Reverberation - Guns N Roses Fanfiction

FIVE - the meet-up

September 3rd, 1991

Sure, Guns N Roses had treated me like dirt--or, at best, an object that they could use to their advantage--but... they were still people. And I didn't want to watch them kill themselves. So, if there was anything at all that I could possibly do, then I would do it. And that started with finding their rhythm guitarist.

I'd told Colin to stay at my place while I went on my search for Izzy. It wouldn't take long, I'm sure, I'd told him, there aren't a lot of places he could be hiding.

And there weren't. There were only a handful of hotels in the city--maybe one or two decent enough for a millionaire to reside. So that was where I would go.

My confidence dwindled when I went to those two hotels and found no sign of him--but I wouldn't give up. I would go to each and every hotel in Saint John and ask for Izzy Stradlin.

I pushed open the doors to a 3-star, only slightly run-down motel and strolled up to the front desk.

"Hello, ma'am, checking in?" the dark-skinned man said politely.

"No, actually," I started with one of my smiles that I knew could get me practically anything, "I'm looking for my husband, but I forget which room we're in!" I lifted my palm to my forehead, feigning embarrassment and a bit of confusion. "He should be signed in under the name Izzy."

"Just one moment, what's the last name? I'll see who we have here."

I silently prayed he hadn't used his actual surname, but stated without a trace of doubt, "Stradlin."

"Oh, yes, here we are. Room 24--that's the first floor up."

I brought my palms together as to clap, though made no sound with them and began to blabber, "Oh, perfect! Thank you so much. I'm just so embarrassed, usually I'm not so forgetful, but work's been busier than usual, you know?"

"Certainly, I understand. Would you like me to call the room to make sure he's there?"

"Oh, no, you've done enough," I smiled once more, "thanks again!" and set off toward the elevator.

-

The bell dinged, and my shoes scuffed on the thin carpet--just about the only sound, besides the odd television on in different rooms. The noise rose and fell, rose and fell, as I passed each separate residence.

18, 20, 22...

I didn't let myself pause before his door, and knocked as soon as I saw it. Just in case I lost my nerve.

My knuckles rapped at the door once. Twice. And then he answered.

Izzy stood with his hands cradling his head--no, rubbing a towel into his hair. Despite clearly just exiting the shower, he was already dressed--light blue jeans and a faded black t-shirt. I caught a whiff of a sweet-and-savory smelling cleanser even before he could register my presence and utter a word.

Then, "Cassie," he rasped, his hands dropping, one limply gripping the pallid hotel towel, "Cassidy, I thought--I didn't think--"

"It's okay," I sighed, "I didn't think I'd see you again either."

He blinked once, looked me over, and, when I flicked my eyebrows upwards, said quickly, "Oh, sorry, come on in."

I merely offered him a small smile and stepped into the room.

Izzy offered me something to drink, which I kindly declined, taking a seat on the small couch--a love-seat. (Oh, the irony.)

"Not the Colonial Inn?" I asked, if only to try to steer the conversation away from the inevitable. I just didn't know how to explain my reasoning.