14 years - Axl Rose x OC

21

A/N: I want to preface and say that I do not write sex, but I wanted them to fuck, so I tried my best for it to not be very sexual-sounding. I hope I got my point across and maybe I'll write sex in another future chapter. That's also why this chapter is so late...

"You know what it is, it's that you're a masochist / It's what I'm thinking right now / And I walk straight into this mess of mine / And I put on my best Sunday dress / And I walk straight into this mess of mine / And I put on my..."

Starbelly - Hole

--March 1st, 1990

6:00pm: The time when an overworked Lita Monroe stumbled into her apartment, straight from a ten-hour day at the studio. The building was old, a 1930s Art Deco style. The overhead chandelier in the kitchen was out, but the setting sun shined an orange glow onto the blue-green backsplash tiles. The balcony door was open, and an enchanting draft of air blew in through its crack and into the picturesque living room.

Out at the Roxy, Jack was with Duff slurping down shots of tequila and nursing tall glasses of whiskey, that was all Lita was told. Well, she had fabricated most of that sentence. Jack left the apartment this morning at sun-up, the conjoined rooms glistening in the sun's phosphorescence. A wallet full of twenties, and quite a few ones, were stuffed in the pockets of his black leather pants. Before Lita could a question, emerging from the bathroom door before he could trudge out, Jack yelled into the air behind him: "I'm going out to the Roxy with Duff, I'll be back–"

"Wha-What?" Lita settled the teaser on the bathroom sink. "We're just gonna' watch some bands. Bye–" and he slammed the maplewood door. Interesting, Lita thought as she moved back to the rectangular mirror.

Now his metallic-red bass lay sturdy against the arm of the velvety teal couch. Its colour illuminated when Lita switched on the kitchen lights. She could see a bowl left on the counter, and coming up to it, Lita would see the residue of Jack's honey-nut cheerios sliding down the arch of the bowl. Apparently, he was in such a rush to go to...something? Lita wasn't sure; his holler over the teaser this morning was like a mumble in her eyes. At the Roxy, he was likely to get drunk; but with the missing dollar bills from her purse (thankfully the cocaine was still there), Lita knew that the pair would venture next door to Sunset Boulevard's local strip club.

Whether he would make it home–fumbling in, his drunk figure clawing the walls until he found the bedroom or the couch–or wound up settled in between the legs of a cheap hooker was up to Jack. Lita just didn't want to be home when he eventually got back. There was always the possibility of Jack, in his plastered mood, repeating the incident from January. Now she hoped he didn't make it home at all.

Wind in his hair, Axl drove his black Camaro down interstate 405 to Santa Monica. Mötorhead thundered in his right ear, the loud air circulating inside the vehicle was in his left. Aviators sat perched on his nose, bangs no longer in his eyes. He was drawing closer to the coast, to Lita Monroe's apartment.

Lita flung her heavy purse in the direction of the coathangers. The baggie of cocaine, gradually becoming smaller as the days passed, stayed secure in its zipped-up pocket that sat in the depths of the green pit. She kicked off her flats in the hall and slumped toward the living room. Lita picked up the sparkling bass and carried the instrument back to its stand near Jack's nestled corner of the apartment where all his hobbies sat.