Blues inspired musician Lita Monroe shortly grew up with Axl Rose, their friendship an unpronounced teenage love like a kindling fire, waiting through 14 years of silence to burn brightly again. Will it work out this time?
Started - 19/1/24
Ended- 2...
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--May 16th, 1991
"Hey Axl, you in there?"
Slash could hear rustling and more high-pitched noises on the other side of the door. 'He must be sleeping,' Slash thought. He knocked again, asking, "Axl you gotta' get up, Doug wants us down at the Ritz early. He'll kill us if we're a minute late."
More movement behind the door, mumbling, shuffling, and another knock from Slash. He was getting fed up, standing outside a grown man's hotel room, forcing him to get up. But, hell, that's what Axl had been doing to him the last six years.
"Just give me a minute, man!"
Slash looked at his wrist where there was no watch, but if he had one (he'd never be caught dead), it would be there. It had to be almost eleven, if he had to guess.
Getting fed up, Slash jiggled the door handle. "Give me a minute, dammit," he heard Axl say. That didn't stop him from continuing his movement, pushing on the door with his shoulder. Immediately, the door opened, but Axl wasn't on the other side, holding the other end of the handle.
"Shit," he laughed, seeing Axl, jeans half down his legs, trying desperately to pull them up, belt sagging them down. At least he had a shirt on–but that was a poor excuse. The Guns N' Roses shirt he wore hung around his neck, only one arm through, showing off the two tattoos on his left arm. He had no shoes on, either. "Get the fuck outta' here man," Axl seethed, accidently moving aside, where Slash could see Lita Monroe. Her head peaked up over the top of the messed up bed, her hair frazzled, shoulders naked except for two thin straps.
"We've gotta go," Slash said, rubbing his neck.
Axl, jeans done up now and sliding his left arm through the sleeve, pushed Slash out of the room, slamming the door. He huffed, no longer daring to knock. When it opened again a minute later, Axl was ready. His hair was tame, sunglasses perched up in his bangs; a jacket clinged to his figure, which was pulling Lita outside the room after him. No longer were her shoulders bare, with just two straps, inside wearing a thin shirt two sizes too large and jeans.
Slash trailed behind them on the way to the elevator.
"I didn't know getting ready could take so long, involve two people, and so much noise?" Slash laughed, pressing the ground floor button, trapping the three of them together in the elevator. "Fuck off," he could hear Axl mumble, holding his wife's hand.
The doors opened to Doug Goldstein staring at his watch, rubbing his eyes of sleep, trying to take the purple out of his skin. Slash slugged out of the elevator, pulling a cigarette out of his back pocket and walking over to Duff, asking for a light.
"I've been waiting for you two for twenty minutes! We had to leave! Where were you?" Doug questioned the two men.
"I was 'waking' Axl's ass up," Slash mumbled through his cigarette. Doug nodded, ushering the group (the band, Lita, Della in the distance, and the techs) out of the hotel and to the bus. Today was a special show, the Ritz. The 'Silent Cherries' were not permitted to play, for there was no opening act, just Guns N' Roses. But it would be recorded–that was exciting.
