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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Warnings: *light smut. vince
Until today, Christine hadn't noticed the eavestrough above the break room window.
With each drop--each irksome pitter-patter of water against plastic--she felt her blood boil. Her patience was dwindling, ebbing away into something reminiscent of fury as she battled against the racket while simultaneously trying to work on her algebra questions.
She'd picked the worst day to study at the studio, she was sure of it.
If the commotion wasn't being caused by the rain, it was Tommy battering the ever-living fuck out of his drumkit next door. And if it wasn't that, then it was Nikki yelling obscenities at Vince because he wasn't meant to be there that day, and his mere presence was simply kindling Nikki's internal blaze.
The rain striking against the window was essentially Christine's equivalent of Vince, now. Because the rage--the fervor--was forcing her hands to shake, jabbing at her precision and she couldn't seem to think straight, either.
Her scarcity of concentration could've been pinned to being overwrought with anxiety, feeling her bones crick under the weight of her many responsibilities and commitments.
Or, perhaps it was a direct consequence of the way she had treated her husband. How she'd disregarded his thoughts and feelings because she didn't want to consider what he'd craved for his future.
Christine felt horrible, for that. But she wasn't the one that'd been ignoring him, avoiding him for three whole fucking days because she didn't want to broach the topic of conversation.
Nikki did that.
He saw her at the studio each day, he walked by her--even sat by her once, too--and remained completely silent. Because he didn't know, or want, to hear all that she was thinking, or needing to say to him.
If she was needing to say anything to him.
And, of course she wanted to speak with him. Truly, Christine did not want anything more than to speak with her husband and iron out their issues, because they needed it.
But she appreciated that it was still fucking raw. So she kept herself to herself, and studied alone in partial peace as he ranted and fucking raved in the room adjacent.
"Get back here, you fuckin' dick!"
Chris bunched both hands into her hair, gritting her teeth, as the break room door opened to reveal Vince stepping over the threshold. He snarled, stuffing his hands into both pockets as he walked over to her.
"Sort that fuckin' prick out, Chris, or so help me God--"
"What do you expect me to do about this mood that he's in? Suck his cock? Tell him that I think the sun shines outta his asshole? Fuck him 'til he can't remember his own goddamn name anymore?! Gimme some fucking ideas, Vince, 'cuz I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do here!"
