Rock and Roll Hell

Flash Back to 1981

Straightening my leather bustier, I brushed the grime of the street off my jeans. The throb of music and a cacophony of chatter spilled from 1124 Clark Street, the infamous Mötley House, announcing the party in full swing. My stomach lurched – a bathroom break to fix my makeup was a must before the long night ahead. Taking a deep breath, I squeezed through a window, propelled by the urgency of both nature and vanity. Inside, a mosh pit of bodies pulsated under the dim lights. A quick scan yielded no bathroom signs, but a skinny kid – suspiciously like Tommy, the drummer from The Whiskey – was locked in a passionate clinch in the corner. With a determined wiggle, I navigated the throng of dancing bodies, the music pounding a chaotic rhythm against my eardrums.

A rough voice boomed behind me, "Hey, pretty!"

I froze, the urgency to find the bathroom momentarily forgotten. Glancing back, I saw a towering biker dude leering at me. Ignoring him, I pressed on, scanning the crowd for a sign.

His grip tightened on my shoulder, stopping me cold. "Hey! I'm talking to you."

Fear spiked. I whipped around, forcing a calm tone. "Excuse me, please get your hand off me."

He smirked, his grip unrelenting. "You heard the lady," a deep voice cut through the music. A long-haired guy, seemingly materialized out of nowhere, stood beside me, his gaze fixed on the biker.

The biker scoffed. "What if I don't, huh?"

The air crackled with tension. The long-haired guy leaned closer, his voice a low growl. "Don't make me tell you again."

Slowly, the biker's grip loosened. He swaggered off, setting his sights on a blonde by the bar.

"Thank you," I breathed, relief washing over me.

"Mars. Mick Mars," the long-haired guy said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Mr. Mars," I clarified, my voice regaining its strength.

"You better watch yourself. A pretty girl like you should be careful." Mick says.

"Look, appreciate the save, but I had it under control."

"You call that 'under control'?" Mick laughs.

I roll my eyes. "You're Mötley's guitarist, right?" I try to change the subject.

"You got that right. Are you some groupie? If so, the answer to your next question is 'no, I won't show you where the bedroom is'." he informs with a slight cackle.

"Oh! No way! I just recognized your face from The Whiskey!" I assure. "Anyway, this has nothing to do with what you just said, but where is the bathroom here?"

"Nothing to do with 'getting some'? Sure! Ha!" he mocks. "Over to your right. But heads up, Vince might be getting busy." His smile turned mischievous.

"Hey, pretty!" a man's voice yells from behind me.

I look over my shoulder to see a tall, muscular biker looking at me. I try to ignore him and continue looking for the bathroom, but I feel him grab my shoulder.

The bathroom door handle wouldn't budge. Frustration bubbled as I pressed my ear against the cool wood. A muffled moan, punctuated by heavy breaths, sent a shiver down my spine. Disgusted, I retreated, eyes darting down the hallway lined with closed doors. Bedrooms? No time for a party, not until I fixed my makeup. Maybe, just maybe, the master bedroom would have a decent mirror.

With a deep breath, I pushed open the first door on the left. A quick glance revealed a cluttered room, devoid of any reflective surface. Moving on, I approached the door across the hall. This one had to be it. Slowly, I creaked it open, the sight before me stealing my breath away. A sprawling bed dominated the room, bathed in the soft glow of a bedside lamp. But it wasn't the furniture that held my attention. A figure with long black hair hunched over by the bed, furiously scribbling something on a piece of paper. My heart hammered against my ribs. Who was here, in this private sanctuary?