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): drug abuse, drug overdose...sorry...
No sooner had he fought with his leather pants--struggling to peel them away from sweat-slick skin--than he was pulling them to sit, loosely, around his waist as he waited for his entertainment to fuck off from his room.
Nikki wasn't certain what time he had rolled in from the club that night--sometime between midnight and the witching hour, probably--but he knew the girl wasn't with him before he ended up back at whatever hotel the band was staying at in Florida.
He hadn't managed to recall any events of that day. Or any other, really. So, essentially, she could have just broken into his suite, held him at gunpoint, and demanded sex for all he knew.
He did doubt that, however.
But it was late--or too early--then and, contrary to popular belief, the rest of the guys were resting peacefully with their women. Or, in Tommy's case, in another girl's bed as his wife laid alone back in California.
Nikki didn't want to disturb anybody, but he felt isolated. It happened a lot during the course of that tour, especially since Cindy decided to leave him and, reluctantly, he let Vanity go leech off of somebody else.
His only solace arrived in the form of countless women.
But sex could never seem to scratch that damn itch or fill that boundless void located somewhere west of his breastbone because it was mainly just something he used to pass the time, or take his mind off of the fact he was lonely as fuck.
It felt as though he'd been abandoned.
The man knew it was an absurd thought to have and he should've shoved that evocation the second he had conjured it up, but it was true. Everybody had left him for somebody better. Somebody that wasn't wallowing in despondency and a fucking cesspool of toxic egotism.
Somebody that wasn't him.
He sighed, pulling a carton of smokes from the half-unpacked suitcase underneath his dresser, and fished around for an almost completely empty lighter nestled between the three shirts, two pairs of pants, and god knows how many stray pieces of paper.
Bingo.
The gunmetal cool against his skin, almost numbing the rough calluses atop his fingertips, he flicked the cap open and brought it to the stick as he cupped the flame.
Nikki wasn't that much of a smoker, not really. Not as much as Tommy, or Vince, or Chris. They could all clear a box, maybe even two, in a day. Sixx couldn't do that.
He had started to understand the attraction to them now, though. Stress smoking, or just smoking to pass the time, Nikki understood.
It was a bad habit to pick up, though he realized it wasn't the worst. Not as bad as using heroin and cocaine simultaneously, or drinking himself silly.
