#that lyric in particular made me think of doc scratch

[angrylizardjacket]

Run to Paradise {Nikki Sixx} Part 22

22. a loss is a loss is a loss

Summary: Things start to go south when Roxie joins the party. They go on tour and Lola starts spiraling.

Warnings: NSFW, big drug warning, (consensual) drugged sex warning, also angst.

ragtag bunch of misfits: @starlalove @toofasttofallinlove  @xrosegoldwolfx @obsessivesky  @trpwthme @lovehelpmewrite @colsons-crue  @marvelismylifffe  @lilytalebi @glitterdreamsz  @freddiessmallnipples @crazysaladchopshop @inthebackofmycarlaytheirbodies @dramatique-moi @missqueeniewrites @calspixie  @aryssav @catsoo12  @sweetshutter @silvertonguedserpent  @shamelessobsessions @lavenderbones22  @keepcalm-and-beyou @scarecrowmax  @nicholeh7 @unknownoblivion

{masterlist}

The new tour is off to a terrible start, despite the album's smashing success.

Tommy and Lola aren't on speaking terms, for the first time since they'd met.

Tommy had met a groupie named Roxie only a few weeks before the tour started, and he'd claimed it was love at first sight. Much to everyone else's chagrin, Tommy was adamant that she'd be joining them on tour. Normally, this wouldn't have bothered Lola; since Vince had started getting more serious with Sharise, she'd backed off considerably out of respect. But with Roxie? From the moment she'd met the woman, Lola had gotten a bad vibe from her, had gotten nothing but withering glares and jealous scoffs whenever Lola went anywhere near Tommy.

One particular evening, Lola had kissed Tommy on the cheek before she'd headed home from a club they were partying at, and Roxie had the gall to catch her outside, snarling for Lola to back off. Lola, for her part, wasn't much intimidated by the waifish groupie. Her lip curled as she gave the woman a disdainful look over.

"Don't tell me you're this stupid," Lola actually laughed, though Roxie just raised an eyebrow at her. "You're lucky I don't kick your fucking ass; don't ever think for a second that you call the shots here."

Lola had tried to bring it up to Tommy, but she'd never had the best way with words, and with Tommy love-drunk and Lola bitter and vulgar, it didn't come out the way she'd intended -

"Don't call her a bitch just because you're jealous!" Tommy's not yelling, persay, but he's close enough to it that Lola's hands fist reflexively. They're not even on the tour bus yet, they're loading their gear, and Roxie is late.

"I'm calling her a bitch because she's a bitch," Lola snarls, turning her temper on Tommy for the first time, and he seems shocked, but what had he really expected. "She's a gold digger and a -"

"Dude, you're such a hypocrite-"

"Oh shut up; I'm not a hypocrite, I've paid my way from day fucking one, and I think I've been pretty up front about being a whore." Crossing her arms, Lola looks smug, though her heart's not in her words, she's not enjoying it like she did with their usual banter. Tommy's genuinely angry by the look of him, fuming with frustrated, close to banging his head against the bus.

"Oh that's fucking rich," Tommy snorted, crossing his arms, unable to look Lola in the eyes.

"Oh I'm sorry," Lola snapped, sarcastic and sharp, "is it true love Tommy? Did you find The One, your soulmate, after she was done fucking Whitesnake?" Lola sneered.

"Fuck you, you absolute fucking hypocrite. I don't give a shit what you think, I love her -"

"Then you're dumber than I gave you credit for," Lola smirked, no warmth behind her eyes, "fuck dude, you fall for anyone with tits who gives you the time of day." It was mean, plain and simple, her words cruel as they cut him like a knife. He snaps, hands flexing into fists by his sides though he's rooted to the spot.

"My girlfriend isn't a whore, or a bitch; you're just jealous because I'm trying to be a good fucking boyfriend for someone who isn't you. It's not my fault you learned how to love from Nikki fucking Sixx, you possessive asshole!"

Silence hangs in the air, Tommy's mouth pressed into a thin, unhappy line. It settles, his words, his meaning, taking up all the space between them, and he begins to realise what he said, begins to feel like he's just picked the bad ending of a choose-your-own-adventure novel, with the way Lola's lips curl into a cruel imitation of a smile. It's not what he expected, and there's apologies laying heavy on his tongue, pressing against his teeth as he watches something die behind Lola's eyes.

"Tommy," she says, and every fucking hair on his arms stands straight up at her sweetly poisonous tone. He's waiting for a rebuttal, something cutting and cruel, laced with thinly-veiled threat, but no words seem to want to come out. Speechless, which she can't even seem to believe herself, she opens and closes her mouth a few times. He's hit too close to home, it's written all over her face as she struggles to reply.

"Lols-" he tries, voice soft and regretful, but her expression hardens.

"Fuck you." She breaks a little, her snort of derision a cruel, bitter sound, but it's hollow, and she can't look him in the eye. When she heads into the bus, she opens a bottle of Jack, drinking it like she's dying of dehydration, and seems happy enough to pass out at the back of the bus as the rest of the band bring the rest of their luggage aboard.

Doc, who'd already been on the bus, usually made it his personal mission in life to interfere with Lola's personal relationships with the band as little as possible, and though he acted as though he hadn't heard anything, he also does a rather solid of job of keeping the rest of the band at the front of the bus, giving her what little peace he could manage.

Lola isn't herself this tour, though she'd like to argue that she's more herself than ever.

And she and Tommy aren't on speaking terms.

It takes Nikki and Vince a while to notice how distant she is; they blame her the cold shoulder she gives Tommy on Roxie's presence, and they're right in one way, but not in the way that matters. Vince thinks she's spending less time with him because of Sharise. Nikki's just under the assumption that she's hooking up with groupies for a change of pace. The band goes out, goes to clubs and bars and strip clubs, but Lola disappears early in the night, and they'll see her the next morning wearing a grin that's all teeth, and a set of fresh bruises and scratches. They don't worry, but maybe they should.

"I've gone - I've gone fucking soft, how the fuck did I let that happen?" She laughs one night, but it's too honest, an anger in her words that simmers just below the surface. She's got a black eye and a split lip; she's always in black, in leather, but now there's splatters of blood. It's across her knuckles, her pants, her jacket; some of its hers, some of its not, and it shines in the light outside the strip club. The guy holding his heavily bleeding nose looks at her like she's lost her mind, stumbling away.

"You're fucking crazy," he snaps, his nervous gaze flicking to the bouncer, who watches with amusement. Lola's eyes are wide, grin sharp as she nods in agreement. The band is still inside, but she doesn't even try to get back in. Maybe she wants them to come looking for her, to notice that she's gone, but they don't.

Lola stumbles her own way to where she thinks the band's latest hotel is, though it's a coin flip as to whether she'll wind up there. Sometimes she'll find her way to another club or bar, or a group just as inebriated as she is will welcome her into their fold, if only for the one night.

Someone gives her a cigarette laced with something they don't tell her about, in a dirty motel three blocks from the band. She's sick within minutes, shaking and barely upright as she clutches at the sink in the bathroom.

"It's alright, baby, you're not used to it," the man that had given it to her pats her on the back. He holds her hair back with one hand, and takes a drag from the cigarette with the other. It's filthy, everything about being here, about him, about every other person in the other room, it's covered in grime, and Lola feels it in her gut right before she throws up, can feel it across every inch of her skin.

More than anything, she wishes she was back in LA, back in her mansion, on the sofa with Nikki, her head in his lap while he's working on some lyrics. Or laughing in Vince's kitchen as he attempts to teach her how to cook eggs, even though he's not particularly good at it himself, but it doesn't matter, because he's smiling at her with that glint in his eyes that makes Lola's heart ache a little now when she thinks about it. Or -

Lola stops herself before she can get too caught up, takes a long drink of water from the tap before turning, wearing her most winning smile.

"I'm a quick study." She takes the cigarette, but doesn't take a drag. Instead, she presses her lips to the man whose name she doesn't know, and lets him breathe smoke into her mouth. His tongue runs along her bottom lip, and his hand comes to grip at her ass, and everything feels so wrong.

Lola takes another hit of whatever's in the cigarette.

She feels it, feels ill, but now she feels herself relaxing. It's slowly becoming the best high she's ever had, and simultaneously one of the worst.

"What's in that?" She slurs a little when they finally come out of the bathroom, and Lola is happy to let him drape her on the sofa. The other people in the room, mostly strung out, are scattered on the two grubby double beds, in various states of undress. There's no shame because no-one's coherent enough to feel it.

"Don't you worry, baby; it feels good, don't it?" And she's not sure if he's referring to the drugs or his hand up her skirt, but she laughs, low and syrupy, and nods.

Someone else in the room stumbles to the cassette player by the table, and Lola gives a start at the familiar riff that claws it's way from the speakers. She can't help herself, she starts laughing, the sound bright and sharp, so different from the dreamy sound that had escaped her moments ago.

"What?" The man frowned, his hand stilling on her thigh, confusion written all over his face.

"It's about me." That just seemed to confuse him further. Lola, for a moment, hummed along with Looks That Kill, "she's got the looks that kill," she sang under her breath, her hand finding his, guiding him to finish what he'd started, even has he frowned in confusion.

"What the fuck," the man laughed, before he chuckled in disbelief, grinning brightly, his head following his hand. Lola gasped and arched, eyes falling closed as she hums along to the song, hips shifting to the beat of the drum.

"Nikki wrote it about me," she breathes, and the man stops.

"You're a big fan of Motley Crue then?" He asked, as if humoring her. Instead of answering, Lola whined gently, her hand fisting in his hair, ignoring the question.

"Don't stop," she practically begs, and it works. They fuck right there on the sofa, with a shitty Motley Crue cassette as the background noise, and Lola is pretty sure that she'll find the humour in that later. If she remembers it. For now, it feels fucking incredible, whatever was in that cigarette has her on cloud nine, the man between her legs knows what he's doing, and when she closes her eyes she can pretend she's with someone she actually loves.

She comes with Tommy's name on her lips, and despite being high as all hell, the man - who absolutely is not Tommy, despite how lanky he is - takes enough offence that he tells her to get lost. Lola stumbles to her feet, unsteady, and spits at him. He shoves her, but she's knows how to keep her balance, even if she stumbles. He calls her pathetic, and she takes the cassette player from the table, and smacks him in the face with it. The music cuts out with the crash, and he drops like a ton of bricks. Lola's hands shake as she takes out the Motley Crue tape, and she leans in close where he's passed out on the grubby floor.

"You don't deserve this," she scoffs, waving the tape, ignoring as one of the other occupants of the room asks why the music's stopped. Lola ignores her, and makes her way outside.

Much to her own surprise, she'd remembered the name of the hotel the band had been staying at, and when she collapses against the front desk, it's only a few minutes before an irate Doc comes to collect her.

"You smell like shit," he tells her sharply, an arm around her as he leads her to the elevator.

"Thank you," Lola grinned, eyes unfocused and hazy, leaning almost her whole weight on the manager, stumbling to keep up with him. She's still got the tape clutched in her hand.

"Nikki's got company," is what he tells her as he lets her into her own room, and Lola tries to swing at him, but he shoves her none to gently into the room, shutting the door behind her. It's like she's been winded, standing in the middle of the room, clutching at the tape so tightly it cracks in her fist.

And maybe it hurts that no-one seems to notice or care that she doesn't spend most nights in the same hotel as the band. Or maybe someone should be worried that she keeps waking up in parking lots and can't remember how she got there.  But she knows if she makes it back with them, she'll just remember how the people she loves are all moving on.

Maybe, she'd thought, just maybe Nikki would see that she's spiraling; he's the only one left she's still allowed to love. But he takes it too easily in stride, adapts to not having her around, fills the space she's left by his side with any number of meaningless flings in cities all across the country.

Tommy was wrong. She'd never learned to love from Nikki, who lets go too easily; she'd learned to love from her mother, where to love is to hold someone close until they want to run, it seems, until they burn.

She doesn't want to love like that.

So she'd let them go.

On the tour bus the next day, she'll talk and laugh with them like nothing's wrong, and in that moment, it won't be. Nikki will be next to her, or Vince will have an arm around her, and she'll take a swig from Mick's vodka when he offers it. She doesn't spiral when the sun can see her, but that's easier said than done when she meets Tommy's gaze, and just for the moment his smile falters.

She tells herself she doesn't need him.

"Nikki's got company."

She doesn't need any of them. Not tonight. Not ever.

In a few hours, Doc will come wake her up, everyone will pile on the bus, and she'll pretend like she doesn't miss living in a shithole, alone with Nikki, uncomplicated; the two of them against the world.

#nikki sixx #nikki sixx imagine #nikki sixx x oc #Tommy Lee #tommy lee imagine #lola x tommy #nikki x lola #Vince Neil #vince neil imagine #Mick Mars #doc mcghee #motley crue #the dirt #the dirt imagine #motley crue imagine #the angry lizard writes