The story of the many rises and falls of Mötley Crüe, and its individual members, through the eyes of one Vivian Sixx.
***This story contains explicit language, explicit sexual situations, violence, abuse, drug abuse, alcoholism, and mentions of se...
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Warning(s): Explicit language Violence Mentions of drug abuse
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"Are you okay?" I ask Duff as we stand in the elevator of the Playboy office in Chicago where many of their photoshoots are held.
I'm actually thanking God we've managed to get this far without paparazzi catching on...then again they're pre-occupied probably surrounding the guys' hotel.
Duff slammed back a startling amount of Vodka Tonics on the plane over here, to combat his rancid anxiety, that I had no idea even existed until we were seated on the plane and he nearly passed out after turning sheet white and breathing abnormally fast.
"Yeah." He says in almost a slur. "I'm great."
The plan is to get him a hotel room in the city for tonight and give him money for his flight back tomorrow, so all he brought is his bass, and the way his knuckles are turning white from holding on to the case it's in, I can tell something's up.
"Are you sure you're okay?" I ask him.
"I'm fine."
"If you're upset over the flight over here--"
"--What if these people are creeps?" He cuts me short, and I realize he's not still upset over the flight.
"What do you mean?"
"Tansy's had shitty luck with slimy photographers before, right? She's told us stories of them, like, hitting on her and making her uncomfortable."
"Yeah?"
"What if one of these motherfuckers is like that?" He looks at me.
"Well, that's why I made sure someone accompanied me...someone, i.e. you." I nudge him.
"Yeah and if something happens and I kick ass, I'm gonna be in trouble, Nikki's gonna find out we're here, then he's gonna--"
"--Do you need more alcohol or something?" I try not to sound too harsh, genuinely worried about his mental state at the moment.
He's just freaking out about every fucking thing there is to freakout about.
"I just don't want you to be in trouble, is all." He mumbles, sighing, and I lick my lips.
"I'm not going to be in trouble, okay? It will be fine. Just take a deep breath, and relax."
The elevator doors open to reveal a set, an array of soft lighting, a faux house setting, a hair and makeup station, and wardrobe (what bits and pieces of it I'll actually have on).
I spot Danielle, in all her gorgeous yet professional glory, and she ushers us over to where she's sitting, talking to the makeup artist.
"Hi, it's good to see you again." She tells me, just seeing me yesterday.
