Bandom One-shots book 3

The Night That Never Ends (Guns N' Roses)

It's 1987, and we're nearing the end of this damn tour. The nights have started to blur together, one bleeding into the next, a never-ending stream of whiskey, loud music, and the kind of chaos only we could manage. We're all stuck in some shitty hotel room, trying to savor the last few days of the tour before the inevitable end. Some of us are dreading it, others are looking forward to the break, but right now, we're all just a little drunk and killing time before tomorrow's show.

As usual, I'm sitting on the floor, leaning back against the bed, my legs stretched out in front of me. My jeans are tight as hell, my boots are worn down from the constant traveling, and my shirt—well, it's soaked in whiskey from the countless rounds I've had tonight. Everyone's had their share of drinks, except Izzy, of course. He's over there on his bed, sitting with his legs crossed, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, his eyes half-closed like he's about to drift off to sleep any second. But not me. Not us. Not when the stories are just getting good.

Slash, who's splayed out on the floor beside me like a fucking manatee, holding a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand, is laughing his ass off.

"No way," he says, his voice a little slurred but full of that familiar mischief. "No fucking way, Duffy. I call bullshit. There's no way you managed to get five girls in one night! Maybe three at best, but not five."

I grin, leaning forward a bit as I take another swig from my beer. "You think I'm lying?" I say, raising an eyebrow at him, challenging him to doubt me. "I told you, I did it. Five. Five gorgeous girls. All of 'em. One night."

"You're full of shit," Slash scoffs, swishing the Jack Daniels around in his bottle, the ice clinking like a goddamn rhythm section. "I know you, Duff. You're lucky if you even manage one by the end of the night, let alone five."

"Oh, come on," I argue, throwing my hands up in mock exasperation. "Are you telling me I'm not charming enough to get five girls? I've got style, man. I've got moves."

Izzy snorts from his bed, never looking up from whatever he's doing with his guitar. "Style? You don't have style. You just have a lot of hair," he mutters, his voice as deadpan as ever.

"Hey!" I shoot him a playful glare, even though I know he's right. My hair is my signature move, after all. But damn it, it's worked for me so far.

"Five girls," Slash says again, still not buying it. "Man, if you did that, I'll personally buy you a whole damn bottle of Jack. But you're full of shit."

I sit up, leaning forward with that familiar, cocky grin. "I swear to God, Slash, I did it. Five girls. One night. And not a single one of them had a complaint."

"Okay, okay," Slash says, sitting up now, finally intrigued. "Prove it. Tell us the story. I wanna hear how you pulled off that miracle."

I take another swig of my beer, savoring the liquid burn. The room's starting to spin a little, but it's that nice kind of spinning—the one that makes everything funnier, looser. "Alright, alright," I say, setting the beer down and leaning back against the bed again, getting comfortable for the long haul. "So it was in Detroit, right? We were playing at this club, and the place was packed. I'm talking, shoulder-to-shoulder packed. Everyone was drunk, rowdy, but that's what makes it fun, right?"

Slash's eyes are already wide with interest. "I'm listening..."

"I had just finished my set, right? And the second I step off the stage, I'm greeted by this gorgeous redhead. She comes up to me, looks me up and down, and just says, 'I like the way you play, bass player.' And you know what I said?" I pause for dramatic effect, watching everyone lean in. Even Izzy stops fiddling with his guitar for a second, his ears clearly perked up.

"I said, 'Why don't we see what else I'm good at, sweetheart?'" I grin. "She didn't hesitate. She was all in."

The room erupts into laughter, and I can see Slash's face twist in disbelief. "You're a smooth talker, I'll give you that," he says, shaking his head, still skeptical.

"But wait, there's more," I say, holding my finger up like I'm about to drop some huge bomb. "So, after her, I'm just hanging out by the bar, nursing my drink, when another girl walks up. Blondie. And she's not just any blondie. She's tall, legs for days, and she says—"

"Let me guess," Slash interrupts. "She says something like, 'I like the way you play bass too.'"

I laugh and shake my head. "Close, but no. She said, 'You look like you could use some company, bass player.'" I pause again, raising my bottle in triumph. "I didn't argue. She was cute as hell. We ended up making out in the alley behind the club."

Izzy chuckles from his bed but doesn't say anything. He's used to my bullshit by now. Hell, he probably doesn't even believe I pulled it off, but he's giving me the benefit of the doubt.

"Alright, alright," Slash says, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Two girls, that's still believable. But five? You've gotta be kidding me."

I lean back again, stretching my legs out in front of me, trying to maintain the cool, collected swagger I've got going. "So then, after blondie, I move on to this group of girls. A trio. They come up to me, all laughing and giggling, and you know what they say?"

Slash's eyes are wide now. "No fucking way..."

"Yeah, way," I say, leaning in close for dramatic effect. "They say, 'Let's make it a party, bass player. How about we all have some fun?'"

I watch as Slash's jaw drops, his disbelief practically radiating off him. Izzy, on the other hand, just raises an eyebrow and takes a long drag from his cigarette, clearly not buying any of it but not bothering to call me out either.

"Five girls," Slash says, shaking his head in disbelief, his bottle of Jack still hanging loosely in his hand. "Man, you're full of shit, Duff. But fine, I'll give you that you're a hell of a storyteller."

"Well, you don't have to believe me," I say with a shrug, "but that's how it went down. And I swear to God, I'm the luckiest son of a bitch alive."

Slash laughs, tossing the bottle of Jack Daniels up and catching it effortlessly, his signature top hat tilted slightly askew. "I still think you're bullshitting me," he says, taking a long drink, "but goddamn, you're good at it."

Izzy finally speaks up from his bed, his voice laced with sarcasm, "You know, if you spent half as much energy on your bass as you do on those stories, you'd be the best goddamn bassist in rock 'n' roll."

"Hey, Izzy," I grin, turning to him. "I'm still the best goddamn bassist and storyteller. That's why they call me the King of Charm."

Izzy just rolls his eyes, but I can see the corner of his lips twitching. He's smirking. He knows I'm full of shit, but he's not gonna stop me.

We keep drinking, laughing, and swapping stories—some true, some exaggerated beyond belief. But it doesn't matter. Tonight's just another one of those long nights on the road, another night where we're all together. And for the first time in a while, I don't mind that the tour is almost over.

Because, no matter what, we've got each other.

And these moments?

These moments are the ones we'll remember.

~The Night That Never Ends~