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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They never traveled in an uncomfortable silence, though this afternoon was most certainly an exception.
Christine hated listening to the radio in the car--she'd started to loathe it the more time she spent with her big brother before his untimely passing.
To her, it was just a mindless distraction from the reality of whatever her day had ensued. She much preferred striking hearty conversation with whoever it was she was sitting next to, or facing up to whatever it was that'd happened in whatever way she felt fit.
It hadn't always been the same. But she found that talking--as opposed to listening and just ignoring what was happening--was helping her to stay sane.
But today--after coming clean to Hayden when she got home--was just one of those days where she threw her beliefs right out of the window.
She didn't want to talk to the man on her left. She didn't care to hear the bullshit monologue that he'd been drawing up all morning because, really, she knew that his "it's alright," wasn't even marking the surface and he had so much more to say.
It wasn't an awful experience, per se, but he was inexplicably emotionally distant from the very moment she uttered Nikki's name, to the moment she was about to step out of her apartment to head to work.
He had insisted on taking her to the studio because she looked "a little worse for wear"--but she knew that was simply code for him not trusting her to stay away from the group of men she hadn't seen since May '86.
There wasn't necessarily a reason for him to be dubious, however. He was just struggling to understand why she had to be around them, is all.
So, really, Christine was more than happy to listen to Slayer with the windows rolled down half-way, momentarily forgetting about the shit show she was about to walk into when she got to Little Mountain.
Because that silence--only filled with the illustrious guitar solo during Angel Of Death--was more than thundering and needed so badly to be dissipated with something.
She guessed that the "mindless distraction" of the radio was really something she could learn to appreciate after today, actually.
"Is this some new Van Halen?" Hayden broke the uncomfortable lull to ask his question, resting an even more tense hand against Christine's knee.
She couldn't possibly imagine a more lustreless position to be set into if she fucking tried to.
And she had tried. God, she tried hard.
"Not Van Halen--not without Dave, anyway. It fucking sucks."
He twisted his nose up, shaking his head while his fingers tapped against the steering wheel. "You're not one of those 'I hate Sammy Hagar' girls, Chris, you're better than that."
