Michael's POV
I can't help but grin as the scrub nurse snaps latex gloves onto my hands.
Being here somehow makes me feel young again. Like somehow, I've gone back in time to the good old days. All I need to complete this feeling is the lovely Skip to join me in this surgery I've stolen from her. I assume she'll be here shortly.
Her father is in the gallery, watching me closely. He pretended to disapprove, but then realized he'd rather have me than any of those shaggy-headed freaks Skip calls herself caring for.
"Where is she?" I ask the same nurse shortly. "It's not like her to be late for anything surgical."
The nurse shrugs and blinks her squinty, jaundiced eyes. "Dr. Nelson-Rose may have had a seperate medical emergency," she rasps. "She should be here soon."
I turn toward the surgical table and glance at the body, draped in light blue sterile dressings. Maybe she'll be infuriated to find me here, but none of that'll matter once she knows that there's a life in her hands.
Then the OR door comes bursting open, and in comes a different sweaty-faced nurse.
"What?" I snap impatiently.
"Um... Mr. Jackson," she begins slowly. "You might wanna come take a look at the TV."
"Are you kidding me?" I scoff, turning away from the door. "What's television when there are lives in need of saving?" I can hardly keep a straight face during the last part.
"No, you'll really wanna come see," she asserts, as several of the scrub nurses in the room follow her out.
"Well fuck," I groan and head with them to the lobby.
The crowd beneath the TV parts for me, exchanging worried and slightly frightened glances. I understand why once I glance up and see Skip's face plastered on the screen, along with her 'bandmates'.
My jaw grinds.
"Many Guns N' Roses fans rejoiced this morning at the sight of the band's former members getting off of their private jet in LAX. According to several tips, the band had been in New York visiting with the now widowed Skipper Nelson-Rose, and apparently she's returned with the band to California. Why? No one knows quite yet, but he hope to find out directly from the band."
Next is some grainy footage of a plane with their insignia on the side of it, and five silhouettes walking down a tarmac. One of them is significantly shorter than the rest. And curvier.
"MTV hopes to catch up with them very soon."
I shut off the TV and turn around. Prince is standing there, looking very pale and very angry.
"You didn't know about this?" He asks very slowly.
"Well obviously not," I snap right back at him. "How the hell did she leave New York without anyone noticing until morning? She was just here last night, Slash took her out."
"And you let that happen," Prince states.
I rip off my latex gloves and throw them to the ground.
"I've got a plane to catch."
***
Skipper's POV
He had returned home late again, and I wasn't having it.
I sat poised in a leather chair, watching the fire I'd built flicker beneath the mantle. It had died down to embers by then, and the sun had disappeared oh, maybe.... six hours prior. Dinner had been put on the table four hours ago, and I was pretty close to losing it.
And the front door creaked open. There he was, still wearing his lab coat. Frazzled red hair going in every direction, green eyes anticipating just what I was going to say.
He paused in the doorway, staring at me shamefully.
"You know, I quit working so I could be what you wanted," I began bitterly, voice already shaking with rage.
"Baby please," he began to plead. "You have to understand that this is work! I would love to leave early and be on time for dinner, it's just... not possible."
"Bullshit," I almost laughed, jumping to my feet. "You can't be home on time, but you can certainly crack open a cold one with the boys every night at a strip club on Sunset, one fucking hour away from the practice?!"
His cheeks leaked their color. His eyes were darker now. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
I threw down a copy of a tabloid I'd picked up at a grocery store, remembering the humiliation that filtered through me when I'd seen his picture on the cover.
He was angry now. "You had no fucking business inserting yourself in my private life!" He began to scream at me, out of nowhere. I didn't even move. I was used to these reactions. "All you fucking do is nag at me, twenty-four fucking seven! All I asked for was someone loving to come home to, but I guess that's too much to ask, huh?"
I turned away from him to the fire.
"You know what, Skipper? If staying here with me is hurting you so fucking badly, then just fucking leave! Go on, be with... Slash, or Michael! I don't need some raging bitch living in my house and using up all my money, one who can't even be bothered to keep my fucking plate warm, one who can't even give me a fucking son."
I gasped. He'd yet to go so far as to comment on my infertility, when in the past he'd been nothing but sorry.
Tears lept into my eyes and refused to go. When had he become so spiteful?
I turned slowly and looked at them, with anguish pouring down my cheeks.
"I guess I will then."
I ran to the bedroom and pulled my suitcase out from beneath the bed. I was serious, and once he saw that his anger turned to bitter remourse.
I began to fold clothes and shove them into the bag.
"Wait, Junior. I didn't mean that baby, I didn't. I was just angry, you know? I'm so tired, I've been gone all day... I didn't mean to take all that out on you. I mean it."
I pushed him aside roughly and went to the dresser. I wasn't hearing it; not at first-- his words from before still slashed through me like a knife.
"I'm going, just like you said to."
"Baby, stop! I didn't mean that shit, you know it!"
I whirled around and glared at him. "But I don't know! I never know what the hell you mean anymore, Axl!"
He jolted. "You never call me that. Don't call me that."
I spat his name coldly, like a curse.
"Move outta my way!" I cried.
"No," he rasped, gathering me forcefully into his arms. "You aren't leaving me, I'm not letting you. You're everything to me, everything I ever wanted. I'm sorry, alright? I've skipped a few lithium pills, I'll get right back on them."
"Rosie, please-"
"Just stay," he said, burying his face in my neck. I could feel his own tears wetting my skin, his arms would not remove themselves from my waist. "Stay, I love you."
And I felt that weakness inside of me again, giving into him. All of a sudden I wanted nothing more than for him to feel better. I began to stroke his hair with a shaky hand, placing a kiss on his stubbly cheek.
"I'm not gonna leave you," I gave in finally. "But I need to go to the spa. For just a little while, maybe only just one night. You won't miss me."
He pulled away just enough to meet my eyes. "That'll relax you a little?"
I tried not to take offense. "Yes."
I called and made my 'reservation' while Rosie packed me just enough clothing for one night away. He kissed me and I entertained the idea of sex, but even after making up I didn't wanna give him that.
"I'll see you later," I said softly. He kissed me again.
And then I booked it all the way to West Hollywood, and spent a relaxing night alone in the apartment I leased there, in my own name. Rosie would never know.
--
I snap back into consciousness, realizing that now these dreams are happening when my eyes are open. It was bad enough to visit him in my sleep, but worse now when I'm sitting in a public airport with cameras around.
"Miss?"
There's a little girl in the row of seats behind me, waiting at a seperate gate for a different flight. Her round blue eyes are kind, so I force the fakest smile I can muster.
"Hi." I swallow with a papery-dry mouth.
She holds out a tissue in her little hand, giving me a toothless smile. "You need this."
She's right. My cheeks are a slip n' slide of tears, some half dried. I wonder how long I have been sitting here like a fool, crying in public.
I quickly take the tissue and blot away the tears. Her mother returns and leads her away before I can thank her. That little girl certainly has more restraint than I do.
I look around, wondering where the hell everyone else ran off to. I quickly spot them standing in a corner near the gate we came in, speaking in hushed whispers. I stand and start toward them. What the hell is the problem?
"We can't go back there," Slash insists as I approach. "That would be so fucking cruel. I'm not willing to put her through that just because there's a swimming pool."
"True," Duff agrees, turning a glare on Steven. "But where will we go? Live in a hotel for fucking eternity? We really should've figured this out before we even came."
Steven, looking bashful, glances at me. "Well... would it be that bad?"
Slash turns quickly. "Curly..."
"Don't worry," I sigh, waving them toward the exit. "I know a place."
***
"We won't be too cramped. There's only three bedrooms, but we can make it work. I can get another bed and the den can be another room, and the sofa's a pullout."
I turn, watching as the four of them take in the apartment with surprise.
"You mean... you had this apartment in Hollywood this whole time?" Steven says excitedly. "And you never threw a fucking party? This place is sick!"
I shrug. Costs a good 5k every month, but it was worth it to know that I had a safe place to go, far from Rosie when I needed to be alone.
"I call a bedroom!" Izzy sprints towards the stairs.
"Fuck no!" Duff calls, and soon after Steven is scrambling right after them.
I give Slash a half smile. "You can have the master bedroom, if you want. It's locked, they can't get to it." I pull the key out of my pocket and hold it out to him.
"No it's cool. I'll take the pullout."
"Slash," I protest.
"Curly," he simply states and plops down onto the plush white sofa.
"Okay," I roll my eyes and come to sit next to him. "So... what's the plan? Where are we going from here? What exactly do you want me to do here?"
"Your ear is to the streets, or at least it used to be. We're gonna need you to be going to all of the clubs you can find. And you're gonna find us a lead singer. Of course, you could call around too, if Axl ever told you about any of his connections."
I swallow hard and try not to look intimidated. That's not hard... at all...
"And what are you guys gonna be doing in the mean time?"
He readjusts his classes. "Well, as soon as our equipment is shipped to our... new address, we'll be working on refining our sound again, and working to adapt to a new singer. It's been a while since we've played, and it's certainly gonna be weird. When I'm not doing that, I'll be helping you."
"Good," I swallow. "Where'll we start?"
"Well, that's your job..." Slash says slowly. "To figure out."
"Wait, hold on a second," I exclaim, jumping to my feet. "You're the one who's done this type of thing before, I don't know what I'm doing. You do."
"Sure you do," Slash yawns and gets up, following the rest of them up the stairs. "Go out tonight. Just try and get a feel for what you're doing again."
"So much for help," I mutter once he's gone. What the hell, though? I didn't dance on a bar counter not to have his attention anymore.
***
This is the fifth bar I've been to tonight.
This is the fifth appletini I've had. It usually only takes one drink at each bar for me to realize that the band playing is total ass, and there's no need to even try and proposition the lead singer.
Tired, cold as hell, and irritated at Slash, I leave the Whisky in a sort of daze. What the hell happened to the rock scene? Just a few years ago, the whole strip was dominated by raw rock n' roll, not these half-assed acts I'm seeing now. Where did all the talent go?
And then it hits me- there's only one person suited for this job. And it's not gonna be pleasant.
I sigh, turn on my heel, and start for the slums.
MICHAEL??? WHEN WILL HE ARRIVE???
YOU'LL SEE...
VOTE COMMENT ALL THAT STUFF LOVE YOU K BYE