FicWad

Disclaimer: What you are about to read is nothing but a work of fiction. In other words, I made this all up. No harm, disrespect, malice or impeachment is intended towards the individuals appearing in this story. Nobody is profiting from this tale. What I've written is for entertainment purposes only.

MERRY-GO-ROUND
Hell On High Heels

The Starwood, Hollywood
April, 1981

We showed up to scout a second guitarist, but it was the singer who caught my attention. He was failing miserably, unable to recreate Robin Zander's magnetic vocals as he slaughtered Cheap Trick's He's A Whore. I didn't care that he couldn't mimic the "Man of a Thousand Voices'" ability to move from falsetto to tenor. Who the fuck could match those precise pipes? The screaming, sassy whining suited this guy.

White. That's the first thing I noticed about Tommy's old high school pal as I leaned against the wall, Mick flanking my one side and T-Bone on the other. His skin-tight pants were white, stiletto boots were white, carefully torn t-shirt was white and his shaggy, silken locks even shone up white. Well, not exactly white since his hair was absorbing the color of the lights, casting a reddish-pink hue on his long locks.

He was hell on high heels. Sure, he was a pretty boy, that couldn't be denied since he stood around five-seven and his muscles were rather sinewy. But with the way he was slithering all over the stage, working the audience, teasing the girls and gyrating his slim hips, that show was meant to seduce, temptation at its finest, and the closest word I could summarize him with was male vixen. He knew he was hot. Damn rights he realized all the girls, and even the guys wanted to take him home. Actually, he was the very reason why Rockandi had a huge following. The rest of the band happened to be no-talent idiots. Fuck it. I didn't want a second guitarist anyway. These lame fuckers owed their success to Vincent Neil Wharton. And : The Nameless Band.

***
The show was done. Tommy and Mick were quick on my heels as I made my way through the throngs of girls who waited impatiently outside the men's washroom.

"Vinnie. Oh, Vinnie," was all I heard as I gave a push on the door. Yep, easily The Nameless Band would have a huge following thanks to Vince Neil. Visions began forming inside my insane mind: success thanks to my song writing and Vinnie's stage presence. And I couldn't forget we had one helluva drummer and a loud, rude guitarist. Chemistry, every band needs that certain "something" to draw a legion of loyal fans. I knew if we secured Vince, our line-up would be complete. He was the missing piece to our puzzle.

"I don't care if you think he's a blonde-haired bitch," I muttered under my breath. "Talk to him, or else."

Tommy sighed, his skinny shoulders slumping. But he listened. He always listened. He knew better to listen.

"Dude, hey, it's me," Tommy announced as he approached the vanity. "Long time no see. How's it going?"

I held my breath when Vince's fingers left his platinum-blonde locks since he'd been giving his hair a fluff. He slowly pivoted, turning one slim leg while he bumped his hip against the sink, placing his hand on the counter. There it was, the famous Vin smile: boyish, teasing and pretty well saying: I love sex, so ya wanna fuck? Yeah, that was one confident grin, lips precisely formed into a pout, brow arched, and dark-brown gems a wee bit sleepy looking, so fucking sultry. Yup, I swore he just tumbled out of bed, could almost smell the sexual scent this guy gave off.

Jaded, no, make that slightly cynical. Boredom even. I could tell Vince loved to party, lived to get laid, but his cocky attitude said nothing could faze or surprise him. He was only nineteen, yet he'd seen and done it all. Way too self-assured that nobody could match him in the bedroom and make him melt. He was the one responsible for making one squeal between the sheets.

I could tell Vince didn't recognize Tommy. His brown gems thoroughly took in my drummer from top to bottom. Then a smile.

"Tommy, is that you?" Vince asked.

The voice. His boyish, California, laid-back tone caused me to take a step back. I watched his hand leave the vanity, fingers settling on the handcuffs that doubled as his belt.

"It sure is, dude," Tommy replied with his puppy-dog grin. "We watched your show. Hey," he quickly said, turning to Mick and me, "these dudes are my new band mates. That's Mick Mars and the other dude is Nikki Sixx. Mick plays guitar and Nikki writes our tunes, dude. He plays bass."

Vince gave Mick an uninterested quick glance. It was more than apparent he wasn't impressed since his half-hearted smile told me he didn't want to be rude. Then he looked at me, and I grew a bit ticked off since he gave me the exact same look he just threw my guitarist's way. Then he gazed back to Tommy. "Yeah, that's nice."

I wanted to snort. Bah, the ole "that's nice." In other words, he meant: Y'all don't impress me but I don't wanna come out and say so. Now get the fuck outta here cause I got more important things to attend to, like fixing my hair and then deciding which chick will be the lucky lady to share my bed.

"We caught your whole show, dude," Tommy continued on, undaunted, or he could've been too dense to realize Vince was trying to blow us off. "I know you're in a band, dude, but come on down and jam with us. We got some cool motherfucking shit going on. Next weekend, huh? C'mon down next weekend and audition."

Vince gave another forced half-smile. "Uh, sure. Sounds cool. I'll be sure to keep that in mind."

Tommy quickly looked over his shoulder. "Gimme a pen and some paper. Gonna give him our number."

So Mick headed back into the venue to find a pen, while I strode to a stall and gave a yank on a roll of ass-wipe. With the tissue in hand, I stepped from the toilet and held the paper out for Tommy.

"Thanks, dude."

Just then Mick re-entered the bathroom, holding a pen.

Tommy locked his fingers around the Bic and began scribbling our number down. "Here," he cheerfully stated with his puppy-dog enthusiasm. "That's where you can call me."

Vince reached out and grabbed the paper. "Cool." He gave another half-hearted smile. "Um, I gotta split. Y'know how it is, the chicks are waiting."

And with that, I watched him stride from the bathroom, hips slightly swaying, a toss of the platinum-blonde locks and sexual smile planted on his face. When he drew open the door, all I could hear was girls squealing with delight, ready to devour the candi in Rockandi.

I knew he wasn't gonna call.

***
SIR Studios
Three Weeks Later

So we were without a singer once again, having fired O'Dean when we recorded a demo of three songs that I wrote: Toast of the Town, Stick to Your Guns and Public Enemy #1. We also threw in a Raspberries tune. Tommy, after phoning the blonde bitch about six times, and then dropping off our demo at Vinnie's place over a week ago, finally got the dude to give in. Much to our delight, the other day when he once again called Vinnie, Mr. California was in agreement to audition. I could only wonder why the blonde bitch did an about-face. I had a hunch it could be problems within Rockandi since I was as streetwise as they came, and there had to be a good reason why Vince finally caved in.

So we were sitting outside the rehearsal studio, smoking cigs, killing time, basically waiting for Vince.

Then a 280Z pulled up and I easily recognized his shock of platinum-blonde locks shining up from the passenger side. I wasn't surprised a chick was driving. With those good looks, Vin no doubt had his life set up perfectly: a chick for food, a chick's place to crash at, a chick who supplied him with booze and drugs, and many other chicks who put out when he was needing some pussy.

The door opened and Vince stepped out, adorned in white once again. Sunglasses covered his brown gems and he slowly approached us, readjusting his specs, hips a sassy wiggle and thighs moving one in front of the other. A smile. This time he was giving us the "Vin Grin" instead of that lame, half-hearted sneer.

"Hey," he called out. "Sorry I'm late. Had some biz to attend to first."

I glanced to the chick, knowing exactly why he was a half-hour over the clock.

"This is Leah," he informed us. "Leah, this is Tommy and...uh, the other guys." Again, he flashed a smile.

Dickhead. He forgot our fucking names. Unbelievable.

Vince didn't even spare me a glance. His chocolate eyes were focused on Tommy.

And as I stood, I was more than determined to prove to this blonde bitch that he met his match.