Deanna • Duff McKagan

Chapter Four • You Gotta Want It

June 28th, 1985

Every waking second of every day, I spend my time at the Guns N' Roses storage unit. Currently, only Slash and Axl are living here permanently, although Slash spends most days sleeping in the Tower Records parking lot..

There's no bathroom, but there's a communal one fifty yards up the street. We don't go there, we hold it until we're ready to go home. Or, you could be like Axl, and shit in a box.

"Thanks to Deanna," Slash says, holding up a bottle of Jack Daniels some girl bought him earlier. "We have that gig at the Stardust Ballroom later!"

"And we're opening for London," Steven adds into Slash's toast from his place behind the drum kit. "Which means, tons of people are going to be there."

"And," I say, standing up from my usual spot against the wall on the concrete floor. Seriously, how do they live here.. "The Manager at the Stardust called today, and he says that if your set goes well, he'll give you another opening gig at the end of August." I glance at my watch, having made an appointment with my Troubadour Manager later today.

"I gotta go guys," I stand up, wiping the dirt from my jeans. "I'll see you at the gig tonight."

"Where ya going?" Axl asks, taking a few steps toward me. "You usually hang with us all day."

"I have a meeting," I start, fixing the collar on his shirt (how 'rock n roll of me). "With my boss, to try and score you some more gigs at the Troubadour."

"You really are the best," he smiles, pulling me into a hug. "We owe you a lot."

"Give me a million dollars when you make it big," I laugh, shaking my head at the band.

"Will do," Izzy chuckles, his hat almost covering his eyes. In my past few days here, I've learned that Axl and Izzy are from the same Indiana town, though came to LA at separate times. Slash and Steven are childhood friends, and Duff is from Seattle.

"But when you become the band manager for some big ass world famous band," Duff takes the bottle from Slash, chugging it quickly. "I want you to remember you were ours first."

I shake my head, knowing I will never be a band manager. I don't even like people, for Christ sakes. "Whatever you say."

•••

"So Brian," I cross my legs, staring into the eyes of my sleazy middle aged manager. He knows as well as I do that the only reason I'm working here is because my father thinks as soon as I get enough of the Los Angeles club scene, I'll come home, and Brian Walters is just his collateral.

"I've been working with this band that played here a few weeks ago," I begin, my thoughts focusing on the task at hand as I ignore his hardened stare. "It was their first gig with their new lineup, and people were lined up down the street. LA loves this band, hiring them for a few more gigs could be great for business."

"You're your father's daughter," he grumbles, adjusting in his seat. "I'm the reason your father is now big time, Deanna. If you want me to do the same for you, that isn't something that's going to happen. He still owes me, but somehow I still have you working for me."

I gulp, not liking the mention of my father. I'm not a fan of him, not in the slightest, but people just keep mentioning him. They keep talking about him, even though I'm my own person. I guess that's what would happen, considering record label owners are big in this town at the moment. But I'm not going to talk about my father, not today. This is something I'm doing for me.

"This isn't about my father," I scoff, narrowing my eyes at the club owner. "This is about Guns N' Roses."

"Really," he murmurs, and I hear the distinct sound of his pants unzipping. My head jerks to the door, planning my escape. This, however, makes him laugh. "It's definitely about your father," he stands from his chair, his hardened penis outside of his pants, and he's stroking it.

"I'll tell you what, Deanna," he murmurs, moaning as he continues to stroke. "You get on your knees and do me a favor, I'll do you a favor.. how about five gigs for that precious band of yours?"

Brian Walters is a creep, that's a well known fact. He's a manipulative bastard, playing on your dreams to get what he wants, exactly like he's doing now.

I stand up, questioning myself as to whether or not I should do this. I'm sure that my dad didn't do this in order to get his band to the top, but like I've been telling everyone, I'm not my father.

I glance back at the door, then to the balding forty-three year old man standing before me, his penis hanging from his slacks. He slips off his suit jacket, slinging it over the back of his chair before continuing to his previous actions.

"Better make your decision fast, Dee," he smirks, sitting back down in his chair and rolling over to me to close the distance. "Before your price goes up."

I could run, and somehow explain to the members of Guns N' Roses as to why I couldn't land them a gig at my own job, or I could do it, effectively landing them as many gigs as I possibly could.

Maybe, instead of being like my father like everyone says I am, I'm like my mother; a classless whore who destroyed their marriage for something of lesser value, in my father's words.

"If I was to have sex with you," I shut my eyes tightly, disbelieving in my own words. I repeat, trying to get used to the idea. "If I was to have sex with you, how many gigs could I get them?"

He smiles, showing his stained yellow teeth. "As many as you would like, darlin'." I start pulling off my t-shirt.