RED HOT. (t. lee)

01. it starts with a bang.

West Hollywood, California
1981

The engine revved like an amplifier at a Motörhead concert. The engine belonged to Chrissy Slater's most prized possession.

Her 1965 cherry red Ford Mustang convertible with white interior.

It had been given to her as a gift from her parents on her 16th birthday, which fell on August 9th, 1978.

It was the finest moment of her parents.

She was now 18, officially an adult, and despite the wicked protests of her mother and father, the cherry red convertible was now driving her from Boston to Los Angeles. The previous six days of her life had been spent in her vehicle, coming and going from various rest stops. She was now driving up the coast of southern California, through Long Beach and up to Hollywood, taking in the new sights.

Just as she turned down the Sunset Strip, her eyesight was flooded by various characters and infamous clubs. She recognized the Whisky-A-Go-Go and decided to park her car in front of the bar. Rolling up the roof, she headed in.

She was welcomed by the smell of marijauna, loud conversations, and dim lighting. The first thing she did was go to the bathroom.

She changed out of her t-shirt and sweat shorts, and swapped it for leather pants and a red lacy tank top. Standing in front of the mirror, she applied a full face of makeup, topped off with dark eyeshadow and blood red lipstick, the dark makeup complimenting the light freckles speckled across her nose and cheeks.

Once she looked presentable, she exited the bar and stepped onto the street of dreams. She walked down Sunset Blvd for a quick moment before making a sharp right down Clark Street.

She thought about home. About her parents. About how much she was disappointing them.

Chrissy was ripped from her melancholy daydreams by a male voice coming from above. "Hey hot stuff, 'you play any instruments?"

She looked up and saw two men standing on the balcony of a run-down looking house. The man on the left had dark hair teased to the heavens, and a cigarette dangling from his lips. The man on the right leaned lightly on the balcony. He was tall and skinny and like the other man, he was also puffing on a cigarette.

"Um, no." Chrissy responded, with a confused look on her face.

"Come here." the taller man asked.

"Why?"

"I need your opinion on something."

"What?" Chrissy placed her hands on her hips.

"Alright so, we're in a band, right," he said while gesturing to the both of them, "and we've got this guitarist, man, and I need you to tell him that he sucks."

"Why me?"

"Any man will listen to a hot chick."

She pressed her tongue to the inside of her cheek.

"Who even are you guys?"

"I'm Tommy. Tommy Lee, and this is Nikki Sixx.

"Sixx?"

"It's a long story." Nikki replied, taking a drag from his cigarette. Tommy stepped forward,

"What's your name anyways?"

"Chrissy Slater."

"Okay, Chrissy Slater, will you just do this one thing? Then we'll get out of your way."

Chrissy thought for a moment then sighed.

"Sure."

"Thanks, man."