The very last thing that Christine Hill expected was the exponential success of Mötley Crüe-the band she loved to hate.
And she never would've surmised that she'd be dragged-kicking and fucking screaming, by the nape of her neck-along for the wilde...
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Warning(s): smut.
November 1987.
"I thought she was kinda hot, man."
"Oh, yeah, she is. Totally!" Tommy expressed while his bitch, pointedly, glared at him. "But she's got a boyfriend. Or just some guy that keeps staring at her ass. And he's a little scary."
'Scary'. My definition of scary was definitely incompatible with Tommy's, that was for sure.
He'd dub 'Christine'--the movie and, possibly, my wife now that I'm thinking about it--as terrifying. Which, really, I didn't understand why. Maybe I'd never gotten spooked as easily as he did.
Tommy would practically leap out of his damn skin whenever I started to talk about, and occasionally practice, Satanism and shit--everybody knew, or had an inkling, that it was just a guise--and his reaction only fueled my need to intensify all that I was doing.
Granted, I did take it too far sometimes. Chris liked it, though.
But maybe that movie startled him. And, for Tommy, it was more a reality than anything because his car did run over him one time, and then he decided to name his fucking corvette 'Christine'.
She wasn't too thrilled about that when he told her. Neither was I, actually.
Regardless, that plotline was presumably all a little bit too much for T-Bone to handle.
I snorted, waiting for Heather to fuck off with Sharise, or someone. I didn't care where she went, or who with, but I wanted her to go. And, ideally, never come back.
Being around a woman of that nature was exhausting. Of course, she was tolerable at times--usually when she wasn't speaking--but I still couldn't stand her.
"Since when did you care if a girl is spoken for, Tommy?" I implored and, in amusement, watched as his face fell.
For the most part, I'd gotten over myself. I had, silently, pardoned him and moved on as best as I could've.
Not an easy feat, if I do say so myself. But it was doable.
It did hurt sometimes. I'd be an idiot to not confess to that. But if I wished for my band to survive, then I had no choice but to exonerate the hostility I felt toward him.
However, watching humiliation wash over that stupid face of his was something I fucking adored. Especially when Heather was around.
"Dude, lighten up a little. I'm just fuckin' with you."
Tommy barely looked at me, taking a pull from the bottle of Jack we'd been sharing all morning.
Killed the mood once again. Evidently, that's what I did best.
"Could you at least try to go one day without making insolent comments, Nikki?" Heather, with a caustic glare, quizzed me.
It felt as though she was there to babysit four grown men, not to support her husband's band on their biggest tour to date. She'd spent more time reprimanding us than anything else.
