Mötley Crüe: The Dirt Imagines

Nikki Sixx/Douglas Booth Imagine #6

As requested by sitonmyfacebbh

You rearrange the collection of pens on your lap nervously, hoping to god that none of them would roll off onto the floor in the middle of the interview. You always kept spares, ever since your only pen had blown up on you in the middle of your interview with Warrant. But this was even higher stakes than that. This was an interview with Mötley Crüe. 

You hopped off of the tall chair they had set up for you, too tall, really, because it made your legs dangle in a way that wasn't very professional or flattering. You would have to remember to keep them crossed at the ankles at all times. God, yet another thing to remember.

You had already been given a list of things not to bring up:

1. Tommy cheating on his wife, Heather. It had been making the rounds in the tabloids lately and their publicist had made it quite clear that if you were to bring it up in the interview he would walk out on the spot. 

2. Vince Neil's car crash. This seemed pretty obvious to you, and a few years had gone by so it wasn't even breaking news, but the publicist implied that the wound was still pretty fresh.

3. Mick Mars's appearance. Apparently a lot of interviewers wrote about how tired and worn out he looked which was bad for the image. You couldn't imagine being that cruel, but you were glad to know anyways. 

And finally:

4. Nikki Sixx's death. 

You looked into the mirror over the dressing table pushed against the back wall of the small room and sighed irritably. Now that last one, that was annoying. Just months ago Nikki Sixx had died for 2 minutes with a needle in his arm and no reporter had had a chance to talk to him about it since. You doubted you would've had much luck either, but god, you would like to at least be able to try. To get Nikki to talk about his brush with death...your career would finally take off.

You smoothed your blouse down over your chest, trying to get the pesky third button to lay flat and not expose the delicate pink lace of your bra. The blouse had been a bad choice, but you hadn't realized it had shrunk in the wash until after you had arrived at the arena, so you were just going to have to live with it. Your hair was twisted into a smooth bun and your lipstick was perfect, a tasteful nude that made your eyes stand out without looking like you were trying. And you weren't trying. Or, at least, that's what you kept telling yourself. 

You heard the doorknob to the dressing room start to turn and hurried back over to your seat placed intimidatingly in front of four empty chairs. A small, bald man came into the room carrying a glass of water and a stack of paper work. 

"Here you go," he said gruffly, passing you the glass with indifference and causing it to spill a little over onto your silky black skirt. 

"Um, thanks," you replied, looking around helplessly at where on earth you could possibly put this glass during the interview. There was nothing near tall enough to reach from your ridiculously high chair, so you had to awkwardly squeeze it between your thighs. You had just decided that that would not fly and that you'd have to get down and put it on the floor when the man slapped the stack of papers into your lap, forcing you to stay put. 

"Waivers," he said, already turned away from you to go sit in the corner of the room and watch over the interview. 

You flipped through them quickly, most of the same old legal stuff, and was about to sign them when the door opened abruptly once again. You tossed them aside to open your notebook, letting the sheets flutter down to the floor. 

"What's up fucker!" the first one through the door said cheerfully. Your head jerked up from your notebook, suprised, just in time to see Tommy Lee slide into one of the chairs in front of you, the rest of the band following close behind.