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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That was it.
The metaphorical—comically ginormous—iceberg had been tipped, capsizing and sinking to the bottom of the ocean alongside Christine's composure and rationality, leaving not even a shaving of ice behind.
She was livid.
She was so angry—so full of searing rage—that she was contemplating flying to California to give Nikki Sixx a piece of her mind...Albeit slightly muddied, right now.
Because, who even did such a thing?
He led her on, fucked her—multiple times—and gave her every sign that he wanted her back, then just...didn't? When she offered herself, in all of her vulnerability?
What a jerk.
What a self centered, entitled, flaming pile of monster crap.
She supposed that this was enough to constitute a brand new hatred for her husband, but she also supposed that she might've deserved to be rejected by him also.
Nikki had every right to not want Christine to saunter back into his life, all figurative guns blazing, after what she had done to him, because who wanted that?
But to make her believe that he still loved her—still cared for and wanted her—despite clearly holding no interest in picking up where they left off in their relationship, was low. Even for him.
"Your bassist is a cunt!" She barked, stomping her way into the lounge of the Crüe's log cabin. "A massive, good-for-nothing, low-life cunt!"
Vince quirked a brow, and Sharise put down her copy of PlayBoy.
Maybe they should've locked the door tonight.
"I'm so fucking done with that—that imbecile." Christine threw herself onto the chair adjacent to the couch, slinging her leather jacket over the arm of it as she went down.
He could smell the tequila on her dress from across the way.
"Have you been drinking?" He mused, though he knew the answer.
And though she wasn't completely abstinent, there was part of Vince that knew his friend had tried—and ultimately failed—at kicking her nasty little habit, and so it slowly became more of a coping mechanism rather than desire, these days.
Because she could go without it, in all honesty. Christine didn't need anything to get her through the day anymore.
But she needed something, from time to time. When things got too much for her to handle, mainly.
