veil | W. Axl Rose

Ⅳ

07.06.1985

Duff and Anastasiya moved down Sunset Boulevard, while chaos incarnates—Izzy, Slash, and Steven—trailed behind them, shouting about something absurd to anyone but themselves, cackling like hyenas, and stumbling into each other. They weren't bothering anyone, not really, but they weren't being subtle about their existence either. A couple of people on the sidewalk turned their heads, but this was L.A.—nobody gave a shit.

-You never mentioned you were living in a fucking condemned house. Since when?-she asked Duff, cutting through the noise behind them.

    He had a smirk that came and went like a ghost, flashing at odd moments, never quite settling into anything real.

-Few weeks.-he said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.-Got tired of couch-surfing, figured I'd put down roots.

-Roots? This place doesn't even have running water, does it?

-Not in the conventional sense.

    She wasn't really sure whether to be impressed by his ability to live in complete squalor without complaint or furious that he was so goddamn reckless. Probably both. But beggars can't be choosers, right?

    A quintet eventually landed in front of the Roxy that burned like a beacon. They stepped through the heavy velvet curtain, feeling the weight of the night as it swallowed them up in red and purple hues. The bar was dim, a constant low thrum of music and chatter filling the air like static. It was packed, the kind of crowded that left you pressing elbows with strangers. Neon beer signs clung to walls scarred with decades of scuffs and graffiti, and glowed, reflecting in scattered glassy surfaces. Groups of leather-jacketed guys were huddled into red vinyl booths, heads close together as they talked over the music, while a few women in fishnets and spiked heels lounged along the walls, eyes flicking over the crowd for someone worth their time.

She took a look at the stage tucked into the corner to see what band tonight was on. She squinted, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. The guys up there looked like they'd stumbled out of some fever dream; dressed to the nines in spandex and leather, and makeup. The music and rhythm sounded like a broken chaff cutter. The lyrics? Just a two-line verse, droning on and on for like fifteen minutes. The blond singer's voice screeched through the speakers as he flung his head back and let out a scream. This was more of a burlesque show than anything else. Whoever these guys were, they were working the crowd like pros, but as far as she was concerned, this was pure, concentrated cheese.

Before Duff could take a step, someone launched herself at him, arms flung around his shoulders with a squeal that was all high-pitched, and excited.

-Duffy!

Duff, taken aback, instinctively wrapped his arms around her like it was a habit, his hands sliding down the curves of her back until he hit her waist, where he let them linger, fingers pressing just slightly, suggestively. He grinned, leaning in to murmur something, his words drowned out by the throbbing beat of the band from stage, but whatever he said made her burst into more laughter, her body swaying against his.

Anastasiya stood off to the side, letting her eyes adjust to the murky light, and the face of the girl clicked into place–Katharina Kerekgyarto, the Hungarian beauty who he's been dating for a year, give or take. She was all long, lean lines and natural confidence, her brunette hair cascading down in loose, effortless waves that framed her angular face.

At this point, there was no sense in dumbly standing there like an intruder in their little scene, so Anastasiya quietly peeled away, leaving a self-absorbed duet behind. Slash met her gaze with a nod toward the bar, and she drifted after the other three, weaving through clumps of people. The bar itself was a rich, dark mahogany, polished to a gleam that barely peeked out under drink rings and ash flecks. Rows of vibrant bottles lined a black glass shelf behind the counter, backlit in such a way that the bottles seemed to glow like stained glass in a cathedral of excess.