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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Warning(s): mentions of drug abuse. I am so fucking sorry for this.
"I thought I'd find you out here," Vince cleared his throat, stepping over to the bench that Christine had settled on.
She was the absolute quintessence of sorrow while she sat against the oak, her right leg carefully crossed over her left to save the satin dress from wrinkling.
Caramel curls were pinned to her head with thick, pink rollers, plump lips smeared in the signature coat of crimson she always wore, her black, smoky lids completely exposed as those miserable, bleak hues focused on the cigarette between her frail fingers. He didn't even know where to begin.
A day where she was supposed to be delighted for her friends, was reserved for crippling anxiety and wallowing in a cesspool of self-pity.
Taking a long, hard drag, she leaned backward in her seat and tried to make eye contact with him. But she couldn't. Not without crying.
Never one to feel sheepish in the presence of a friend, Vince simply went against his better judgment and sat down next to Christine, taking out a small hip flask that she could only assume was full of whiskey. He nudged her a little bit when she refused to articulate a response, offering it out to her, hoping she would take it.
Her dainty hand coiled around the top as she began to unscrew, Vince taking a moment to light a cigarette for himself--just trying to imagine how he was going to repent and or convince Christine that he wasn't going to deliberately let her secret slip.
Undoubtedly leaving a matte red smudge around the lip of the flask, she began to take a pull of whatever it was that the blonde had presented to her.
An overwrought aura clouded around the duo as Vince continued to smoke, and Christine put away the rest of the fiery spirit, fighting against the burn that seared through her mouth and down her throat.
"How do you do it?" She broke the raucous silence, rubbing her lips together. The subtle notes of honey pushing her to internally recoil, recognizing that the cheap whiskey she had guzzled wasn't the mid to top-shelf kind that Nikki would get for her. But it was understandable. Vince wasn't supposed to be drinking and he was just taking whatever was being given to him.
He pushed his sunglasses to the very tip of his nose, squinting in her direction as the brutal glow of the morning sun began to burn much too bright for his liking. But he didn't want to be rude and resist eye contact--which, for Vince Neil, not wanting to come off as impertinent was certainly a first.
"Do what?" He responded in an uncharacteristically subdued tone, almost as if he was testing the water because he didn't have a clue what was about to be asked of him.
"Live with yourself?"
Shocked, and slightly bewildered, Vince's eyebrows fused together while he proceeded to wonder what it was that she was implying.
