Book One: Bad Boys Make the Most Noise | Slash

chapter seventeen

Sloan

"Excuse me, sir," Duff said, knocking on the neighbouring cars window as we rested at a red light. The man rolled down his window with a gentle smile. "I'm sorry to bother you, but do you know what time it is?" It seemed I wasn't the only one surprised at his polite ability. "Or could you tell us where we are?"

The man nodded his head, glancing at the watch upon his wrist and reading from the automatic hands. "It's one-twelve PM, son. And you're in New Jersey." It wasn't too far from New York if I'd remembered correctly.

"You know how to get to the Broncs?" Slash asked, his voice groggy with sleep. We'd been on the road for at least four hours now, most of the boys spending the time asleep, myself and Steven dancing and singing away to the radio as it blasted through the speakers, surprisingly not stirring the snoring idiots. Though now as they all lie awake, the music was turned down and it was a comfortable silence settled between us.

"You'll have to turn around, friend." He explained. "Just follow this road all the way until you reach a T-junction. At the turn you go right and follow that road. Just keep going right 'til you reach the edge of the city." He smiled, driving off with a short wave.

I looked over at the boys curiously, if we'd continuously turned right it'd lead us in an irritating circle, right back to where we started. Though as they shrugged and sparked up a few joints, I suppose the realisation that they weren't phased settled into my mind. After the aged and rusty car clouded with intoxicatingly strong smoke, I let out a soft growl and rolled down the window, instructing the boys to do the same. It was hardly past the first week of July and the air outside was warm as we coasted along steadily, slowly running out of gas. That was a thought, too. What would we do if we were to run out of the stuff? We didn't exactly have a key to get into the tank and all the boys spent their money on more booze and dope; exclaiming how they wanted to get 'shitfaced.' There was hardly a mumble of conversation shared between the giggling men as they smacked each other and made silent gestures, rumbling fits of breathless laughter following. Duff held around three joints - one behind each ear and another between his lips - and two Vodka bottles swam within his lap, one half empty and the other a quarter drained. Adler had thirteen more bottles of beer, sharing the contents with Izzy as they chatted a small conversation between themselves, smoking a joint each. Steven also carried a needle and a small box I despised highly, his addiction was slowly growing worse. Axl had three bottles of wine - both red and white - placed around his feet, a plastic glass now broken and no longer in use. He was smoking the most out of everyone, pockets filled with dope and white powder. Slash offered me a drag of his joint, brows raised in question, though I declined, in need to stay sober on the road. He had two bottles of Jack Daniels, one already gone and the other hardly three sips away from finishing.

Axl held out his finger, a thin white line settled on it and placed it before Slash, leaning forward with red and dilated eyes. Slash sniffed it all up, the white cloud surrounding his right nostril as he brought back up his head, grinning and howling and hooting as though he'd won a jackpot. "Sloan." He pestered, poking my arm. "Sloan, baby," I swooned a little at the word but continued to frown and glare at the road. "you gotta have somethin'. Try some 'a this." He pressured, holding out the rolled up joint. I shook my head, pushing his hand away and rolled my eyes as he pouted and smoked the rest. "What's crawled up your ass, sweetheart?"

"I'm driving, Slash."

"It's not your car, who cares if we crash?" He chuckled, guzzling the rest of the brown whisky and throwing both bottles from out of the open window.

"I do." I grumbled. "Theft is a criminal offence and I'll get jail time for it. You'll all get a junkie sentence for Adler's fucking heroin and all the damned gear flying around." He rolled his eyes and shrugged, moving the curly fringe from his eyes and scrunching up his nose as though it'd left an itch. "Just do your thing and let me drive." I said, defeatedly, and flicked on the radio. Suddenly, the chorus of Don't Shoot Shotgun rang through the cramped car, Slashes hand quickly diving to turn it up all the way, nodding his head aggressively and screaming the lyrics.

"Run for cover, she's so dangerous." Izzy, Duff and Slash yelled. "Undercover, she's so shameless."

"Don't shoot shotgun!" They all screamed, allowing a small smile to creep onto my face. "You've got me biting my lip." Duff and Slash sang, both emphasising in their intoxicated state, munching on their bottom lips and laughing uncontrollably. "Don't shoot shotgun!" I joined in, giggling quietly to myself. They continued to sing at the top of their lungs, joking around and sniffing lines, sparking up a cigarette or two as they did so. I shook my head and continued to drive, checking in the rear view mirror to see if Steven was still conscious, noticing the needle once again piercing through his vein as his eyes drooped extremely low, head dipping as though he were going to pass out. "Eyes on the road, Sloan!" Izzy yelled, pointing toward where we'd swerved to the opposite lane and the car merely seconds away beeped noisily, manoeuvring around us angrily. I grimaced, taking back to the correct lane, before putting my foot down and cranking it up to fifth gear, well and truly ascending over the speed limit.

*

"Seven days." Slash smirked, twirling the lighter between his calloused fingers. "On the twenty-third." I looked over toward Duff and raised my eyebrows, watching him smirk and shrug smugly. I rolled my eyes and turned back toward curly boy.

"But that's so soon." I sighed, slouching. "I don't have much time to get you anything-"

"I don't want anything." He frowned, shaking his head. "Just some whisky or a pair of new boxers." His sour expression changed to that of amusement as we continued to smoke within the gentle breeze. Considering the unpredicted length of the journey, we'd vowed to take a break and stretch our legs, Axl and Izzy wandering off as Steven passed out in the car.

Glancing over toward the small mop of long blonde hair sprouting within the very bottom of the window, I sighed and drew my eyebrows together. "Why does he do that to himself?" I asked, worriedly.

Slash shrugged. "Since we met the kid he was a junkie." He responded. "Always has been."

"He's depressed." Duff added. "A gnarly thing to think about, but he does it to kill himself most days." He sighed, sympathetically. "The amount of times I've had to stick my fingers down the kids throat..." he trailed off, suddenly saddened. Slash nodded in agreement, letting out the last breath of smoke before throwing the butt somewhere behind him, nodding me to follow him as he slowly wandered off.

I caught up with his gentle strides and he spoke with a soft, caring tone. "You remember those pills?" He asked, words still slightly slurred. I nodded but gave him a warning look; I refused to argue once again over this. "Do they work?"

I raised a curious eyebrow. "Depends. Why?"

"Adler needs something other than the shit he does to himself to feel better." He sighed, pulling out another cigarette and offering one over. I complied, withdrawing it from the pack and sparked it up with the lighter he'd gifted me, inhaling the chemicals into my chest before releasing to the left of his face. "I was wondering," his tone was muffled by the cigarette. "if you had any spare?"

"Of course I do." I nodded. "I've got them spilling outta the cupboards."

"Thanks, man." He smiled, rubbing his reddened  eyes tiredly. "Can we head back? I think I'm gonna pass out or spew chunks."

"Throw up in the car and you're paying." I warned, wrapping my arm along his waist as we walked, his along my shoulder with a small slip in his stride. We pulled up next to Duff, him wrapping his arm around Slashes shoulder, Hudson placing his along his waist and we began to slowly and unsteadily wander back to the stolen red car.