Rock and Roll Hell

In the Beginning...

Sipping a steaming cup of coffee, I steal a moment of peace at my Los Angeles apartment. Sunlight spills through the window, casting a warm glow on the latest issue of Rolling Stone spread out before me. Perched on the fifth floor, my apartment offers a taste of the city's energy – just a couple of miles from the heart of LA, the Sunset Strip. It wasn't always this way, though...

Manhattan, New York. My birthplace, my childhood... most of it. Yet, tragedy struck early. My mom passed away just before my third birthday, leaving only photos in her wake. The loss plunged Dad into a crushing depression. Nights were filled with his muffled sobs, a chilling soundtrack to a life that seemed to lose its purpose.

Work became his escape. He was perpetually on the road, a salesman chasing quotas and drowning his grief in whiskey at every bar. The nights he did return were fraught with danger. His drunken stupor brought out a monstrous side, his anger erupting in physical abuse at the slightest misstep. Each bruise, each fading scratch, was a grim reminder the following morning, fueling the cycle of despair.

Years later, escape beckoned. My best friend, Stanley Eisen (now Paul Stanley), had been a constant through the darkness. We were practically inseparable, sharing sleepless nights when my dad was on a bender. Shy and reserved, Stanley found solace in music, his guitar his confidante until a band called KISS emerged at 15. I, too, was enthralled by music, drawn to the melody and rhythm. We jammed together, our dreams interwoven with every chord. Today, Stanley's a rock legend, the face of KISS. It was his vision that brought us to L.A., a launchpad for the band's future.

Now, in this sun-drenched city, I chase my own aspirations. Bar shifts and modeling gigs pay the bills, but music remains the constant – a melody amidst the chaos, a reminder of the bond forged in the darkness. This city holds the promise of a new beginning, a melody far removed from the harsh chords of my past.

The thump of a fist against the door shattered my peaceful morning. I tossed back the last of my coffee, the Rolling Stone article on KISS's new album "Creatures of the Night" fluttering to the floor. Smoothing my rumpled robe, I hurried to answer.

It was Paul, his rockstar persona a stark contrast to my loungewear. Ripped jeans, a KISS concert tee, and leather boots completed his look. "Mornin', Ang," he greeted, a touch of nervousness in his voice. "Can I crash for a sec? Gotta ask you somethin'."

"Sure, come in," I ushered him inside, the scent of brewing coffee clinging to the air. We settled on the couch, the familiar comfort a stark contrast to the news that bubbled in his throat.

"Everything alright?" I finally prodded, concern creasing my brow.

He hesitated, then blurted, "Yeah, the tour's going great. But listen, we leave tomorrow for the next leg, and..." his voice trailed off.

My heart skipped a beat. Paul rarely visited unannounced. "What is it?"

"I miss you when we're on the road," he confessed, his blue eyes pleading. "And you've never been on a tour. I was thinkin'... maybe you'd wanna come along this time?"

A whirlwind of emotions swirled within me. Excitement. Hesitation. A flicker of shame – the news of my bartending gig must've traveled faster than I thought.

"You're serious?" My voice emerged a whisper. "Travel the world, see you perform every night?"

"Yeah," he said, then sheepishly added, "Besides, I heard you lost your job. Figured a change of scenery might be good."

The unspoken truth hung heavy in the air. This wasn't just about companionship. He needed me.

Taking a deep breath, I met his gaze. "Alright, Paul. I'm in."

A grin erupted on his face. "Awesome! We leave at five sharp tomorrow. Will's a stickler for time, especially with all that makeup we gotta wear."

"Will Aucoin's still your manager, huh?" I chuckled, the memory of a two a.m. prank call still fresh.

"The one and only," he confirmed, heading towards the kitchen. "Mind if I borrow your coffee maker? Mine crapped out."

"Go for it," I replied, a thrill already coursing through me. Packing for a world tour was a far cry from my usual routine, but with Styx blasting from the radio, I couldn't help but smile. This was a new chapter, a chance to trade the monotony of my apartment for the electrifying world of rock and roll.

Shoving aside concert tees, I rummaged through my closet. KISS shirts dominated the collection, most courtesy of Paul's past tours. Then, a flash of red caught my eye – a Mötley Crüe shirt from their "Too Fast For Love" days. My fingers grazed the worn fabric, a memory jolting awake. That night, the intoxicating rush of the Sunset Strip, the bassist's cocky grin as he tossed me the shirt...

Just then, the radio crackled to life, the opening riff of "Looks That Kill" blasting through the room. A strangled laugh escaped my lips. "What are the chances?" I muttered, shoving the shirt deep into my suitcase.

Paul burst into the room, his voice competing with the music. "Did you start packing yet- hey! I almost forgot to tell you—" His words were lost in the static. He leaned closer, shouting over the music. "These guys are opening for us on this leg of the tour!"

My breath hitched. Mötley Crüe. Opening for KISS. The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Casually, I forced a smile. "Oh, cool," I managed, rushing past him back into the closet. My heart hammered against my ribs. This couldn't be happening.

"Angie? Are you okay?" Paul's voice was laced with concern. I fumbled for a response. "Yeah, I'm fine," I stammered, "Just... forgot my boots." My voice cracked, betraying my lie.

Paul set down his coffee and settled on the bed. "Angela," he said gently, "We've known each other since we were kids. Anything you want to talk about, you can tell me. You know I spill everything to you." His blue eyes held a quiet worry.

I met his gaze, the truth a bitter pill on my tongue. But revealing my past with Mötley Crüe, the secrets and the tangled emotions, felt like stepping back into a firestorm. Taking a deep breath, I spun a hasty lie. "It's just... a lot of packing in a short time. Need to organize this mess so I can double-check everything before tomorrow."

Paul's brow furrowed. "Hey, relax. Don't sweat your first tour. We can tackle this together if you want." He reached for the radio, his fingers hovering over the dial.

"Actually," I blurted out, a sudden resolve rising in my chest, "I could really use the help." The radio fell silent, the weight of the upcoming tour and the ghosts of my past settling heavily in the air. This wasn't just about packing a suitcase. It was about facing a past I'd tried to outrun.