."

"Nasty men are going to be nasty men regardless of what I wear, a little cleavage isn't going to make a difference. I'm a twenty five year old woman, I've had it drilled into me since I was a child how to protect myself from men. I'll watch my drinks and I'll make sure to keep in close distance with all of you but I didn't spend forty-five minutes getting ready only to cover myself up again."

Both Jon and Richie were left standing in silence at Amelia's miniature monologue, Richie in astonishment and Jon in admiration.

"Amen!" Spankie cheered, linking arms with Amelia and dragging her away from the boys. "We'll see you in the limo."

Amelia waited a few steps until Jon and Richie were out of earshot.

"Limo?"

"Oh yeah! Special occasion, they've gotta give Mötley Crüe a proper send-off. Usually I'm not important enough to go in the fancy cars, but I think bein' friends with you might just get me in."

"The privilege of being Richie's sister."

†††

Amelia had seldom felt so out of place. Bustling night joints weren't her typical choice of hangout, the blinding lights and blaring speakers were enough to give her a sensory overload. Almost immediately she regretted not having stayed at home with a book.

She knew for a fact that Mötley Crüe would thrive in the buzzing night club atmosphere, and she could well believe that Richie and David could enjoy such a place. What she found harder to believe was that Jon could enjoy the chaos. He was a quiet soul; not at all a dancer, something that Amelia had often lamented over in the past, and he scarecly drank excessive amounts of alcohol. Perhaps Crüe had dragged him along, he'd probably mope at the bar all evening.

Amelia had no intentions of moping. She might not drink but she would certainly dance, it'd been years since she'd danced properly. There were plenty of times she'd forced Jon into a half-hearted salsa, something he'd endured purely for the pleasure of seeing Amelia move like that. He himself had two left feet and his hips weren't good for much beyond humping like a dog. He was too much of a sexual being, dance was merely a tease for him.

The music blaring through the speakers was thankfully not salsa-material. Wham - Wake me Up Before you Go Go. Spankie dragged Amelia straight to the dance floor and threw herself into a jig.

"Be careful!" Her brother's muffled yell quickly dissolved in the crowd.

It took Amelia a little longer than Spankie to let go of her inhibitions, but when she did she felt freedom like never before. Completely lost in a crowd, no anxious brother or weary ex-boyfriend watching over her, just Amelia and her best friend having fun.

"She looks ridiculous wearing that," Richie muttered to Jon by the bar. "Why did you let her go out like that? You shoulda backed me up."

He inhaled a sharp breath after taking a shot, blinking widely.

"She doesn't look ridiculous, Richie," Jon's voice could barely be heard over the music. "A little outta place, maybe, but not ridiculous."

Richie attempted to spot his sister in the crowd, he saw nothing but movement. "That dress was Spankie's, man. Spank's not quite so..."

Bashfulness colored his cheeks.

Jon quirked his brow in amusement. A smirk tickled his lips. "Well-endowed?"

"Yes, that," Richie snapped, as if speaking about Amelia in such a way disturbed him. "The dress doesn't suit her, or fit her."

"She's an adult, Rich, you gotta let her make her own decisions. If she feels comfortable wearin' that then more power to her, she looks beautiful!"

Richie swallowed his reflexive response. Yes, of course she was beautiful, his sister was always beautiful, she didn't need to flaunt her assets in order to turn heads.

"I just don't want her to get hurt," he muttered, impatiently tapping the counter. "Where's the damn bartender?"

Jon gave a small smile. "We'll keep an eye on her, man." He didn't have much better to do, he didn't dance. "Look, here she comes."

Jon already suffered a case of severe wandering eyes; he was helpless against Amelia's outfit. The delving neckline drew his eyes directly to the pinnacle of his desires, the forbidden fruits of his lust and wanting.

Breasts. More importantly, breasts belonging to Amelia Sambora. Divine treasures of illicit affection.

Jon could happily live the rest of his life with his face buried in that tremendous bust, though such an idea was dangerous with Richie beside him. He could already feel his pants growing tighter.

"Everything alright?" She asked the men in an abnormally jovial tone. From the sheen of sweat coating her skin, Jon deduced she'd been dancing.

Richie grumbled an affirmative.

"Are you still in a strop with me over the dress?" She started laughing, leaning on her brother's shoulders as she called for the bartender. "You are silly, Richard. You aren't our father."

Yes, what would Dad think about that dress? He wondered. His pout grew doubly sullen.

She leaned over to press a firm kiss to his cheek. "Come on, lighten up! Why don't you come dance with me?"

"Maybe in a bit," he caved. "If you're dancin' then watch the dress, who knows what'll come flyin' out of that skimpy thing."

"Oh stop it. I've seen girls walk around backstage at your shows in nothing but a thong and tape to cover their nipples. My dress is perfectly normal."

Richie's disapproving grunt was lost in the music.

"Tequila please," Amelia called as the bartender arrived. Jon lifted a finger before she could dig through her purse.

"I'll get it, darlin'. Who's it for, Spankie?"

"No," she frowned. "Me."

Both Richie and Jon swivelled in their barstools, previous unbothered expressions now on high alert. "What?" Richie sputtered. "You?"

"Yes, what's wrong with that? I don't drink often."

"Exactly," her brother stressed. "You drink that tequila and it'll knock you out. Are you crazy!?"

The dress was now the least of his worries.

"I'm capable, Richie. I don't plan to drink much, just something for confidence."

"No, absolutely not. Get a cocktail or somethin'."

"I'm not fond of cocktails," she said diplomatically. "I'm tired of you dictating my decisions Richie, especially something so trivial as what I have to drink. I'll have a tequila."

He flailed his arms. "God, help me."

Amelia took her drink to the dance floor.

"She's a fuckin' liability man, I'm tellin' ya," Richie said to Jon. "Mark my words, she'll be paralytic within the hour."

Another reason for Jon to keep watch from afar.

"Are you drinkin'?" Richie asked. "I need a damn drink after all this tourin'."

"Not me. Doc said I should keep my drinkin' to a minimum."

"Well, it's only one night. Let me get you a shot."

"I'm okay. Besides, there needs to be at least one sober guy here."

The guitarist threw back another shot and stood up. "Suit yourself. I'm off to find myself a dance partner."

Jon was conscious of how out of place he were. Alec and Tico were heavy drinkers, always content to hang around the bar. Richie and David were avid partiers, and Mötley Crüe and Cinderella sure knew how to have a good time. Sometimes Jon wondered if he were really all that cut out for rock and roll. He loved to sing, he loved to write, he loved to tour, hell he even loved the female attention he got, but he didn't love the lifestyle. He didn't gain fulfillment from drinking or partying or waking up in bed with a woman he couldn't even remember the name of, he was a quiet being, sensitive in nature.

He had to wonder if he'd even have joined them at the club had Tommy Lee not teased him about it. He wanted to prove to Tommy that he was a rockstar, not just some poser.

Tommy practically lived at the nightclubs. Him and Nikki used them as hunting ground for fresh prey, often finding young and inexperienced women to invite to their bed chambers and defile. It was a filthy practice, one that each of them knew they'd come to regret when someday they had daughters of their own.

Today, Tommy's target was much closer to home. He'd set eyes on Amelia, or rather her breasts as soon as she'd entered the limo. He was determined to taste such succulent prey, young and innocent and entirely prepossessing.

It was evident to most onlookers that she had a few drinks in her. Spankie had adopted the position of bodyguard, ensuring that her friend didn't do anything stupid in her inebriated state and warding off any unsavory male visitors.

Amelia was in the middle of an elaborate dance number, putting all of her professional training to use. She hadn't had such fun in years. She'd forgotten how liberating it was to let loose her inhibitions, for the first time in a very long time she felt free of judgement and responsibility.

"Quite the mover, aren't we darlin'?" Tommy slinked himself between Spankie and Amelia, thrusting his hips against Amelia's back. He caught her wrist before she could backhand him. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"If you do so wish," she shrugged. She was going to buy herself a drink anyway, why not save some money?

"What'll it be, darlin'. Wine? Champagne? Gin? How about a Martini?"

"Whiskey."

Tommy whistled. "Whiskey? I hardly know you at all."

She gave a tight, seductive smirk. Tommy's grin turned feline.

"I'll be right back, Princess."

He weaved his way through the hordes of dancers back to the bar.

"I thought you hated him!" Spankie yelled over Duran Duran.

"I do! So why not spend his money? He's an asshole, sure, but he's not evil. He wouldn't put anything in it."

"He won't need to. Are you sure you should be drinking such strong stuff? You're not much of a drinker..."

"I'm having fun! It's only my second."

Spankie new better than to object, Amelia's fiery reputation proceeded her.

"You look awful happy," Jon noted grimly upon Tommy's return. "What happened, find yourself some new jail bait?"

Tommy seemed to take that assumption as a compliment. "No, as a matter of fact," he smirked, hooking his thumbs into his studded belt. "Your Amelia's lettin' me buy her a drink."

Jon's ear pricked up. A second drink so soon after the tequila? And from Tommy? She hated Tommy! She'd made a concerted point of avoiding him all week, and Tommy, being the slime ball that he was, had quickly moved on from his 'infatuation' with her when his needs weren't met.

"She is?" He blinked.

"Oh yeah. Whiskey, brother! I never knew she was a drinker, she always struck me as a goody-goody."

"She is," Jon worriedly corrected. "Don't give her whiskey, she can't handle it."

Tommy flashed a roguish grin. "Who am I to deny a lady what she wants?" He clicked his tongue. "A whiskey please, man. Make it big."

Jon felt his eyeballs boggle when he saw the sheer size of the beverage; that amount of whiskey would kill Amelia. He gripped the counter and pushed himself to stand. "Tommy, this ain't funny it's dangerous. She can't handle that amount of drink."

"Live a little, Jonny, the girl can make her own decisions. You n' Rich have such a tight leash on her it's no wonder she wants whiskey. Now stay outta my affairs."

Tommy revelled in Jon's seething expression. He had a penchant for getting under people's skin, particularly when his victims were so susceptive as Jon. He saw himself as a good samaritan; helping a rising star by taking his ego down a notch at every chance he got, he was sure Jon might appreciate his playful torment someday.

Any efforts to dissuade Tommy would be futile, Jon sat himself back down and watched him leave.

Oh Amelia, what are you doin'? You don't drink.

The bar tender slid the singer a drink in silent commiseration. He didn't have much better to do than take a sip.

For the next hour or so he listened to the cycle of songs on the speakers while sparing the occasional glance in Amelia's direction. It was futile, impossible to spot her amongst the heaving tumult. It seemed these days it was impossible for him to leave the house without hearing a Bon Jovi song; four years ago he would've done anything to hear his songs played on national radio, now it was merely a nuisance to him.

If it weren't for his underlying fear for Amelia's safety he would've long since gone home. Spankie had made her way back to the ever sendentary Jon, heaving a sigh of great relief when she found he hadn't moved.

"You alright?" He asked her somewhat dejectedly. "You're not gonna ask me to dance, are you?"

"No," she shook her head. "It's Amelia, I think she's been spiked. I can't find Richie."

Jon stood so fast he almost sent the barstool tumbling. "Spiked? Where? Where is she?"

"With Tommy."

"Tommy?!" His hands balled into fits, tremoring with the urge to hit something, preferably that tall smug-faced drummer- but Amelia's situation was imperative, he had no time for emotion. "Take me to them."

Spankie led Jon dutifully through the many hundreds of dancers. As he shoved his way through the crowd he received everything from hateful glares to lustful propositions. Eventually he was met with Amelia, or rather Tommy trying desperately to rejuvenate her.

"Amelia-" he lept forward. Both his heart and lungs paused for a paralysing moment. Tommy held Amelia's limp body like somebody who had no idea how to handle a newborn baby, in his face Jon found a new emotion; panic.

If Tommy Lee was panicked then Jon knew that the situation was dire.

"What have you done?" He snatched Amelia from Tommy's arms in a state of utter turmoil. Nothing- her head lulled from one direction to another, her body slipped and slid around in Jon's arms, attempting to sink to the ground where his grip was lax.

He looked around with a fear he'd never known before. He needed a doctor, a nurse, an ambulance! Anybody. He needed to find the culprit that'd supposedly spiked her, find any possible antidotes and fast. He swivelled to Tommy. "What happened?" His tone was enough to make even Tommy feel terrible. "I thought you were lookin' after her! What did you do?"

Tommy sputtered a sequence of unintelligible sounds. If he replied, it wasn't discernable over the music. Jon didn't wait around for the explanation, he was soon carrying Amelia through the crowds out to the parking lot. "Amelia," he repeated once his voice could be distinguishable. Again, nothing. "Amelia, wake up."

He'd heard of anxiety attacks before but never experienced one. He'd assumed that 'lungs constricting' and 'vision speckling' were mere exaggerations and fancy metaphors, but now as Amelia lay unconsciously in his arms, her fate uncertain, Jon felt his heart give way.

Tommy's disposition was grave to say the least. In fact, if Amelia was awake she would've certainly made a witty remark about his guilty countenance.

Jon sat her down carefully on a half stone wall. He used his palms to hold up her face, lightly patting her cheek. "Wake up," he demanded. "Amelia, are you with me?" His patting turned into a fluttering motion, followed by harsher and more pronounced slaps.

Eventually, she responded in the form of a gurgle. Jon had never been so relieved by such a fundamentally grotesque sound, he could've praised the lord for it. "'Melia? Can you hear me?"

Like a baby, she was incapable of holding her head up or retaining any form of posture. Her mumbling somehow grew even less intelligible, though to Jon's relief her eyelids began to flutter.

"Tommy, fetch me some water."

Tommy, unaccustomed to taking orders from people, hesitated. A firm push from Spankie set him hurrying in the right direction.

"Amelia?" Jon cooed. His thumb grazed her soft cheek, attempting to draw her attention. "Can you hear me? It's Jonny. Are you hurt?"

Her eyes peeked open just long enough for Jon to determine that she was indeed under the influence of drugs. Somebody had drugged her, and by god if that man was Tommy Lee Jon was going to murder him.

Before Amelia could reply, a spew of vomit projected from her mouth and narrowly missed Jon's head. She tumbled forward with the sudden onslaught, heaving the contents of her stomach onto the pavement. After a short moment of paralysis Jon came to comfort her, holding her hair out of the way. "You're alright," he cooed, wiping some drool off her chin with the side of his sleeve. "It's okay."

Once she was done wretching, she clung fraily to his body. It looked to Jon as if she was in a state of deliriousness, she scanned her surroundings with a wide and vacant gaze, struggling to stand.

"Can you hear me?"

"Mm.." she responded, nothing more than a drunk mumble.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" He flashed his palm in front of her.

"Jonny? Is that you?"

"Yes, it's me, darlin'," he responded eagerly. "Do you remember what happened?"

"Do I have a fever?" She slurred, her brows furrowing inward. Jon pressed the back of his hand to her head in quick dismissal.

"No, darlin', no fever. Do you remember where you are."

"Mhm .. dancin'."

Jon placed her back on the wall and knelt in front of her. "That's right," he cooed as if she were a toddler. "Dancin'. You've had a little too much to drink, do you feel okay?"

"Hungry."

"Hungry?" Jon raised his brows. How peculiar for somebody that'd just vomited their guts onto the pavement. "Well, here. Have some water first."

He took the bottle from Tommy and guided it to her lips. "I don't need your help!" She declared in a drunk slur of speech. "I am perfect capable of drinkin' water.."

Droplets dribbled down her chin as she did so, half of the bottle going to waste on her dress.

"Mm, more.." she ordered drearily, slouching.

Jon produced ten bucks from his pocket and handed it to Tommy. "Go get me a burger n' water."

"Hey, Kidd. I ain't your delivery boy."

Jon turned to the man in bewilderment. How anybody was so incapable of reading the room was beyond him. "This ain't about you n' me, Tommy. It's about Amelia. Now go get her a burger."

"I'll go," Spankie huffed, snatching the money and sending a glare at Tommy.

Jon's eyes widened condescendingly as he nodded in Spankie's direction. "Well, go with her."

With a lingering reluctance, he trudged along.

"I wanna go back n' dance. Can I get a drink? I'm thirsty, what happened to my whiskey?"

Jon laughed. "No whiskey, you've had enough of that already. Spankie's gone to get you a drink of water."

"Will you dance with me? Where's Tommy, I was with him before."

"He's with Spankie. I think you've done enough dancin', sweetheart. Two minutes ago you were out cold, you worried me."

"Worried?" She laughed a little. "I'm fine, just hot."

"Yeah, it is pretty hot in there," he said softly, patting her knee. The heat might've been a contributing factor to her passing out, even if minimally in comparison to the alcohol. "I'm gonna take you home back to the hotel once you've eaten, get you cozy in bed."

"Bed? But the night is so young!" She exclaimed, almost falling backward. "I haven't danced in years."

"We'll come back another day," he assured. "Not now."

"Oh! But -" she spun around, again almost toppling off the wall. "But, that's our song! They're playing our song, Jonny."

He'd waited months for any kind of allusion to the past, he'd dreamed of her someday reverting to his nickname of Jonny. Our song? Oh, he'd almost thought she'd forgotten. These wishes couldn't have come true at a more inopportune moment. He was stressed enough trying to make sure she didn't injure herself, he didn't need his head whirring with resurfacing emotions.

"Let's dance!" She shouted, surging upward in a jet of energy. Jon caught her and set her straight back down.

"No, darlin', not now. We'll sit and listen to it, hm?"

Heaven by Bryan Adams was just audible from where they were situated.

"But I wanna dance."

If only she knew how ridiculous she sounded, she'd be appalled. Amelia ordinarily had excellent diction and an extensive vocabulary that she'd studied tirelessly for, if she knew that she were slurring her words and grunting between sentences she'd be mortified.

"Do you remember when this first came out?" He asked, hoping to draw her attention away from the idea of dance. "Eighty four, right? N' I put it on my little record player n' we danced to it?"

The sentence seemed to take a while to compute with Amelia, eventually, she understood. "And your mother walked in on us."

"That's right," Jon laughed. "She came in and said 'turn that music down young man or I'll turn it off all together!'"

Jon did his best impression of his mother, wagging finger and all.

"And then you left me," Amelia said, swiftly sucking all humor out of the situation. "Right when we were so happy. You took off and left me, and you took my brother with you."

Jon was at a loss for words. He stuttered to explain himself but no reply came, what could he say to that? Such a blunt and painful fact put so plainly to him, so out of place. He'd never considered the fact that as well as leaving her himself he'd also robbed her of her brother.

Thankfully, in Amelia's state of intoxication she seemed to forget she'd even said anything. "Where's Richie?" She queried.

"That, I don't know." It was typical of Richie to make such a fuss over Amelia, dictate what she wore, what she drank, where she danced so he could keep an eye on her. It was even more typical of him not to be there when she actually needed him. "Look, here's Spankie with your burger."

"Look at you!" Tommy exclaimed, kneeling beside Jon and addressing himself to Amelia. "You're lookin' much better. Practically sober!"

Amelia was much more interested in the burger being handed to her. A big, greasy chunk of meat had never looked so appetising.

"Is she alright?" Spankie asked Jon. "What's she said?"

"Not much. Once she eats that I'm gonna take her back to the hotel," he said quietly, fearing if Amelia overheard she'd go crazy on him. "You're welcome to go back and dance if you like, I can take care of her."

"I might go and round up the crew," she said. "Maybe see if I can locate Richie and tell him what's happened."

Jon nodded. He stood and wrapped an arm around the woman, pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek. "Thank you, Spankie," he murmured. "Thanks for comin' to get me and looking out for her."

Spankie didn't seem to want praise for the deed, she merely nodded. "That's alright. Take care of her, I'll see you later."

She disappeared back into the club. When he turned around, Jon was dismayed to find Tommy once again attempting to woo a drunken Amelia. "Tommy? Get lost, man. I'm takin' her home."

"Awh, she's hardly even drunk," he joked.

"No, you're right, she's fuckin' blitzed. Get outta here."

Tommy gave Jon a look of scorn before scampering off.

"That nice?" Jon asked Amelia. Her lips and chin were covered in ketchup, mustard and grease, she seemed to be devouring it.

"Mm!" She responded. "Can I get another when I'm finished?"

Jon chuckled. "I think you should see if that one stays down, first."

"Won't you dance with me?" She attempted to prettily bat her eyelashes, though her heavy lids wouldn't allow for it. "Why don't you dance? It's as good for the soul as it is for the body! For the heart."

"What can I say? I'm miserable," he sighed, sitting himself down beside her. He should've asked Tommy to get him a burger too, it looked awfully appetising to his empty stomach.

"You used to dance the salsa with me. I taught you lots of things, you weren't half bad once I was finished with you."

He hummed thoughtfully. "Still can't change the fact I was born with two left feet."

Amelia guzzled down her water in a heartbeat. "Where'd Tommy go?"

"Back inside. Why?"

"He was buying me free drinks."

Jon let out a noise somewhere between a scoff and a grumble. "Oh yeah? Just now many 'free drinks' did he get you?"

Amelia looked at him hazily. Eventually it clicked.

"Dunno," she responded wearily. "It was kind of him, though."

"Yeah, very kind," Jon muttered contemptuously. "Slow down eatin' that, will ya? Give it a chance to settle."

"Oh, listen to that Jonny. It's you! It's you on the speakers," she interrupted.

Jon tutted to himself. "Again? Dear God, don't they have anything better to play?"

Amelia became absorbed in thought as she polished off the rest of her burger. 'Thought' was a strong word for the fleeting images and singular nonsensical words reverberating in her head, but Amelia was quite content in the entertaining delusions.

"You made it Jonny," she sighed. "You made all your dreams come true."

Jon beheld her. "If only," he mused. How fated it was for Never Say Goodbye to be playing on the speakers in that moment.

"This is a dance tune if I've ever heard one," she proclaimed. "Won't you waltz with me? Buy me a drink."

"Certainly not." He stood and patted his pockets, taking Amelia's rubbish and tossing it in the nearby trash can. "It's time to go. Can you walk?"

"Go?" She sputtered, face turning sour. "But I don't want to go. I wanna.. dance! I wanna dance. And drink, more drink."

Jon wished he had a camera to record her little meltdown. Her pride would crumble ceremoniously the moment he played the footage of her tantrum back to her. She sounded like a baby, if she weren't being so difficult Jon was sure he'd have found it cute.

He reminded himself that it could be worse. After her initial fainting episode and involuntary emptying of her stomach he'd feared the worst; thankfully she didn't seem quite so intoxicated as he'd initially thought. Still, it was clear from her loss of consciousness, dilated pupils and bloodshot eyes that she'd been spiked; he'd have to keep a close eye on her condition for the remainder of the night.

"Absolutely not," he shook his head. He felt like a parent exacting tough love on an obstinate toddler. "We're gonna get you in a taxi straight back to the hotel. Now, can you walk? Or do you need me to carry you."

She let out an extreme groan of frustration, shooting up to her feet and marching over to him. "My god, why can I never do the things that I enjoy? You and Richie are like.. ugh! Like two hawks watching over me! I can't even dress up nice without Richie criticising me, now you won't let me dance or drink? I'm not a child, why should my life be dictated by you men? You have no say in what I do, how much I drink, what I wear, what men I entertain.. you have no power over me."

Jon moved to catch her when she tripped only for her to shove him away.

"You make me sick. You're a chauvinist!" She spat. His reflex was to bite back against such an awful and fundamentally untrue accusation, but upon second review he merely sighed and took the beating.

"A chauvinist?" He placed his hands on his hips and nodded. "Yeah, right. That's me, the chauvinistic pig. You done now? Can we go?"

"No. I'm going to dance." She turned on her heel and toppled over before Jon could even run to stop her. Her wail of agony was piercing. "Ow," she whispered to herself. "Ow..ow ow."

Jon was quick to scoop her up, whatever annoyance he'd previously felt quickly transformed into sympathy. "Oh dear," he cooed like a father. "It's okay. It's just a sprain."

"I heard a snap," she sniffled. "Oh god, I've broken my ankle. It's your fault! You made me do it."

Oh, how perpetually draining she was. "It's not broken," he soothed dutifully, trying to ignore any insults or accusations she lobbied at him. "It's only a sprain, you'll be alright."

Trust Amelia to dance in heels and then hurt herself walking in them.

"Put me down," she ordered, wiggling around in his grasp. "I'll be alright, put me down."

Jon, without the courage to disobey her, complied. As soon as her foot touched the ground she lost balance again, hissing at the searing pain.

"I'm carrying you," Jon said, having reached the end of his tether. He picked her up again and started marching in search of a taxi.

"What! No, put me down!" She squealed. "Where are we going? What about the club? Drinks. Where's Spankie? What about Tommy?"

Jon ignored all of her desperate wailing, tightening his grip the more she tried to wriggle free.

"Put me down!" She cried. "People can see my panties."

Jon had reached his final straw. His nostrils flared. "If that's the case then maybe next time don't wear such a skimpy dress," he hissed.

"You said you liked it!"

"I do," he confirmed. For all the very wrong reasons. "Doesn't mean you don't look like a hooker! I mean seriously Amelia, you might as well have walked out in nipple covers with that amount of cleavage."

She floundered in his arms like a fish out of water. "Oh, how dare you!" She squealed again. "Put me down at once! If you don't put me down then I'm going to scream. I'll have you arrested."

It took all of Jon's strength and willpower to remain gentle and calm. "Is that what you want, Amelia?" He asked sharply. "You want to see me arrested for trying to help you? And what would the police say when they inevitably learned the whole story?"

That quietened her protests. "Take me back to the club."

"No," he responded absolutely. "There's a taxi down there, we're getting in and we're going straight back home."

She let out a needlessly excessive whine, her head rolling against Jon's shoulders. "You can't see my panties, can you?"

"No. I'm carrying you, how would I be able to see your panties?"

"Well.. it's just that I'm wearing a thong."

Suddenly, he became much more concerned that passerby's might see her panties. He adjusted his arm placement accordingly.

"Why's that, then?" He sneered, considering the implications of her statement. "You hopin' to get lucky tonight?"

He tried to keep any jealousy or contempt from his tone, alas it seeped through copiously.

"I just wanted to be pretty," she murmured, so adorably in fact that it almost made Jon forget that this was a thong they were talking about.

"Well, unless you planned on takin' a man to bed I don't see how a thong enhances your appearance at all."

"It's not about looks, it's about feeling," she mumbled poutily. "It's easy for you, you always look good! And you always know you're desired, everybody wants you, everybody's attracted to you. You take a new girl to bed every night but me? Well I haven't had sex since, well, since you! Sometimes I feel unwanted."

"You don't need to dress like a stripper for people to want you, Amelia. I can assure you plenty of guys want you already."

"What, Tommy?" She scoffed. "I'd rather fuck a toad."

Jon had to snicker. "Not just Tommy."

"Well what does it matter? Richie won't ever let me have a boyfriend. He'd make my life hell if I did."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Jon chided. "Rich might be protective but if you loved the guy he wouldn't mind so long as he treated you well. He's grown up now."

"Oh.. no man wants me. I'll die an old maid," she expelled a hysterical cry. "Jonny, what do I do? I can't die an old maid."

Now she was just embarrassing herself. "Amelia, stop talking."

"Would you take pity on me, Jon? If I were an old maid.. would you still come to visit me? Would you be my friend?"

He stopped all together, looking down at her distraught expression with moderate amusement and ample fondness. "I'll always be your friend, Amelia. Now stop talking nonsense, you're not gonna be an old maid."

"Do you promise?" She whimpered.

"Yes, I promise. Now shush, the taxi's here. And try not to make it look like I'm kidnapping you."

"Kidnapping?" She gasped. "Where are we going?"

"Back to the hotel," he reiterated. "To bed."

The pair climbed in the back of the taxi, Amelia's injured ankle and lax limbs making it exceedingly difficult. At last Jon could relax. Back to the hotel, upstairs, to bed. How hard can it be?

In the taxi Amelia seemed in a state of delirious lucidity. She clambered over Jon in attempts to get comfortable and rest her injured joint, eventually finding a comfortable position using his shoulder as a cushion.

To his dismay she hadn't fallen asleep by the end of the taxi ride. Again she objected to being carried and shot a slew of insults when he picked her up anyway. He felt like a criminal carrying a drunk girl through the hotel lobby as she actively protested, kicking her legs and wriggling around.

"Stop it," he gritted, giving her body a firm shake. "You're embarrassing yourself and you're embarrassing me."

"Then put me down! Put me down you prick, put me down!"

Jon hurried to the elevator and punched in a series of numbers. "Fine. As you wish."

He placed her back on her injured foot and watched her cry out in pain, taking no pleasure from the sight. She sunk to the ground in a tantrum and kicked off her heels. "Leave me here," she started to whimper. "I want to be alone. Where's my brother? Where's Richie?"

"I don't know where Richie is," Jon sighed. Knowing him, probably in bed with a woman he'd pick up at the club. "Now come on, we're here."

"Leave me," she repeated, wiping some snot from her upper lip. "Go away."

Jon's patience had long since worn thin. He took a deep breath.

"Come on, it's not far now. Just a few rooms away." He went to pick her up.

"Don't you touch me. Don't you dare touch me!"

He was surprised by the animosity of her outburst. He frowned a little. "Come on, work with me here. Let me help you, you're hurt."

"I want to stay here."

"You're in an elevator. Now come on."

As he went to scoop her up he was met with a sharp, stinging slap to the cheek. Quite literally, he was gobsmacked.

She'd slapped him. Really slapped him!

"Don't hit me again," he warned, then proceeded with his original task of picking her up.

Another sharp smack. This time, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. His patience was thin, dangerously so.

"Put me down! Unhand me, let me go."

He carried her silently to his room, it was a struggle to open the door when his arms were so preoccupied fending off her attacks. Eventually he succeeded, immediately laying Amelia in the center of the bed.

Never again, he said to himself, She's never drinking whiskey again.

Amelia sat up on the bed, looking around like a baby bird whose mother had deserted them.

"Where are you going?" She asked Jon. "Won't you stay?" God, the mood swings were unbearable.

"I'll be back in a moment," he promised softly. With a gentle hand he pushed Amelia back into a reclined position, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm going to get you some more water. Don't move, alright?"

She nodded feebly, clutching desperately onto Jon's spare pillow.

As soon as he was out of the room he released a mighty sigh. "Jesus, fuck!" He cursed, wiping the sweat from his brow. He padded over to the other side of the hall and knocked quietly on one of the doors.

"Everything alright?" The man inside answered, grouchy until he realized who his awakener was. "Mr Bon Jovi? What's the matter? It's..." He glanced at his watch. "By god, it's two in the morning."

"I'm real sorry, can I borrow you for a second? It's my friend, she's been drugged."

"Goodness." He was already closing the door behind him. "Drugged? Do you know with what?"

"No," Jon replied. "She was spiked at the club. Sorry about the hour, I just wanted to make sure I don't need to call the hospital or anythin'."

The man was Doctor Elijah Edwards, a new employee of Jon and the Bon Jovi company. Jon had initially hired him in a desperate attempt to prove to Amelia that he was taking steps to ensure his health, turned out that having a doctor on hand was often very practical.

"Nonsense! Don't apologize, I'd be remissed if you hadn't called me. Now, at the club you say? How is she, is she conscious? At all lucid or coherent?"

"Yes, and no," Jon muttered. "She seems very emotional, a little delirious even. She's been having great mood swings although that's probably just the alcohol. When I first got to her she was unconscious but she seemed okay once she woke up. She even ate a burger."

"And has she kept that down since?"

"Yes," he nodded. "I think she'll be alright. I just wanted to make sure, y'know."

"Of course. That's the most sensible thing to do."

The pair soon reached Jon's room. He was surprised to find her laying peacefully on the bed, sprawled out like a dead animal and fast asleep.

"Well, she was awake two minutes ago," Jon said awkwardly. Edwards took a seat beside the girl.

"Did she take any drugs on her own accord?" He asked quietly.

"No."

The doctor gently lifted Amelia's eyelid.
"Well, she's certainly under the influence of something. How was her composure? Besides the emotions, was she well-coordinated? How was her balance? And her speech."

Jon explained the details of her disorientation, her abnormally slurred speech and inability to take the weight of her body. "She hurt her ankle, though. I carried her most of the way," he finished.

"Ankle, you say?" The doctor peered at the joint. "Yes, I see it's swollen. Still, nothing more than a sprain, you may ice it if you wish."

"I don't think your friend is in danger," Edwards assured, a great relief to Jon. "She seems at peace for the moment, I would let her rest and allow for the effects of the drugs to wear off. Is there anything else that you're worried about? Any other symptoms I should be made aware of?"

Suddenly, Amelia inhaled a great big snort. The two men turned to regard the noise with both surprise and humour.

"God, she'd be mortified by that," Jon snickered. "She doesn't usually snore." Quickly, he realized the implications of what he'd just said. "Not that I would know. I just mean, I thought maybe that'd be relevant, something to do with the drugs."

The doctor looked over his glasses at Jon, his thin lips twitching into a smile. "Most people tend to snore with alcohol consumption. I think your friend here will be perfectly alright. Make sure there's pain relief at hand, the hangover ought to be rough."

He nodded. "Thanks Doc."

Mr Edwards stood and regarded Jon with an expression of slight concern. "And what about you, Sir? How has your health been?"

"It hasn't deteriorated since last time we spoke," Jon said optimistically. But nor had it improved.

"You haven't been drinking, have you?"

"Not a drop, Sir," the singer grinned proudly. So long as beer didn't count- or that singular free drink he'd received earlier.

"I'm glad to hear it. Are you content for me to leave?"

"I think so."

"Good. Make sure you keep an eye on her through the night, if she vomits she may choke."

Jon had already accepted that he wouldn't be getting any sleep that night. He bid the doctor goodnight, thanking him again.

Once alone he took a moment to chuckle at Amelia's positioning. It wasn't particularly flattering nor comfortable-looking, yet it was oddly cute. "Oh, Amelia," he sighed fondly. "Why do you have to be so difficult?"

He took a moment to prop her head up with pillows, the way she'd been lay previously was a sure-fire way to wake up with neck cramp.

He thought back on all the trials and tribulations of the evening, his anger and annoyance at her for hitting him and berating him had paled into insignificance when compared with his worry. He could only say he was glad she was safe and sound in bed. He'd have quite the story to tell her come morning.

---

Would it be me if there wasn't a chapter where she got drunk and Jon had to take her home? 😂

Conflict 🤌🤌

Anyway next chapter will be a fun one, maybe even a long one. We're getting to the good stuff finally.

As always, remember to vote and let me know what you thought in the comments. Your comments keep me going 😁😁