The very last thing that Christine Hill expected was the exponential success of Mötley Crüe-the band she loved to hate.
And she never would've surmised that she'd be dragged-kicking and fucking screaming, by the nape of her neck-along for the wilde...
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Warning(s): mentions of suicide, abortion, drug abuse, drug overdose, death...and Doc McGhee being a sleaze.
Soon enough, the only thing Tommy could hear down the other end of the line was the pitter-patter of what he surmised was stray raindrops tumbling from the culvert outside of whatever window Christine was standing next to.
He didn't entertain, for a second, that the soft tapping could've been tears falling over her lashes--coated in that same cheap mascara she refused to throw away--and settling atop the phone she had in a death clutch between red, polished fingertips...He could almost see it.
He could practically visualize the tiny crescent shapes indented into Chris's soft, supple palm as she clung onto the handset as if it was going to fall from her grip.
The same way that she held onto him in the pool, clinging to his neck because, no matter how stubborn she was and refused to admit her fear, she was scared that her toes wouldn't touch the blue-tiled floor.
It was the same way that she held onto him when the news of Razzle broke, when Vince was sent away, when she woke up in a cold sweat because Nikki was nowhere to be seen and she...needed him.
The same way that she held onto him every single time--three, to be exact--he brought his body closer to hers, and watched as she writhed under his hold, moaning in ecstasy, feeling every inch of his love.
His love.
Tommy loved her. So much. He loved her more than he could ever dream of elucidating. And he knew her so, so well.
So, realistically speaking, why didn't he assume that she'd be tearing up? If he knew her so well. If he knew how she'd react, why didn't he take into account the sobs that'd reverberate through her body?
The lament that'd start churning her stomach to a point where she knew she was going to be sick?
Of course Christine was going to be crying.
Of course she wouldn't be able to catch her breath because the lump at the very back of her throat was restricting the flow of air to her lungs, and tears pooled within those beguiling, hazel hues of hers.
Of fucking course this was going to break her. How could Tommy not recognize that?
How could he, with his last remaining handful of brain cells, not realize how telling Christine that Heather's tears were pouring because "Nikki is fucking dead," was going to fucking destroy her?
He ripped the fucking bandaid off and gave her no time to react, let alone form a response when he asked if she was still there. Four times.
She was still there. She wasn't going anywhere. She couldn't go anywhere because she was frozen in place. As if the world had completely stopped spinning and she was being anchored to the ground.
