Blind Faith (Sequel to Something to Believe In)

One

November, 1991

        Los Angeles, Cali

"Bobby, hurry up in there–today's audition's here!"

        Twenty-seven-Year-old Rob Bobby Dall groaned and simply kicked the door of the bathroom he was currently holed up in with the heel of his cowboy boot. He couldn't help that he felt like utter shit still, even though what was making him so sick was finally starting to slack off. It wasn't like he'd meant to impregnate his wife during their honeymoon earlier that Summer, after all–he blamed that on being a virile guy who used a faulty rubber...again.

        Bret still pounded on the door, and he soon heard the second blonde of their band–thirty-Year-old drummer, Rikki Rockett–come up behind him. A few sharp words and a quick Sorry, man–take your Time! preceded him dragging his shorter counterpart off so he could collect himself. He knew the poor guy felt like hell due to the Sympathy sickness he'd been suffering the past few months, but the shorter blonde just wouldn't listen.

        It wasn't long before the young bassist finally managed to get his stomach settled enough to rise from where he'd parked himself on the floor in front of the toilet. Grumbling under his breath as he flushed and moved to rinse his mouth out, he swore he was gonna kill his vocalist, if he brought Chinese around him again while they were in the studio. Even after this living nightmare was over and both he and his wife–Lyric–were feeling better, he didn't think he'd be able to stand the stench. No doubt just that was bound to dredge up memories of the here-and-now once they were just that and make him at least gag, if not start retching.

        "Feeling better now, dude?" Rikki asked once he finally rejoined them, his face still a bit pale.

        "For now," he answered with a grumble. "Bret, the next Time I tell ya not to bring Chinese around me, don't fuckin' bring it around me, damn it!"

        "Not my fault–" the vocalist started.

        "Say it, and I'll rip your tongue out with my bare hands," Rob growled as he settled on the couch next to the guy that was apparently auditioning for them today.

        Said young man's deep blue eyes were the size of dinner plates as he stared at him.

        "Sorry, kid–not trying to scare ya," the young bassist chuckled, holding out his hand. "Rob Dall, bassist of this rag-tag group."

        "Richie Kotzen," he supplied as he accepted the handshake. "Dare I ask what'd cause ya to make such a threat?"

        "Tied the knot earlier this Summer, and I guess ya could say the missus and I got a lil carried away on our honeymoon," Rob laughed. "Problem is, I've been feeling her sickness and mood swings alongside her, hint hint."

        "Yikes, that's gotta suck," the young man chuckled.

        "Eh, sometimes–like when Bret gets the genius idea to order Chinese, even when I tell him not to, 'cuz the scent makes my stomach turn mutinous." He shot another dirty look at the shorter of the blondes. "I'm just sick of him making comments about my sex Life more than anything, which's why I threatened to rip his tongue out."

        "Well, it's not like the first one's even a Year old yet," Bret retorted.

        "You're cruisin' for a bruisin', Michaels," the young bassist warned him. "'Cuz I fuckin' mean it when I say I'm sick of your shit."

        "All right, enough!" Rikki finally exploded, shooting up outta his chair. "Bret, put a fuckin' dick–none of ours, mindja–in it so we can let Richie actually audition."