~Interview Fourteen~

"So Skipper, what is it about you that so many men, mainly musicians, I might add, had such an intense adoration for you, back during the late eighties?"

Skipper shrugged, grinning wildly and trying to subdue the redness in her cheeks. "I don't know, I mean... I was eighteen, pretty, and well... I was the kind of girl not many people had seen before. I mean, think about what's popular for women these days, the whole, like... five-foot-ten, no ass to be heard of, or boobs for that matter, blue eyes. I wasn't any of those things, yet I guess I still carried this.. certain glamour.

"I knew a lot of people in the rock world, and I met a ton along the way. I spent every spare second with the band, and that meant I went to a lot of concerts, festivals, and I met a whole lot of men. I had a false reputation, you could say, and... a lot of people wanted in on the supposed 'action.' I was never like that of course, but that doesn't mean it wasn't fun to flirt. The guys would never let anyone actually get to me anyways, they were far too possessive."

The interviewer nodded with a laugh, "So basically you were young, unique?"

"Basically, yeah. I was always Rosie's type, and I suppose he turned on a lot of other people to... me, without really trying."

"And was it fun?" Skipper nodded eagerly, "Hell yeah!"

****

Skipper's POV

"I told you, if I'don't get my own hotel room, I'm going back to the stupid ass tour bus," I throw over my shoulder as I angrily storm back toward the casino parking lot, fists balled at my sides. "Oh come on, I'll share with you."

"And how would Erin feel about that?" I test the waters, turning back to face Rosie. He seems slightly offended for a few moments, squinting at me testily. "I don't give a flying fuck what she feels, she ain't here." He hisses at me so that only I can hear. I shake my head stubbornly, "Well I give a flying fuck, and I'm not sharing a hotel room with you. And one of those three? They'll probably rape me in my sleep."

"I... I totally would not," Duff burps a few feet away, and takes another long swig of beer from the bottle clasped in his hand. Golden drops of the stuff run down his chin as he lazily passes the bottle to Steven. I resist to urge to inform him of the dangers of drug use mixed with alcohol, but I keep my mouth clamped shut.

"I'm going back to the tour bus." I assert, to his obvious dismay. "You stay here, I'll be fine."

Rosie debates with himself for a minute, and then sighs. "Fine, whatever. But be back here in the morning, and don't try leaving." He turns sharply and his heel and swaggers away, running a hand through his tousled red hair. "So I'm a fucking prisoner now?" I call after him, and he chuckles. "Yup."

I groan, and trudge back outside, through the crowded parking lot, and out into the field of grass. I can't quite tell in the dark, but I think there's an arena to my left. Slowly but surely, I reach the bus lot, and after a considerable amount of searching, finally spot the Guns N' Roses logo on the side of one.

Once safely inside, I close the door behind me, and flick on a light switch. There's not a whole lot of room in the front of the bus, enough for a mini kitchen, a couch, a TV or two.

A little curtain separates the front from the middle section, which is sort of like a collection of tight and packed together bunk beds. Once I walk past that, I find the room I woke up in, a tiny little closet filled with band equipment and a tiny makeshift cot made of towels. I sigh, and plop down on the uncomfortable thing, and ponder attempting to sleep.

I'm not sure how much time passes before I hear the heavy thump of the bus's front door. I stiffen up a little bit, squinting through the dark as if I could somehow see to the front of the bus. Rosie must've come back, thinking I'll give in and fuck him or something. In his dreams.

The curtain separating the band equipment from the bunk beds slides open slowly, and my heart nearly stops pumping when I spot who is is.

Slash removes his top hat and tosses it to the side, while gripping something flat and large in his other hand. It swishes slightly when he clears his throat, making a sound resembling a thin sheet of plastic.

"I think you've got the wrong room." He flips the light switch on the wall, and I shield my eyes, a bit hesitant to make eye contact. He's holding a large manila folder, and staring down at me with an unrecognizable expression.

"No," he sighs, and opens the sealed flap of the folder. "I'm not. I want you to see something." From the folder he produces a slightly sheer black colored sheet of plastic, one I recognize immediately as an MRI scan. I stand with a sigh, and hold the thing up to the light. "So, it's a heart," I observe, and look over at him with irritation. He says nothing, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably.

He pales slightly as I examine the scans, clearing his throat every few seconds, and fidgeting. It's all very out of character, compared to his usual chilled persona.

"Well, I feel sorry for whoever this is. There's a significant buildup of plaque in the superior and inferior Vena Cava, the aortic wall is too thin. It could dissect, and this poor guy could be dead in seconds. I mean, he'll live, but... the symptoms and risks are dangerous. I'm sure he could help himself with a few surgeries, but... I'm not cardio, so..."

I avert my eyes to Slash once more, who stands without a touch of color in his skin. It hits me like a bag of bricks, and suddenly I feel like the most monumental bitch the world has ever seen.

"And... the buildup in the blood vessels can deprive the brain of fresh blood... causing seizures, and in some cases... heart failure. Cardiac arrest."

I place the scan down on the floor, and place my hands over my mouth. "Slash... please, please tell me that I..."

His breath hitches as he meets my eyes. "Cardiomyopathy, had it since I was a kid. Hereditary, they said. I-" I throw my arms around his neck, and bury my face in his hair. The scent is inviting, but only elevates my sense of guilt. To my delight, he returns the embrace, hugging me tighter than he ever did before. His hands quiver slightly as he places them against my back, and takes a deep breath.

"I'm so sorry! I... I was a complete bitch to you, and you totally didn't deserve it. I should've asked for your side of the story, and-"

"It's cool, it's alright. I didn't tell you, and you didn't know. I don't really like to tell people, if I do they treat me like I'm sick, and I hate that shit, man. I just wanna play the guitar, drink and have a few cigarettes like the rest of the douches around here."

"But..." I trail off, biting my lip with thought. He's elevating his condition by drinking and smoking, he could live a long life if he abstained from such things, but I don't say it. I only sigh, and brush the curtains of hair away from his eyes, and place my hand against his warm cheek.

"I just thought I should tell you."

"I really am sorry, I should've known you'd never do that shit, you know, like Steven does?" He grips my wrist and sighs for the millionth time, refusing to meet my eyes. "Listen, I... I'm no angel, alright. I'm not saying I've never done the shit, I'd be lying. It's a pretty common thing around here, I'd just... I'd never let myself get addicted, you know, like Steven."

I furrow my eyebrows. "It's dangerous, especially for you." He nods, "I'm fully aware, Curls. You don't have to worry about me." I nod once, and place my ear against his chest. His heart beat is strong and steady, thumping rhythmically.

"How recent are these scans?" I murmur. "A few days, I... I had an appointment back in Los Angeles."

"I feel like an ass, but... you could've told me. I mean... you acted like you didn't even know me anymore." I admit, closing my eyes drowsily. His warmth is so pleasant, and once the anger melts away my heart only aches with how much I miss him.

"And you acted like you hated me." He holds me even closer, and leans down to rest his head on my shoulder. His voice sounds so small, so vulnerable, like a child telling his mother about the bully on the playground. I open my mouth to say the three words that mean everything in the world, but instead I only shake my head. "I don't hate you, Slash. I never could."

"I could never not know you. I've... um... kinda been a mess."

Good old Michael, he really called it.

"Yeah, same here," I yawn. He coughs into his elbow, and just by listening with my ear pressed to his chest I hear a lot of loose fluid. "Hmm, that doesn't sound good," I mutter, pressing myself even closer to him. "Your lungs are-"

"Curly, don't do it. Resist the doctor urge."

"Fine," I grumble, and finally take a few steps back.

"Don't ever hate me again, alright?" I grin up at him, and it's like a million pounds of stress are lifted from my shoulders. "Sure."

"And sorry about the whole kidnapping thing, I would've stopped them... except that I wanted them to," he gives a mischievous laugh, and pushes my shoulder playfully. "Ass." I mutter, and plop back down onto my towel bed. He examines the room, and then stares down at me.

"Hey, this place is shit. Wanna bunk with me?" He extends a hand to help me up, and I take it with a gracious nod. "Totally, man."

We exit the bus and he slings an arm around my shoulder as we walk blindly through the lot.

"You know, I ran into Jon Bon Jovi like an hour ago?" He snickers, and I sense a bit of uneasiness. "Ugh, gross, I'm sorry. That guy is a total fucking douche bag, and a womanizer. A year ago nobody had ever heard of his ass, and now here he is, acting like he's on top of the god damned world."

I'm surprised by the bitterness in his voice, accompanied by a wet cough.

"Well damn, Slash, tell me how you really feel." He laughs and shrugs, "I'm just saying."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. He knocked me on my ass, and then told me to watch where I was going. It sucks though, because I really like 'Slippery When Wet.' It's the shit man." Slash shakes his head profusely. "Nope, sorry, you can't like Bon Jovi. You're my roadie."

I give a lighthearted laugh, and rest my head on his shoulder. "Your roadie?"

"Always."

****

"I, uh... I'm gonna need some clothes..." I point out as Slash buzzes around the messy hotel room, brushing his teeth, running a comb through his hair, changing clothes. I just sit there, clutching the fluffy white blanket to my chest. His place beside me in the bed is still warm. The hotel room is fairly nice, with polished furniture and flowing white curtains. The plush carpet is soft and the bed is spongy, much better than the towel bed.

"Oh, yeah, um..." He drops down onto his knees and zips open his suitcase, rummaging through it roughly. "Okay, I got this t-shirt, and... um... you think you can fit some of my skinny jeans?" He tosses both things at me, and I shrug. "Well, my ass could take up some of the space." He scoffs and rolls his eyes, and slides into the bathroom.

While he's there I shed my old scrubs and slip into the clothes. The t-shirt is huge, reading 'Black Sabbath' across the chest. It smells strongly of cologne and man shampoo, indicating that he most likely didn't wash it before giving it to me. Surprisingly, I am not opposed to it, the scent is appealing. The jeans are way too long, but doable.

"Ready?" He peeks at me from the bathroom doorway, and I adjust the overly large clothing. "I don't feel like taking off this makeup and putting on more, so... I just have to brush my teeth. Got an extra toothbrush?" He blinks, staring at me blankly. "Oh, uh... you can... use mine?" I groan, and rest my head in my hands.

Slippeeeeeeer *Heart eyes emojis*

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