Categories > Celebrities > Guns n' Roses > If You Want
Prologue: Los Angeles 1988
Thank god for night air. Digging in my pockets for a cigarette, I stared into the bright headlights of the L.A. street and breathed deep. Even these exhaust fumes were a relief after the tightly packed, sweaty cage that was the club. I swore, realizing that I had left my lighter in my bag, which was still inside. No way was I going back into that madhouse. Holding the cigarette between my teeth, I untied my trench and searched my straps and garters for a match, where I occasionally kept some. Nothing. No one passing on the street took much notice of my black lace dancing teddy, excepting the occasional wolf whistle. That’s the thing about this damn town, I thought moodily. Shocking is normal, and illegal is legal.
“Need a light, darlin’?”
I turned around to see the headlights bounce off of a leather jacket, leather trousers. Face mostly in shadow.
“Yeah,” I answered, holding out the stick. The guy cupped his hands around it, shaking out the flame and handing it back. I kept my eyes on him, taking a drag and blowing the hazy smoke in a stream out of the corner of my mouth. He grinned back salaciously, taking in my long legs and stiletto heels.
“What brings you down to the Strip, baby?”
“It’s how I make my livin’, mister.” I didn’t appreciate those lengthy glances. I was used to it, but it had been an awful long night.
“And quite the living I’m sure you make, too,” he smirked, hands in his pockets. I just glanced back, not feeling like making the effort of reply.
“So,” he asked lazily, “You gotta dealer?”
“What for, exactly?” I asked, eyeing him warily. He waved his hands vaguely.
“Y’know, I’ve got most of it, but if you’re a speedy kinda girl, I’d give you a bit of a special for that outfit,” he winked roguishly.
“I’m alright,” I dismissed the offer. I wasn’t going to tell this guy, but I didn’t need anybody for speed at all. It wasn’t something I’d ever experimented with, and didn’t plan to. But he didn’t need to know that. He sidled up to me, leering out with a gold tooth from under his hat brim.
“C’mon honey, I’d give you a good deal.”
I took a step away, taking another puff on the cigarette, feeling my guard rising up. I held up my hands.
“Really, mister, I’m good.”
He stepped close now, smile gone, drawing a brown bag out of his leather pockets.
“Just buy the shit,” he growled, and shoved me abruptly against the wall. I saw the glint of a silver pistol in the back of his leather trousers under the streetlamp, and froze up against him. I didn’t have any money with me, so I couldn’t have bought any even if I wanted to. Then I felt his hand, up on my thigh. I twisted and pushed, but his finger encircled the inside of my garters, searching for any bills. The feeling of his hand so high on my leg made my skin crawl, and I would have screamed if I hadn’t been busy struggling against him. He’s not pulling away, I realized with a panic. Instead, I felt his hands quickly travel around to my ass, and his breath hit my face unpleasantly as he pressed our bodies together. My breath caught in throat and I had opened my mouth just as he froze against me.
“Get the fuck away from her, man.” I didn’t recognize the cool voice, and I couldn’t see past the man in front of me. I stared at my cigarette on the pavement, slowly smoldering where I had dropped it.
“I said, get the fuck away.”
The man slowly backed away from me, and a second with dark hair came into view, holding the seller’s own gun to his back.
The dark haired man glared at the speed dealer, removing the firearm but giving a tiny jerk of the head down the street. The meaning was clear. Get out. He did, glowering at the pair of us, but shoving his hands in his pockets and striding down the alleyway.
I ground out my fallen cigarette, getting a good look at my rescuer for the first time as he shoved the silver pistol into the waistband of a pair of black jeans. Black hair, pale skin. Sexy eyes, I thought, taking note of the dark gray irises.
“Y’alright?” He asked, offering me his lighter. I grinned, taking it and lighting a replacement Marlboro, noticing my fingers shaking slightly. This didn't happen every day. I took a long intake.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” I confirmed, blowing the smoke into the haze of the streetlight. It had to be at least midnight by now.
“I’m guessing he tried to sell you smack?” he asked knowingly, pushing the lighter back into his pocket.
“Yeah.” I caught myself staring at his open shirtfront.
He didn’t seem to notice, glancing up and down at my attire. “You work here?”
“Yeah, every night, six days a week,” I said bitterly. “It isn’t the stage I don’t like, it’s the fucking tables. Everyone gets so damn handsy.”
He laughed, and I for what would be the first time of many, I watched as his face transformed from an unreadable mask to someone you wished you knew. Then just as quickly as it had come, it changed back.
“Girl like you, I’m not surprised.”
I smiled playfully, sensing that this wasn’t dangerous like the smack dealer. This one I wouldn’t mind too much going home with.
“How long you been dancing?”
“Almost a year and a half now. I’m from Scottsdale fuckin’ Arizona, of all places.”
He gave me sidelong glance. “Y’said you don’t like tables?”
“Hate ‘em.”
He smirked again, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Would you be interested in a steadier dancing job?”
I grinned. “What are you sayin’ here, mister?”
He chuckled again, leaning against the brick wall. “Nah, girl, we’ll get to that later.” He winked. Hot damn.
“I’ve got a band. We’ve been lookin’ for a couple of girls to dance on the sides of the stage. Interested?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, I am.” I ground out my cigarette again, thinking for a second. “Is there gonna be a cage position?”
“Yeah, probably.” He confirmed, stamping out his cigarette with me. “I’m Izzy, by the way,” he told me, sticking out his hand.
I eyed it before shaking. “Jen.” His hands were strong and calloused, and I held on longer than was strictly necessary. He gave my fingers a slow squeeze before letting go, giving me the bedroom eyes. I felt myself tingle under his gaze, and rubbed my hand where his had gripped. Kitty’s awake.
Digging in his pocket, he handed me a scrap of brown paper.
“Well then, Jen,” he said, giving me an odd-half smile, “give me a call sometime, if you want.” I watched him walk away in the glow of headlights until he vanished into the jungle, running my fingers up and down the crinkly shred of my future in my hand.
Thank god for night air. Digging in my pockets for a cigarette, I stared into the bright headlights of the L.A. street and breathed deep. Even these exhaust fumes were a relief after the tightly packed, sweaty cage that was the club. I swore, realizing that I had left my lighter in my bag, which was still inside. No way was I going back into that madhouse. Holding the cigarette between my teeth, I untied my trench and searched my straps and garters for a match, where I occasionally kept some. Nothing. No one passing on the street took much notice of my black lace dancing teddy, excepting the occasional wolf whistle. That’s the thing about this damn town, I thought moodily. Shocking is normal, and illegal is legal.
“Need a light, darlin’?”
I turned around to see the headlights bounce off of a leather jacket, leather trousers. Face mostly in shadow.
“Yeah,” I answered, holding out the stick. The guy cupped his hands around it, shaking out the flame and handing it back. I kept my eyes on him, taking a drag and blowing the hazy smoke in a stream out of the corner of my mouth. He grinned back salaciously, taking in my long legs and stiletto heels.
“What brings you down to the Strip, baby?”
“It’s how I make my livin’, mister.” I didn’t appreciate those lengthy glances. I was used to it, but it had been an awful long night.
“And quite the living I’m sure you make, too,” he smirked, hands in his pockets. I just glanced back, not feeling like making the effort of reply.
“So,” he asked lazily, “You gotta dealer?”
“What for, exactly?” I asked, eyeing him warily. He waved his hands vaguely.
“Y’know, I’ve got most of it, but if you’re a speedy kinda girl, I’d give you a bit of a special for that outfit,” he winked roguishly.
“I’m alright,” I dismissed the offer. I wasn’t going to tell this guy, but I didn’t need anybody for speed at all. It wasn’t something I’d ever experimented with, and didn’t plan to. But he didn’t need to know that. He sidled up to me, leering out with a gold tooth from under his hat brim.
“C’mon honey, I’d give you a good deal.”
I took a step away, taking another puff on the cigarette, feeling my guard rising up. I held up my hands.
“Really, mister, I’m good.”
He stepped close now, smile gone, drawing a brown bag out of his leather pockets.
“Just buy the shit,” he growled, and shoved me abruptly against the wall. I saw the glint of a silver pistol in the back of his leather trousers under the streetlamp, and froze up against him. I didn’t have any money with me, so I couldn’t have bought any even if I wanted to. Then I felt his hand, up on my thigh. I twisted and pushed, but his finger encircled the inside of my garters, searching for any bills. The feeling of his hand so high on my leg made my skin crawl, and I would have screamed if I hadn’t been busy struggling against him. He’s not pulling away, I realized with a panic. Instead, I felt his hands quickly travel around to my ass, and his breath hit my face unpleasantly as he pressed our bodies together. My breath caught in throat and I had opened my mouth just as he froze against me.
“Get the fuck away from her, man.” I didn’t recognize the cool voice, and I couldn’t see past the man in front of me. I stared at my cigarette on the pavement, slowly smoldering where I had dropped it.
“I said, get the fuck away.”
The man slowly backed away from me, and a second with dark hair came into view, holding the seller’s own gun to his back.
The dark haired man glared at the speed dealer, removing the firearm but giving a tiny jerk of the head down the street. The meaning was clear. Get out. He did, glowering at the pair of us, but shoving his hands in his pockets and striding down the alleyway.
I ground out my fallen cigarette, getting a good look at my rescuer for the first time as he shoved the silver pistol into the waistband of a pair of black jeans. Black hair, pale skin. Sexy eyes, I thought, taking note of the dark gray irises.
“Y’alright?” He asked, offering me his lighter. I grinned, taking it and lighting a replacement Marlboro, noticing my fingers shaking slightly. This didn't happen every day. I took a long intake.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” I confirmed, blowing the smoke into the haze of the streetlight. It had to be at least midnight by now.
“I’m guessing he tried to sell you smack?” he asked knowingly, pushing the lighter back into his pocket.
“Yeah.” I caught myself staring at his open shirtfront.
He didn’t seem to notice, glancing up and down at my attire. “You work here?”
“Yeah, every night, six days a week,” I said bitterly. “It isn’t the stage I don’t like, it’s the fucking tables. Everyone gets so damn handsy.”
He laughed, and I for what would be the first time of many, I watched as his face transformed from an unreadable mask to someone you wished you knew. Then just as quickly as it had come, it changed back.
“Girl like you, I’m not surprised.”
I smiled playfully, sensing that this wasn’t dangerous like the smack dealer. This one I wouldn’t mind too much going home with.
“How long you been dancing?”
“Almost a year and a half now. I’m from Scottsdale fuckin’ Arizona, of all places.”
He gave me sidelong glance. “Y’said you don’t like tables?”
“Hate ‘em.”
He smirked again, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Would you be interested in a steadier dancing job?”
I grinned. “What are you sayin’ here, mister?”
He chuckled again, leaning against the brick wall. “Nah, girl, we’ll get to that later.” He winked. Hot damn.
“I’ve got a band. We’ve been lookin’ for a couple of girls to dance on the sides of the stage. Interested?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, I am.” I ground out my cigarette again, thinking for a second. “Is there gonna be a cage position?”
“Yeah, probably.” He confirmed, stamping out his cigarette with me. “I’m Izzy, by the way,” he told me, sticking out his hand.
I eyed it before shaking. “Jen.” His hands were strong and calloused, and I held on longer than was strictly necessary. He gave my fingers a slow squeeze before letting go, giving me the bedroom eyes. I felt myself tingle under his gaze, and rubbed my hand where his had gripped. Kitty’s awake.
Digging in his pocket, he handed me a scrap of brown paper.
“Well then, Jen,” he said, giving me an odd-half smile, “give me a call sometime, if you want.” I watched him walk away in the glow of headlights until he vanished into the jungle, running my fingers up and down the crinkly shred of my future in my hand.
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