This was the most insane lunch in my personal history. Talking insanity, it beat tea at Mad Hatter's hands down. Maybe it was due to the one who invited me to it.
Because dude, they didn't call him Crazy Dave for nothing.
------------------------
Nikki, that sick bastard with a totally twisted sense of humor, laughed his loser ass off when he heard of it.
"He what?!.."
"Shut up, Sixx..."
"He asked you out?!"
"Don't fucking yell!"
"David Lee Roth asked my vocalist out to a lunch. Holy fucking shit. I should switch jobs before it's too late. Looks like I could make more money as a pimp."
I wanted to ram a fucking baseball bat right through that stupid half-grin of his. The desire was, in fact, chronic. And hopeless. You didn't bat your band leader across the face. Especially if the band leader in question was a good six inches taller than you. A couple of times I had been drunk or stoned enough to sucker-punch him, and, frankly speaking, those weren't my favorite memories.
"Stop making a fool of yourself," I muttered darkly. "He wants to talk business to me."
That's what he had said, anyway. Come have a dinner with me. You need some knowledge of this showbiz snakepit, and I'm the one who shares. Tomorrow, three PM. Canter's Deli on Fairfax. Don't forget.
I couldn't forget. He might be doing our groupies every other night, but he still was fuckin' David Lee Roth, baby.
"Wrong answer!" Nikki's smile died. "He would have talked to me if he meant business."
I laughed before I could stop myself.
"Oh, that hit your sensitive spot, Sixx, didn't it? Maybe you aren't that much in control, huh? Maybe Dave just sees you're not the smartest one out there?"
There was one bad thing about Sixx. (Actually, there were plenty, but this one was particularly bad.) And that was that you could never know what exactly set this dude off the hinges and right into murderwish. You could only see it - usually, when it was too late.
Nikki snarled at me soundlessly and I backed away. I was sober, ready to go out and in no shape to put up any resistance or even take a beating with dignity. That glint in Nikki's eyes always left me wishing desperately for a bucket of cold water to throw over him.
He, of course, would kill me if I ever did it.
One bad thing about my bad self was that I couldn't quite tell why, but I liked to see those eyes afire. Scared me to death at times, that fire, but at the same time...
I don't wanna go there. This liking has cost me a bit too dearly as it is. There are safer kinds of sport than getting Sixx mad. Say, teasing hungry lions while unarmed.
Well, this time I lucked out. The glint and the snarl were there just for a few seconds, and then Nikki regained control. He was learning fast, that dude. Maybe Dave should have talked business to him.
"I don't care what he thinks," Nikki said, most likely, insincerely. "But since he prefers to waste his time on you, then at least try to remember some of the things he says. Guys like you weren't designed for thinking, but maybe you could keep a few pieces of advice in that blonde head long enough to bring them home to me."
I drew a sigh of relief.
"Okay, okay. I’m going now, alright? He won't give me any advice if I'm two days late, you know."
I was already at the door when Mick's hand on my shoulder stopped me.
"Here," he said softly, giving me a few banknotes. "Your restaurant money. Just in case."
"Mars. Come on. I sure appreciate that, but he's a fucking rockstar. The lunch's on him."
"He said so?"
"Umm, no. But..."
He pressed the money into my hand.
"Just in case. Wouldn't want any trouble for you, kid. The way he always keeps all the blow to himself, he could just leave you sitting there over a hundred dollar bill."
Mick being his adorable paranoid self. I shoved the money into my back pocket and gave him a quick hug.
"Thanks, dude."
"You take care."
I nodded and went out. For a few seconds I felt his tired, melancholic stare between my shoulder blades. Then the door slammed closed behind me.
------------------------
I didn't think I'd need Mick's money. But it sure made me feel just a tad more comfortable as I saw this huge Mercedes Benz pull up in front of the diner. The car sported a skull-and-crossbones paint-on. One thing the dude undoubtedly had was a taste for showing off. The door went open and there he was, Mr. Roth, in all his Diamond Dave glory.
I was pretty much used to the sight by now, but still, I felt the stirrings of awe deep inside. Here, standing before me in broad daylight, was my life model. Everything, from my stage moves to my hair, was copied from him. I used to sleep at goddamn parking lots to see his shows. A year ago I had been selling T-shirts outside his band's gig in the Long Beach Arena. I was little more than nothing, and he was such a rock god. And here he was, standing right in front of me, smiling that slightly crazy smile of his. Ready to dine me and give me a crash course in the theory of show business.
"Hi, Vince," he said. "Come on in."
Canter's Deli on Fairfax. Where the fucking stars eat. I'd never been here before - not because this particular diner was extra expensive, but simply because I'd never earned enough to support a restaurant habit, and the only chick of mine who could do it chose to support my coke habit instead. So I hardly could compare. But Canter's Deli was nice. Half-lit, and quiet, and I was almost able to imagine Marilyn Monroe sitting next to me on the comfy leather-padded seat, just like Dave stated she once had been.
They'd changed the padding since then, of course, but hell, imagination does wonders.
"I recommend their turkey, Vince," Dave winked at me. "And try to pretend you feel at home. A good front man should be a bit of an actor. Don't disappoint me."
He, of course, didn't need to pretend. He felt perfectly at home here. He looked the king of the damn place. Marilyn could have been his girlfriend, and Arthur Miller would look a shoe-cleaner in his presence. He spread the atmosphere of unreality all around him, as if you fell asleep and found yourself in the middle of a fancy, crazed, glittering, Alice-in-Wonderland kind of a dream. His eyes shining, his smile dazzling, his posture lazily elegant, he didn't lose his starlike quality even when munching on the mustard-dripping pastrami. His hair, honey-blonde and all fluffed up, looked like he was wearing a fucking crown, no less.
My hair was blonde, too. And also fluffed up. There the likeness ended. I could smile all I wanted, but I still was just an awestruck Covina kid sitting next to his idol. He tipped the waiter with thirty bucks. I wasn't even paying for my lunch. He had a tuxedo on. I was wearing a second-hand leather jacket. He, after all, had a Mercedes Benz to put skull-and-crossbones on, while mine were painted on my fucking T-shirt. And while he was a king, I didn't even belong here.
But I wanted to belong here.
And so I fell back in my sit, crossed my legs and, toying with a lock of my hair, gave him my best don't-give-a-fuck grin.
"I think I'll try knockwurst."
He shot me a glance I didn't quite decipher and gave a little laugh, then called up a waiter.
"Now, that's seriously better. Have your lunch, Vince, we'll do the talking in the process... So, do you know anything at all about this business?"
"Sure," I nodded. "You get gigs and play music."
He threw his head back and roared with laughter. It was a loud, hearty, good natured laughter, and somehow, even though he was laughing at me, I didn't feel offended.
Dave rested his elbows on the table and gave me an amused look.
"No," he said quite amiably. "That's not what you do."
------------------------
For the next hour all I did was listen.
He talked and talked and talked, and I almost cried from despair, because I had no idea what he was talking about, but felt that what he said was in-fucking-valuable. I ended up wishing it were Sixx and not me there with him. Not because I thought Nikki knew better, but because that way I wouldn't blame myself for forgetting eighty percent of it. Dave tried to make it easier for me. And I suspect that was the reason why he didn't order any wine before he was through with his monolog. And yet I forgot the better part of it, and there are only small bits of entertainment industry wisdom I remember up to this day.
"Don't sign up with just any manager," he said. "They might give you money on the spot, but if they don't know their job, you'll lose more in the end than you ever got from them."
"Don't deal with small distribution companies," he said. "Your records have to be on Tahiti. They're not on Tahiti - they're not anywhere else. Trust me."
"Remember that No Brown M&Ms story?" he asked. "Everyone laughed over that one. But believe me, Vince, that was a very important contract clause. You gotta watch out. You put a No Brown M&Ms clause on your contract and there are those brown motherfuckers in your bowl - that means they didn't bother reading the damn paper at all, baby. Next thing you know, there'll be no security in the venue, or the stage will be made of rotting wood, or they'll overpower your guitars."
He named names. Lots and lots of names of people I should avoid in this business, or people that could help us, or people we'd better not fuck with. All these things that I later forgot - I knew right there it all was priceless.
"Why are you doing this for me, Dave?" I wondered finally. "Why are you trying to help me - to help us? Why would you even care?!"
He gave me what seemed yet another amused stare, but somehow it was different. Sadder. Weary. And there was some weird emotion in that stare that I sensed pretty acutely but couldn't name. All of a sudden he seemed very real. Everyday. And perfectly sane.
"I have a feeling you can make it big," he said. "Sunset Strip is pregnant. There are all these bands out there, and honestly speaking, there are some with way better music than yours. But for some reason it seems to me that it's you guys who are going to be these newborn heirs. You are young, you are pretty, and you have the biggest charisma I've seen in years. You got a decent songwriter... and he's smart enough to listen to you, so that's lucky."
I almost choked on my knockwurst.
"Listen to me? Nikki?! Sorry, Dave, you mixed something up..."
He shook his head making an impatient gesture. Don't squeak up, kid, the king is speaking.
"He does listen. He'll laugh you off, he'll tell you to get lost, he'll spit on you. But if you're talking the real thing, he'll remember what you say. He'll sleep on it, and when it incorporates itself into his mind enough, so that he thinks it's his own idea, he'll act on it, your Nikki." He sighed, and I thought he looked frustrated. "Which is the way I'd prefer to have it. Because Alex is his complete opposite. He'll sit there with you, pretending he's all ears, and be all suave, and nice, and attentive... and then he'll shake it off and do what he wants, even if it's wrong."
There was a short silence. And then Dave smiled again, and the feeling of reality faded, retreated back to its hiding place.
"All in all, kiddo, I do have my reasons to help you. And I'll enlarge on that. Later. And now... beverages! Garcon!!!"
------------------------
Dave had warned me not to drink myself stupid. Or quite stupid, at that.
"They're very much after safety. You see this door? That's the kitchen door. They have a coupla dozens cooks there, and each one has a knife. You do something they consider dangerous - and they won't even need security to kick you out of here."
I don't know if it sounds quite credible to you. But to me the warning came after the third glass of wine... or maybe fourth... so I believed it. Every time I glanced at that damn door, I saw in my mind a gang of evil chefs with fifteen-inch meat knives coming after me. So I kept my behavior low-key. I didn't bite through my wine glasses, didn't throw my food at my neighbors (though a certain banker type a booth from me looked really provoking), didn't sing "Piece Of Your Action" out loud - all those fun things you do when drunk, I didn't.
But I did drink. A bit too much for the moment, I think. I didn't care, though. The wine was good, the wine was free... and Dave was telling bassist jokes that made me laugh until my throat was dry, and then I needed another drink.
"...And so she yells, 'You're bonkers! Why are you chasing after our only son with that knife in your hand?!! So the bass dude turns and tells her: 'This little fucker turned a peg on my bass and won't tell me WHICH ONE!!!"
I imagined Nikki running after me with a switchblade: 'I told you to never touch my Thunderbird! Which one, you useless blonde bitch?!' The image made me laugh again. Which left me feeling unexpected discomfort. In a second I recognized the feeling and stole another glance in the kitchen door direction. My mind, drunk as it was, still told me there were next to no chances that the kitchen army would consider it a happy joke if I took a piss under the table. So I leaned forward, tugged at the sleeve of Dave's tuxedo and asked him the most crucial question:
"Dude, do they have a boys' room in here?"
He snickered. For some reason it struck me - David Lee Roth wasn't supposed to snicker. Or sneer. Or anything like that. David Lee Roth should smile (ear to ear) or grin (the same way) or laugh. But he definitely snickered. There were no two ways about it.
"I'll show you. Well, Vince, try to get up without breaking the table desk off."
"I'm not that drunk!" I protested, getting out of the booth.
His stare surprised me. And so did his words.
"Really, you're not," he drawled. "What a pity."
I stared back, confused. He gave a little smile.
"Come."
------------------------
"Dave, you're pullin' my chain, dude. It's not their restroom."
"Then why does it have the stall right there at the wall? And a john in it?"
I struggled to come up with an explanation for my unease and it took me almost ten seconds to put my finger on it.
"A john! Just one? For the whole fucking place?!"
He shrugged and snickered again. It didn't feel nice. I was dizzy, I needed to take a piss badly, and jokes were the last thing I needed right now.
"Vince, why'd you care? It's for... personnel."
Really, why? I hurried off to the stall.
When I got back out, I was even dizzier - from blissful relief. However, the urgency didn't veil my eyes anymore, so I had a better look.
It may have a john, but it wasn't a restroom. I was sure of it. Because while the sink and the big mirror above it would have fit in a toilet image, the small leather couch opposite it just didn't (by God, there was a fucking seascape hanging above it!). And neither did the small safe standing next to the couch.
And, actually, neither did David Lee Roth sitting on that couch cross-legged. He had taken off his tuxedo, but the shirt underneath it was so white that it didn't help much.
"You're all flushed," Dave observed merrily. "Freshen up, kiddo."
"What the fuck is this place?" I asked, splashing cold water in my face.
"There's a little lounge attached to the diner. The Kibitz Room. This spot is just between the two places. It's for the musicians. Such a multi-function room. You could... relieve yourself, or you could take a smoke, which you can't do in the common restroom here, or you could leave something in storage," he motioned to the safe. "Or you could even fuck a waitress."
This last line came so suddenly and stood out so acutely in the generally suave flow of his speech that I giggled in the most foolish way. Dave winked at me.
"I thought I'd show you this place. So that if you ever play the Kibitz, you could say, 'Big deal, been here before.'"
I smirked.
"Motley's not the kind of band to be invited to play the Kibitz, Dave."
Dave sighed and undid his tie, tossing it on the couch carelessly. His shirt opened up a bit, revealing his neck that looked unexpectedly strong. That was all because of his outfit. Such clothes suggested there should be a refined weakling hidden in them. But I'd seen Dave onstage, sweaty and bare-chested. One thing the dude wasn't, he wasn't weak.
"What do you know, Vince? What do you know about the kind of bands the Kibitz Room is going to invite tomorrow? What do you know about the kind of band your Motley is going to be tomorrow? I'll tell you, Vince. You don't know shit. So live and learn."
"That's what I'm here for." I looked about, searching for something to wipe my face with, but the last musician to have played the Kibitz Room obviously had a habit of stealing towels. "Only I've never been a good pupil. I don't know, Dave. I'm so thankful... but... Shit, let's just face it, I can't do shit. I don't have you to lead this band to the top. I have Nikki, and Nikki can do just one thing well, and that's telling really important people to fuck off." Having nothing better at hand, I pulled up my T-shirt and wiped my face on it.
I caught just a tiny moment of Dave's watching me intensely, his eyes practically eating up the part of my torso that went uncovered. But I didn't get it. I still wasn't getting it. I remember asking myself if it was my manners that shocked him so much. But he has always been so laidback. Yeah, but then again, this was a restaurant... I really was such a stupid drunk kid back then.
"You're just a stupid drunk kid," he told me, getting up from the couch and approaching me. "You can't even see the obvious."
"The obvious?"
I felt his hands on my shoulders and his breath on my hair.
"The most obvious thing in the world. That your face alone could sell one million copies of the lamest LP your band could put out."
Was I getting it now? The fuck I was. It was David Lee Roth behind me, and I still assumed he was talking business.
"My face?"
"Oh yes." His fingers dug into my jawbone and turned my face to the mirror. As far as I was concerned, it was the silliest face I'd ever seen. Dave, it seemed, was of a different opinion. "These brown eyes," his finger traced my brow. "That's what Mexicans and Italians are known for, kid. The sexiest eyes in the world. Are you Mexican?"
"Quarter of me is," I muttered, continuing to stare at myself dumbly.
"Thought so. You got a fine nose, fine cheekbones - Roman, or Cherokee, I'd suppose - but your eyes are Mexican. And your mouth, too." His fingertips brushed against my lips ever so slightly. "Blonde hair is a great touch - I'll gladly blame my bad self for this bit of influence. And quite a body to go with that face and that hair. You should swap the T-shirts for something else, Vince, they hide your torso, your skin, your everything..."
And even then I still wasn't aware. I simply followed his hand with my eyes, silently agreeing that yes, these eyes weren't so bad, and yes, my lips did look nice, especially in make-up, and yes, there was some need to reconsider my stage attire...
Until I felt his other hand where it had absolutely no business being.
On my fucking butt.
------------------------
He arched his brow. Arched his fucking brow in the best oh-yeah-and-what-are-you-gonna-do-now fashion.
That was all he did.
I didn't know what I had expected. Maybe that when I turned around he would pull his hand away and pretend it had never been there. Or try to explain something. At the very least, to flinch or blush.
Yeah, right.
He arched his brow looking me right in the eye. Snickering. And his hand stayed on my hip. Exactly where it shifted when I spun myself around to face him. And it was me who blushed. Because I totally didn't know what to do or say in such a situation.
I couldn't just punch him. Not him. Not me.
He was the one who talked first.
"Vince. I said you had lovely eyes. But that doesn't mean I feel too nice when you open them that wide and don't take'em off me for that long. Somehow it's uncomfortable."
You know what's uncomfortable? my poor mind screamed. Being cornered in a far-off pseudo-restroom with another guy's hand on your fucking ass, that feels fucking uncomfortable! And I had very much a mind to say it aloud. I mean, really fucking loud.
What I said (nearly in a whisper) was:
"D-dave... this is... ugh."
Yes, full of attitude, I know.
"That is a very meaningful response, Vince. I guess you don't mind very much then."
And I thought there was a bigger distance between that sink and that couch. A distance you weren't supposed to close in less than a second, especially with a vaguely reluctant someone in your arms. He pressed me into the wall next to it, and it wasn't hard to guess the further direction of his maneuvers.
"That's good. Because let me tell you something, I really detest rape."
And then it all completely sank in, and I sighed. I didn't scream, didn't swear, didn't cry - I just sighed. Because all of a sudden I felt so hollow. It was all bullshit. My band, my music, my alleged talent - all of that didn't matter. It was simply Mr. Rockstar liking my Mexican mouth. Nikki had been right all the way - David Lee Roth had asked me out to lunch. And was going to fuck me in the multi-function room. Like a waitress.
I don't know just how tragic it sounds to you, but I was heartbroken.
That must have been a really tear-jerking kind of a sigh. Because now I was being comforted.
"Don't get that upset, kiddo. It would have happened to you, sooner or later. You're just that type."
Thank you, Dave. Makes me feel so much better.
"Sooner or later, one of those big biker dudes that besiege Rainbow every time you play would have bent you over in the corner. Or it would have been that empty-headed drummer of yours mixing you up with his latest bitch. But most likely, Nikki, your Nikki, who isn't as much a loser as you think he is, would have gotten tired of just watching you wiggle that sweet little ass and played his very own bassist joke on you. Believe me, kid."
"I have no reason whatsoever to believe you anymore," I hissed and for the first time had some courage to actually try to push him away.
"He would have." He didn't give way. "And you deserve better. Definitely."
I scowled at him.
"Whatever makes you feel you are any better, fuckwit?!"
He smiled at me. I'd hate to admit it, but it was a really lovely smile. All his charisma put into it.
"You have just said I am."
I was going to clarify that it wasn't what I meant, but he kissed me before I had any chance to.
That's what you get for not keeping your mouth closed. Could have been worse, too.
There were two reasons why I didn't break free and run the hell out of there or kick him in the crotch. Reason One was that I was in a very unprofitable position to do so. He had me back against the wall, one of his hands took a pretty firm grip of my neck and the other one traveled right back to my buttocks. So, he practically pinned my arms to my sides. I think he was stronger than me as it was, but, on top of it, the kiss didn't leave much air in my lungs. I was drunk. I was weak.
And Reason Two was...
Come on. I know you can say it for me by now.
Yes, Reason Two was it didn't feel all that bad.
I was used to doing the work, you know? Hitting on a girl, hugging her. Holding her. Groping her. Kissing her. Being the leading party. Well, now I was on the receiving end, experiencing all of the above done to me. It was weird. It was new. And I liked it. I didn't even catch it when it stopped being disgusting and began to feel so nice - to be weak, to be caught in his arms, to feel his fingers kneading my buttocks. And to not be able to do anything at all about it. To let him work on my mouth - and he did wonders there. All of a sudden I knew that I liked being kissed better than kissing.
Baaaad Vince...
Dave must have felt the change in me, because he pulled away from my lips, breaking the kiss. For a second he didn't do anything, watching me trying to catch my breath. And then he said - really softly:
"Nobody's going to rape you here, Vince. Raping is self-humiliating, and I just like myself too much for it. So you can relax. All I'm saying is that if you really are as thankful as you said here a few times, you could give me a chance. Just a little chance. What if you're going to like it?"
I don't know how other guys would have acted in my place. Tommy... okay, Tommy would have happily punched him out at the hand-on-butt stage, so we won't talk Tommy. Nikki would probably be torn by some awful, unresolvable inner conflicts to the very moment he found some nice-sounding excuse for liking it. And even then he'd let Dave know what a miserable bastard he was for taking advantage of a street kid like this before submitting to his desires.
I was me.
I tangled my fingers in his hair, pulled his face closer and kissed him back.
------------------------
"It won't hurt. I promise."
"I don't believe liars like you... ahh. Fuck..."
"Likin' it?"
"You know I like it... Daaaave."
"What?"
"Take this fucking shirt off. Then you'll know what it feels like."
"Anyone ever told you you're perfectly adorable when drunk?"
"Not that I recall. Yeah, like this..."
"That.... oh. Ohh... Vince... Vinnie."
"Mmm?"
"Did I tell you about your lips?"
"Tell what? Let's see..."
"Yess...."
"Umm..."
"Did I tell you that you had the sexiest lips ever?"
"Oh, that. Yes, you did... Dave, wait."
"Come on. It's gonna be good. Like this."
"Awwwww!"
"See?"
"Yes... yeeeessss..."
...
"OUCH!"
"Easy. Easy..."
"You said it wouldn't hurt!"
"It hurts?"
"Fuck YES!"
"Hmm... and this way?"
"Oww!"
"My poor little kid... and this way?"
"Just stop thi... wait..."
"Better?"
"Yes... yes. Yeah..."
"Sweet."
"Ah. Ahh... Ahhh! Dave... Dave, please..."
"Feels good?"
"Yes!"
"Hold on, baby. Here we go."
"DAAAAAAVE!!!!!"
------------------------
Dave had gotten up and was getting dressed, and I still couldn't bring myself to move. Not that I had any problems with moving. My body felt good. It felt extra good. Seemed like it didn't mind being fucked in the ass at all. But I felt so luxuriously lazy that to move seemed a crime against God.
"Could you lift your leg from my shirt, please?"
I sighed and sat up.
"Why that frown? Huh? Someone did you wrong?"
"You could have warned," I muttered. "You could have hinted. I would... Fuck, I don't know, I would have showered or something."
"Really?" Dave eyed me up and down. "You aren't all too dirty, in fact. Just a little. Exactly to my liking."
I smirked. To his liking. Like a fucking dish. Excellent work, chef, there was enough mustard on my pastrami. Just to my liking. He enjoyed himself so much, I didn't even have the heart to be mad at him. Most likely, he had only fucked me because I looked like a younger version of himself. So what? It was in his power to do.
"Besides, that's all part of the lesson. You didn't forget you're here to learn, did you?"
Now that was news!
"Yeah?" I looked up. "And what's the lesson?"
He leaned to me for a kiss. A long kiss, a pretty pushy kiss. A possessive one. And then he said, smiling his usual perfect teeth-flashing smile:
"Nothing comes for free, kiddo. Remember this lesson well. Whatever help they will offer to you, nothing comes for free."
Maybe it was a good lesson. But it was a very wrong thing to say. Suddenly, it didn't feel right anymore. Not like this. Not when I was...
Paying.
"... looks like I could make more money as a pimp..."
Nikki. Nikki knew it all, even if he didn't know he knew it. I promised myself to listen to him more often. To listen to him forever. To listen to him very attentively.
If Dave saw what his words did to me, he never showed. He adjusted his tie and smiled again.
"Get yourself together, Vince. And join me at the table. We haven't had out dessert yet." He winked at me. "Hope you like whipped cream."
And out he was.
I was beside myself with anger. I was going to get back to that fucking table, shove Mick's money down Dave's throat, say something like "I'm not a whore you can buy with a dinner!", spit in his face and walk out proudly.
I sat back. Shut my eyes. Swore under my breath. Clenched my teeth.
And then I tore the seascape off the wall, broke it free from its frame and methodically shredded it to pieces.
That helped. I did calm down a little. Which was a good thing.
Dave was useful. He was helping us. If I did anything like that he'd be gone forever. And then Nikki would demand explanations. And kick the living shit out of me when I'd refuse to give them. Because I would refuse. I was adamant about that.
And if I paid for my lunch, that'd mean I'd be free of charge for Dave. It was a no-no. If things didn't come for free, I wasn't going to, either.
I got dressed. Washed my face. Fluffed up my hair, looking in the mirror. And then I headed for the door.
Not the one that led back to the Canter's. The one opposite it. The one that, I figured, should take me to the Kibitz Room.
Sit there over your whipped cream, Dave. Wait for me. Wait 'til it turns sour. You've already had your dessert, fucker.
I was a fast learner, too.
------------------------
It was half past seven when I came home. And who should have met me in a half-lit apartment but Sixx.
"Finally."
"Oh come on. The dude's quite a talker. And you're not out to play?"
"Was waiting for you. What did he tell you?"
I groaned.
"A lot, Sixx. A fucking lot."
"Tell me."
"Later."
"What the fuck? I've been waiting for hours, Neil. Come on. No-one ever died from talking."
I drew a heavy sigh.
"Sixx. Cut that crap. I'm tired."
He caught me by the upper arm and pulled me close.
"You're drunk."
"Look who's preaching."
"You weren't listening, were you? Such a chance... and you only used it as an opportunity to get wasted!"
I was ready to snarl at him. To invent some witty fuck-off remark. And then I remembered what Dave had said and changed my mind. I needed to check a few things.
And so I snuggled up to him. As innocently as I could. Nuzzled my face against his shoulder.
"Nikki. Please. I just need a little sleep."
He froze for a second. And then he put an arm around my shoulders and stroked me on the hair.
"Hey, you alright, Vinnie?"
His body gave off warmth. His arm around me was strong. And there was real concern in his voice.
I wondered if he was a good kisser.
"I'm fine. I've really drunk too much, that's all. I'll tell you what I remember when I wake up, okay?"
He hugged me shortly. Then let me go.
"Okay."
Just to think that all this time it could have been that easy...
"Just a few hours." I moved away from him and headed for my mattress. Feeling his stare on me. On my back.
Umm, lower back.
I'll see what I can do for you, Nikki-boy, I promised him mentally. Just not tonight.
Because yet another one tonight - and I would be bleeding like a fucking highschool virgin on her first date.
Not very becoming, with all the white stuff I liked to wear.