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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The only warning I have for this one is that it's pretty fucking long. But I'm sure you'll appreciate it...Sorry for the delay!
1988 — Vancouver.
Nikki didn't dial Christine's number. He never called.
She was waiting for him for fucking days, but he didn't even attempt to get into contact with her. Even after the promise--that wasn't really a promise--he'd made to her.
I'll call soon?
Mm. I'll wait for you.
I love you...please take care of yourself.
I love you too, Christine. Always, angel. Always.
She was in tears. Constantly, she was found sobbing.
The sheer notion of Nikki not taking care of himself broke her fucking heart into a billion tiny pieces. She had spent countless hours recollecting certain sentiments, and reflecting upon the last few words she had said to her husband before the phone line went dead.
Had she known that was the last time that they'd speak, maybe she would've made more of an effort.
But, really, what else could she have said? What else could have happened--could she have done differently--to change Nikki's mind? To make him want to call her?
She didn't fucking know, and that was what seemed to hurt the most. She didn't know how to get through to him, how to broach the topic of conversation.
Christine didn't even know her own husband anymore.
But he did want to talk to her, though. Unbeknownst to that woman, he had gotten so fucking close to picking his phone up--but he couldn't go through with it.
Terrified of showing his vulnerability--the same way he was almost certain he practically did during the last conversation the pair had--Nikki deduced that talking to Chris would only display him as inferior. Weak. But he was far from it, actually, and he knew that.
As a result of his refusal, she felt as though she took a blow to the fucking chest. Shrapnel propelling through her arteries--prickling at her heart until it damn near exploded--forcing her to feel nothing but a dull, disgusting thumping sensation day-in, day-out.
She was struggling. Without Nikki--without heroin--Christine was fucking struggling.
By the third week, Nicole was starting to fret.
The downtrodden blonde had spurned the thought of seeing anybody that wasn't her family--not even Hayden--and she decided to present Bob with her notice because, as she saw it, what was the point in working when she had nothing to live for?
Dramatic as ever, Christine felt as though she couldn't carry on. Not now that Nikki didn't want her back. Not now that she hadn't any hope, or a husband.
