The very last thing that Christine Hill expected was the exponential success of Mötley Crüe-the band she loved to hate.
And she never would've surmised that she'd be dragged-kicking and fucking screaming, by the nape of her neck-along for the wilde...
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"You're ruining your body, Chris."
Amidst the sickening tone, the one noise that she currently and always seemed to spurn the idea of, her eyes rolled. Hard.
"It's a piercing, Hayden. It's not like I just got a forehead tattoo."
"Why would you get them?" He shirked her response, sitting on the arm of the couch as she scrutinized her form in Nicole's favorite floor-to-ceiling mirror in the hallway.
He hated how big that thing was. How it took up so much room, so much valuable space that could've been so easily manipulated, used to expose the abundance of natural light that flooded in through the beautiful bay window.
But the girls didn't care about that.
At first, Nicole hated how gaudy it was. A completely obnoxious, golden Baroque border wasn't to her taste at all. But hurting Christine's feelings over a decorative item was not something that she had ever wanted.
And it looked ridiculous against the off-white wall in the hallway, but she kept it. Because it made her best friend happy, and Chris didn't deserve to get ridiculed over a fucking mirror when she had already been putting up with too much at the hands of her boyfriend.
Knowing how much it irked Hayden also made Nicole's fondness for it swell. And seeing how it looked between two corresponding garish picture frames—adorned with prints of Sunset Boulevard—only encouraged that appreciation.
It was such an intense piece, but it suited them. Elegant, outlandish, bold. It seemed as though the duo had been immortalized into a striking work of art.
And Nic had learned to love it the same way that her favorite blonde had since she found the piece in her brother's basement.
"Stop staring at my mirror." Christine scolded, pulling her skin-tight tank-top all the way back up.
She wished she had listened to Nicole, this morning. Wished that she had decided to wear a loose-fitting shirt to her appointment, or something that wouldn't have snagged her barbells.
But she didn't.
"I don't think I owe you an explanation as to why I decided to get my nipples pierced."
"Of course you do." He told her, gesturing to the ridiculous jewelry poking through the taught—almost completely sheer—leopard-print tank. "It's a body modification that affects me—"
A laugh fizzled from the absolute deepest caverns of her chest. "How the fuck does a little bit of metal affect you?"
"I've gotta see it every damn day."
"Okay?" She stated, though it came out more like a question. A genuine query.
Because it was a foreign concept, to her. How a man—a grown man—could throw a fit over two barbells.
