#jc is max because yelling is his love language | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

motleycrueroadie · 4 years

Text

Along for the Ride

Figured that I would try my hand at writing. This is just more of an introduction to the scene rather than the character herself, but that will be coming soon enough. Based on The Dirt (2019).

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They call New York the city that never sleeps, and as a stranger to the East Coast, I was inclined to deny the cliche when I first moved to the Sunset Strip. Initially it seemed like the Strip never slept, with the blaring neon lights of the bars and clubs. This combined with the music scene draws in the young crowds of those who entertain and those who are entertained. The Strip creates an allure to pull out those chasing dreams, but this allure soon vanishes come Monday to reveal only shadows. New York City remains the city that never sleeps, the Sunset Strip doesn’t sleep on the weekends. Given this, it only makes sense that just about everyone living here is chasing the high of the weekend, and then dragging themselves through the week. I love the weekend nightlife more than anything else, it separates the people I have to endure from the people who I want to be around.

From the moment the clubs open on Friday until last call on Sunday night, which I guess is really early Monday, London gives me a chance to feel alive. As a band, London attracts the best of the Strip and I love every second of it. The high from being on stage is enough to envy every junkie out there. Jack nor coke can give me the same feeling that a dimly lit room, stuffed to the brim with bodies emitting pure heat and rock and roll could. I left Seattle, my mother Deanna and the revolving door of asshole boyfriends in search of this exact feeling. This is where I finally feel at home. However, there was one thing that ruined this high every time, London. Ironic, right?

London and the music worked fucking wonders, but the people in London are dog shit. The tension between myself and the rest of the band mates rivals that of an elastic band strung to the max. We are a ticking time bomb. Our almost daily band practice had finished today around 11:30, that was added on top of an 8 hour day at the Starwood and I felt exhausted. The walk home served as a moment of relaxation. Even though it was Thursday night, there were still people frequenting the bars; But the people were weekday regulars that live to drink, rather than those who drink to add to the experience of being alive. Though it seemed that there was not much life to the Strip, the diner up ahead, “Tiffany’s 24/7 Dine-In”, seemed as lively as it could get. I could hear it before I could see it. From the outside, the sound was somewhat muffled by the layer of glass, but I could make out Slow Ride by Foghat playing. Wasn’t entirely my style of music but it was close enough. As I begin to pass by the window, I glance in to see why it was so loud.

The only person that occupied the entire dining room was a girl, suited in a dress I could only assume was a uniform, buffing the floors. It was not my intention to stop and stare, and I honestly could not decipher what was so intriguing about her, but I am completely stopped in my tracks to take her in. She was shorter than myself, but was not swallowed by the fabric she wore, filling it out in what I might call “all the right places”. The most encapsulating part about her was the lightness with which she moved while controlling a machine that could jolt even the most steady people. She swayed the machine lightly back and forth across the floors, while nodding her head along to the beat. I can slightly make out her voice singing along to the words with ease. Suddenly, she looked up at me out the window and it startled me, I felt caught. Her face turned upwards into a smirk and she jutted out her chin while nodding at me, giving a sign of acknowledgement. For whatever reason, I took this as an invitation to come into the diner. The music struck me with a certain intensity as she yelled, “Sorry about that! Have a seat wherever you like and I’ll turn that down and be with you in just a second!”

Her voice was steady and held a certain feather light feeling, the same as her movements did, and I just wanted to hear it again. I stepped over the cord attached to the buffer and slid into the booth facing the bar, watching her stretch to reach the volume dial on the radio atop a sliding door refrigerator.

She glided around the bar, swiping a menu from a shelf hidden from my vision and smiled up at me, “Welcome to Tiff’s, can I get you something to drink while you have a look at the menu?”

“Would a Jack and Coke be acceptable to serve on a Thursday night?” I asked, not because I needed her opinion on my drinking habit, but because I wanted to keep hearing her voice.

“Are you asking me whether I find the consumption of alcohol on a weekday moral, or if this establishment serves on a Thursday?” she replied, hand on her hip while leaning against the coat rack extending from the booth.

“Humour me with both.” I smirked, relaxing back into the seat having finally found my rhythm with her. The next answer she gave would gauge whether or not I continue to push her buttons.

“Tiff’s, like most other diners, will serve you morning, noon and night any day of the week” she started, “and as for myself, I think booze is far too much fun to contain to the weekend. Only pussies and prudes save drinking for two days of the week” She seemed to mean this despite the humour in her voice, and I was thoroughly pleased with her answer.

“Mija! Watch your language with the customers!” spoke a voice from behind the server’s window. She chuckled a little, before turning to the window and calling out “Carlos, I always gauge my audience!” A shorter tan man popped his head up from behind the window before disappearing again, “I see what you mean. Carry on!” She turned back to me with a smile on her face, “Don’t take offence to that. You’re just not married with kids or above the age of 60, so I’ve lost my filter. Is that a problem?”

“Not at all” I said while shaking my head, and she took that as her cue to start grabbing my drink. Returning, with it in her hand she slid into the booth opposite me and asked, “Anything on the menu caught your eye?” I shook my head again and began to hand her the menu, “Just the drink will be fine for tonight.” She gave an appreciative nod, before leaving to grab the cord for the buffer cord out of the wall.

“Can I put you down for an order of solitude to go with your JC or are you interested in conversation?” She called out from the other side of the diner, but before I had the chance to answer she continued “Cause I can ramble for at least 10 JCs!” Taking a sip, I leaned further into the booth to give her the impression I needed to appreciate the options when I knew exactly what I wanted to say. She continued to wrap up the cord around the buffer, leaving it in its spot and glancing up at me in anticipation of my answer.

“Conversation. But if you become too annoying I’ll put a 5 on the table and take off” continuing to push her buttons, seeing if she could take it and dish it out.

“Fair enough,” and with that she slid back into the booth.

“Start with your name” she told me rather than asked.

“Why can’t I have yours?” I asked, realising I had not even bothered to glance at her name tag. It read Janis Jade. She caught me reading, “Cause you just read it off my chest but I don’t have that luxury.” Shrugging my shoulders, I said “Nikki Sixx,” I hadn’t seen the smile leave her face since we caught eyes in the window, but it grew wider and I thought she might have recognized me so I prepared for a slew of questions and rambling to follow.

“That’s the sickest fucking name I’ve ever heard, and I know for a god damn fact you picked it out yourself” she glowed as she spoke with an infectious amount of genuine enthusiasm. I nodded, chuckling as I did so.

“Let me guess, you’re named after the infamous Janis Joplin” I smirked as I took a drink. She screwed her eyebrows together, almost offended.

“How old do you think I am Sixx?” she asked, again I shrugged shoulders. “I had my name prior to Miss Joplin’s rise to fame, but my parent’s wore shit eating grins everyday about my name after she started getting big.” I nodded along to her story, somehow knowing I was in for a good conversation.

For the next two hours, we swapped tales and although she did most of the talking, I was glad to sit back and listen. She wasn’t wrong when she said she could talk for at least 10 JCs. Janis was full of life and everything I absolutely wasn’t and I couldn’t help but want to know more. I realized that I needed to be heading out, so I began rummaging in my jacket for my wallet. She saw this, and I stopped for a second as I remembered my earlier comment, “Trust me doll, you’re not annoying me but I should be heading out.” She nodded understandingly, “No worries Sixx, you want me to grab your change?” I shook my head at her, and started getting out of the booth. “Your shift done soon? I can walk you home.”

She smiled, “I’m here until 7am but thank you for the offer.” As I began to walk out, I paused while pushing on the door handle, “I hope to see you around Joplin.” She smiled from where she stood, “Don’t worry Sixx, you will” and gave me a two fingered salute before returning to where the buffing machine had sat for the last two hours. I returned home with a new found appreciation for the little diner on the Strip.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thank you for reading! If you’re interest, here’s the Next Chapter

#the dirt fanfiction #douglas booth!nikki sixx #motley crue

13 notes · View notes