Gateway Drug | Volume I

Gateway Drug | Part Fifty-One

Warning(s):
Explicit language
Drug abuse
Minor sexual situations
Violence

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My stomach aches with laughter as Duff delivers his punchline of his joke, my hands coming up to cover my mouth as I try to chew my fried mozzarella stick and he takes a sip of his beer, laughing as I snort, which only causes me to laugh even harder, until the both of us are laughing possibly the ugliest anyone has ever laughed, and I'm discarding my food into a napkin because I'm laughing too hard to try to chew it.

My eyes are watering, and thin tears roll down my cheeks.

We finally calm down, seeing people glaring at us for being so loud, but we ignore them.

"That was pretty good." I give him credit where credit is due, shifting in my seat a little and taking in a sharp breath as my sore thigh takes notice of the movement.

"Are you okay?" He asks me and I nod.

"It's still sore." I tell him, trying not to take notice of the expression on his face that flashes for a split second.

Nobody could understand why the hell I went right back home when I got out of the hospital like Nikki hadn't put my life in serious danger.

It wasn't like Nikki had intentionally shot at me. He didnt know what the hell I was and just kicked into to survival mode.

I didn't see the big deal in staying with him.

Tommy, Vince and Mick didn't even know what really happened. Doc had told them the same thing he told me to tell the press: I dropped Nikki's gun on accident, while trying to move it, and it went off and caught me.

He didn't want them to know the truth because they were working on the new album, and he didn't want to "create conflict" within the group.

So the only people that knew the truth aside from Fred, Doc and Nikki, was Duff, Slash, Steven, Izzy and Axl.

It wasn't long after that, that Axl informed me he wrote "You're Crazy" about me as a joke, but realized he was pretty right to write it because, in his words, "you staying with the crackhead heroin junkie that already treats you like shit, then fucking shot you, just solidifies my theory that you're actually, medically, out of your mind, and your insanity isn't just 'to be determined' anymore" and I asked him if he "wanted to be the pot or the kettle?"

The irony of him--out of all people--calling anybody else "crazy" was beyond me.

Thirty-two years later and he still dedicates the song to me every time they play it live.

After we're done eating our Sunday lunch, we pay and head to my car, slowly, because I'm limping and Duff's walking slow so he doesn't leave me.

"So, I kinda did something for your late birthday present." He informs me out of nowhere and I raise my brows.

"What do you mean?" I ask, fumbling to get my keys from my purse, shielding my eyes from the harsh sun in my face as we head to the parking lot.