[[DISCLAIMER: EXPLICIT/MATURE CONTENT; g!p Camila, language, heavy use of drugs, sex; drama, comedy, angst. This story does not promote or encourage substance abuse or any illegal activity.]]
"I hoped she'd never leave me. Please, God, you must beli...
A/N: Back at this again. It took a long time for my faith in this story to be restored and a lot of unlearning of the shame I ended up having while writing it, so here it is.
It is inspired by the Guns N Roses song in the title but the band in this book will also be singing songs from other famous rock bands similar to GNR's sound irl, but we're just gonna pretend like it's their own. Just trust me on this one.
You know the rule: if you're not good with angst and slow burns, see yourself OUT. And please don't ask me what's the ending, I've come to truly hate that question. Just sit tight, enjoy the show, and get ready to rock and roll!
Characters:
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Play This I Love by Guns N Roses when you see the * before the lyrics. Please note that this story starts off like Drained You - in present tense then rewinds back to the past a few chapters until it reaches the present.
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Present Day - June 23rd, 1986 Monday, 10:55pm - Bell Centre, Montreal, Canada
"Last song of the night, sorry dudes. But this one, ah...this one's more like a goodnight kiss, I would say, rather than a good ole classic 'fuck you' before we fuck off out of here. It's a brand new song I dedicate to my sweet little angel that keeps all the wheels turnin' in my life. Baby, I will ride this thing until it falls off, and even then I'll carry you the whole way back so we can start over. It's called 'This I Love'."
Doesn't matter where you go in the world—what city you wake up in, which hotel they pay for you to spend the night in, another country you visit during a world tour, the sold out arenas and the party after the show—because you take yourself with you everywhere, packing more baggage weighing heavier than your actual baggage. Doesn't matter how loud you shred your guitar and play a solo, or the insanely high volume level of the speakers, the crowd erupting in a booming frenzy as the stage comes to life with live versions of studio tracks—it doesn't matter because the voices nesting in your head always overpowers it all...
Except for when you're locked in your dressing room with lines of blow, packets containing various pills, and a mini fridge fully stocked with booze. At least that's what Camila always thought after a series of unfortunate events taking place in her life. Bad things kept piling on one after the other, so she kept piling on with substances to keep the shit at bay, otherwise it'd seriously fuck with her music career; that's the one of the two things she absolutely can NOT lose.
As Camila sorts the white powdered lines over the latest issue of Rolling Stones magazine with some asshole's business card, loud bangs against the door startles her out her own skin. "Yeah!?"
"You all right in there? Come on, Colt's already starting the last song on the set-list. Whatever's going on with you, you have a minute and a half to get it together before your ass is on that stage again," the band's manager, Ashley Mercano, shouts from the other side. "Chop, chop!"
