--August 14th, 1990
Lita Monroe grabbed the Jack Daniel from the bartender thankfully, gripping her own strawberry daiquiri in her other hand, before she walked back to the booth harboring her friends. The Cathouse was packed, and its claw had sunk into the flesh of all the twenty-somethings that danced around tonight.
The semi-circle booth was snuggled into the back corner of the club, away from any prying eyes and cameras that were likely to zoom in on the copious bottles that littered the large table. Lita scooted into the cushioned seats next to Axl, he took the whiskey from her. On the other side of him was Duff and his girlfriend Linda, and next to them were Slash and Della, who, with the drunken groping occurring under the table, seemed to be having a grand time.
"Where's Izzy?" Lita asked Axl, whispering in his ear over the band playing off in the distance. "He left after you did for a smoke," Axl replied, sipping on his drink. This was the fourth time Izzy had left the group this afternoon for a 'smoke,' obviously on edge.
He and Axl had showed up to her apartment early that morning, Axl holding a small bag in his hand while Izzy carried a box of cookies. Lita let them in, rubbing her eyes of their dryness from just waking up. A few of Jack's things still sat outside the door, but she didn't pay attention to that as Axl and Izzy set down what they carried on her counter.
"The big 2-7," Izzy said, opening the cookie box to eat one. It was nine-thirty, but they'd both been up since yesterday. "How does it feel?"
"Like I want to crawl up in a hole and die," Lita remarked, the sleep still evident on her face. Their loud knocking and shouts from outside the door had had her hastily pulling on a bathrobe to get to them before they bothered her neighbours.
"Don't say that–it might actually happen," Axl joked, taking a cookie for himself. "He's right, you can't go around saying that stuff at your age, Lita, it's like superstitious and shit," Izzy said. Axl pushed the striped bag he had been carrying over the counter and into her direction. "I think you mean conspiracy, Izzy."
"Well, it doesn't matter. Either way, I would wait until you're 28 before you say that again," he said seriously. "Ha-Ha, so funny, the both of you," Lita answered sarcastically.
"Open the gift, Leeds," Axl pushed. She grabbed at the striped bag, a messy amount of blue tissue paper was stuffed into its opening, evidence that Axl had tried his best to block whatever gift was inside. The gift was a new record–a compilation of Eric Clapton's greatest hits, and it was the best gift she could get on this random day.
The three of them listened to about half of it together before Izzy left, telling them that he was heading to the balcony for a cigarette. With his words, his physiognomy changed into a more saddened and desolate look. The cheerfulness Lita had seen on Izzy's face during parts of their touring was gone in an instant, and he was back to his lonesome self.
He came back after twenty minutes, sat with them and helped finish off the cookies while Lita put on another record. There they made plans for later that night: Axl called Slash and Duff in her kitchen, telling them to meet the three of them at the Cathouse at eight. Lita called Della and asked her to join, and at that time Izzy slipped out again.
When Axl and Lita journeyed down to the parking lot at ten, making their way to her car to venture down to Santa Monica before they had to go to Beverly Hills that night, they both spotted Izzy: he was leaning against the concrete building, his second cigarette in hand. Axl told him they were leaving, and Izzy waved goodbye, saying he'd take Axl's car to the club later.
When they got to the Cathouse at ten past eight, Izzy was standing outside with his third cigarette. He followed behind Axl and Lita into the club over to a private booth in the corner. Duff and Linda were there already, sipping on individual tequilas, and Della and Slash arrived together around nine.
Now, at eleven-thirty, Izzy was probably out in the alley with that damn fourth cigarette and possibly chatting with an unassuming female bartender. Something had been going on with him, Lita knew, but he was so secretive–what a hypocrite she was for saying that!–and Lita knew she would never be able to pull the information from him.
Lita was broken out of her thoughts when Axl bit at her neck, nustling his nose against her nose and whispering, "Whatcha' thinkin' 'bout?" Lita huffed loudly, placing her glass against the table loudly. Della looked over at them, scared at possibly being caught, and removed her hand from Slash's body and back to her drink.
Lita looked at her quizzically, eyeing the two of them considerably. "Just Izzy. He seem off to you?" Lita answered, still looking at Della with a sudden ire that she could not reason with. Slash looked about to pass out, and Duff and Linda, stuck between the two couples, were happy right where they were.
Della eyed her back, crossing her eyes off the Axl, still sniffing her neck, and raised an eyebrow. It was an unspoken question. With her eyes, Della was asking what was going on between her and Axl. Oh, Lita would've loved to answer, but not now, and maybe that was the reason for her slight annoyance at her oldest friend. Lita was angry that she couldn't tell Della about her and Axl's secret relationship.
Lita and Axl got up from the table as Izzy came in. "I think I'm gonna' head out," he said. Axl nodded back at him, not bothered by his disgruntled behavior in the slightest like Lita had. "Sure, as long as I get my car back," Axl jested. Izzy answered in the affirmative and left soon after.
That was the last time Lita saw Izzy until September 3rd. And when she did see the Guns N' Roses guitarist, he had grown even more sullen since the day of her birthday. He had reserved inward and, along with not attending their concert after-parties, Izzy made sure he was only present when he needed to be. It was like he had some unspoken agenda he had to attend to that no other member of the band needed to know about. Whatever he was thinking, whatever he was planning, not even Axl–his closest friend in the band–had any clue what it was.
As Izzy left, Lita tried not to think about his introvertedness. He'd been nothing but nice to her, so why would she try and pry into his life. But, Izzy could've been dying, addicted to some other drug like Steven had been, and he'd never told a soul. That was what worried Lita, and she knew it wouldn't end up well for him.
Lita, Axl, Della, Slash, Duff, and Linda spent the rest of the night out at the Cathouse partying and getting as shitfaced as they could in celebration–not only of Lita's birthday, but also the upcoming European leg of the tour. They would do four shows on the continent: one in London, Paris, Madrid, and Dublin.
Lita steered clear of Della and her boytoy the rest of the night, instead getting tipsy off the dozen strawberry daiquiris she ordered. Axl and Lita stayed back near the bar, chatting and flirting casually while everything else happened around them. Lita didn't spot the paparazzi lurking near the windows of the establishment, near their faces. A flash illuminated around them, but both Lita and Axl assumed that was coming from the overbearing lights flashing all around them. White, green, blue, red, yellow, and more bounced off the walls with people dancing before them. Lita's tight dress–that she'd pulled out of her suitcase upon returning to Los Angeles–was slightly lifted as she and Axl talked vehemently. A magazine reporter outside, likely for the Rolling Stone, flipped through the set of photos he'd taken, making sure to snap the camera when the flash would intercept with the white lights blaring inside. Lita and Axl paid no mind–for now.
Not much could be said about Duff and Linda that night. They spent most of their night drinking leisurely in the booth. After the divorce from his first wife, Duff had found solace in this new woman. She had been a great companion the past two weeks–and by God she could drink! That was something Duff admired in his addiction. Once, they went out onto the dance floor. Many people were crowded around them, and Duff could even see Della and Slash thrashing around, both high off something he wanted to get his hands on. Unlike the couples and singles bouncing around him, he and Linda were slow to dance. The alcohol had caused them both to become extremely tired, and the will to dance and be a part of the party was starting to diminish. Just past one, Duff and Linda would leave as well. On the way out, driving out of Beverly Hills, Duff almost crashed his expensive car–laughing as he did so. He couldn't wait to get home and sleep.
Della had always been slightly jealous of Lita. She was younger, and arguably more beautiful–to Della's insecure standards–and someone was always lusting after her. First it was Jack, and now it was obviously Axl. Lita couldn't even hide it from her best friend, and Della was mad she had tried. She loved her best friend, but, every one and a while, Della wished she could be in her position: to have many men pining after her, the picture of a perfect life–at least until things abruptly ended with Jack. The thing was, Della knew Jack was an asshole, everybody did, but deep down Della had to consider that maybe, just maybe, Lita had broken up with him for her own selfish reasons. Maybe someone else had been trying to get under her skin, and Lita gave in, and now the guilt was building up inside her that she just exploded. Della wished she'd had a problem like that. Della justified that that was the reason she stayed with Slash. She'd complained to her friend that he had cheated on her many times, something that still bothered Della, but she continued to stay with him through every up and down–why? Della knew it was because it was the closest she'd ever get to having a relationship like Lita and Axl, oh how she knew that.
Della was jealous of them, plain and simple. She hoped in her mind that Slash would change, so that they could become the picture perfect couple that Della had imagined Lita and Axl were, no matter how much Lita's eyes denied telling her so. Oh, she'd do anything to be like her best friend.
To drown out the rest of the night, Della danced with her–boyfriend? They had gotten back together, hadn't they–and consumed every raunchy substance that could be found in the establishment. They were the last of the partying group to leave, just before five, when the house closed for a few morning hours. Still sober enough to recognize that neither of them could properly drive, Della and Slash hailed a cab. The sun was up when they made it back to wherever Slash had told the driver, and the night (morning) ended as Della assumed Lita and Axl's would, in the confines of a bedroom, with Della just being the most recent woman invited there.
The two bands would spend their free time away with their own respective boyfriends and girlfriends, and then they'd hitch a ride to the Los Angeles airport, heading straight to London. Before any of them knew it, the tour would be over soon for Christmas, then the new 'Silent Cherries' album would be out, and then–well, nobody knew.
-
September 3rd, 1990
London was foggy in the late summer, early fall. Beads of water drizzled down the window of the venue, and the darkening sky thundered with more rain to come soon. It was a good thing the event was indoors. If they were to perform at Wembley, surely Axl would complain about getting drenched in water again and the possibility of cables and controls being ruined–rightfully so.
The show had just ended, and now Lita Monroe was waiting outside Axl's dressing room, where he moved around inside in haste to leave the building. There was no after-party tonight, each band was too tired to find some bar down the street to call home until they had to leave in a few days. Lita liked that, while she wasn't the biggest fan of Alan Niven, at least he'd scheduled them to have enough time in each city to do some exploring.
She couldn't wait for when they were in Paris.
Lita knocked on the door again, whispering through the wood at Axl, telling him to hurry up putting on his pants–for it was usual for him to not wear any during the show–so that they could leave. Even with no after-party, Lita was still hungry and in search of a bar they could go to following the dramatic show.
Somewhere the British media couldn't find them.
"I'll be out in a second," she could hear Axl say now. Something fell inside the room, she heard a loud "Fuck!" come from someone, and then the sound of Axl punching the drywall. "I may need more than a minute," he yelled out. Lita laughed.
Slash and Della were a few doors down in the former's dressing room, and Melissa chatted with Izzy before both went their own ways for the rest of the night. This had all been an hour ago. Lita didn't notice Jack or his lurking near her, too concerned with whatever was going on inside Axl's dressing room to garner a potential hole in the wall.
Jack stood at the end of the hall, suspicious, peeking half his head around the corner to get a good look at his ex-girlfriend. He wondered aloud to himself: "What is she doing on this side of the arena, away from her own things, and outside another man's room."
The door opened and Jack saw Axl exit, his jeans only half zipped as Lita laughed at him. His hair was tousled and she pushed it back in place to the best of her ability. Jack frowned.
Had they gotten together? No he was engaged to some chick, if Jack remembered correctly.
Had they fucked? Jack wanted to say no, but the way they looked at each other now warranted a disagreement with what his brain told him, and his jealous heart said: "Why yes, they're together. And it's just to spite you."
Jack followed behind at a distance, watching as Lita and Axl exited the venue, watched Axl take off his Uzi Suicide leather jacket to drape over Lita's head and shoulders in the rain, and watched them hail a cab, heading somewhere.
Some itchy, distinctive feeling inside his messed up head told him not to follow them, but to invade them personally, and look for clues like Sherlock Holmes had in the stories from his childhood. There was no band bus, for the hotel was just down the street, in the opposite direction the couple went in.
Jack walked toward the hotel, inside the foyer of the grand building and past the watchful eyes of the young women at the front desk who were staring at this semi-famous man.
He pulled a bobby pin from his pulled-back, bleach blonde hair–it kept the semi-long bangs out of his eyes as he played bass that night–and held it tightly as he walked up to Lita's hotel room. There was no noise around him, except for the running water sound that came from Melissa's room that he'd just passed.
He stuck the pin into the lock of Lita's room, similar to how he'd picked locker locks with his older brother in highschool, to steal any valuables some unsuspecting Freshmen had left inside. Hearing the door click open, Jack gently kicked the door in.
The room was fairly empty and clean. No lights were on except the lamp on the bedside table. The bed was freshly made, unused. The bathroom door was open, nothing of substance inside, for Lita's personal suitcase sat on the armchair next to the radio, closed.
That was the only place he'd find something.
Jack's thick leather boots rattled against the hardwood floor, scrunching and squeezing as he creased them. The simple, black case rested there suspiciously, and Jack just had to open it quickly.
Inside were a few colorful shirts thrown quickly on top, under that a pair of purple leather pants and some Hello Kitty socks–nothing Jack needed to spend seconds looking at. He saw her hairbrush, toothbrush, elastics, and makeup. Shoes were stuffed in a smaller compartment on the outside of the case, containing more socks of various childhood characters.
Looking back into the center of the case, the tip of something white stuck out from a black, plastic pocket. Jack grabbed it.
He pulled out a piece of film, and he was looking at the back side. Turning it over, Jack saw a man standing in front of a glass shower, his back turned. The color wasn't the best, but Jack could make out the long hair and Uzi Suicide leather jacket anywhere. But what was Lita doing with a picture of Axl?
He opened the pocket again, sticking his hand inside to feel around. Jack pulled out six other photos. The first one was yet another photo of this man, Axl. Instead of inside a bathroom, he was looking directly at the camera, eyes half closed, wearing the same outfit from previously. Taken the same day.
Out of the five in his left hand, two were facing him, photo side up. A photo of Lita, her naked shoulder on display as she looked at the camera, frightened as if she wasn't ready for the photo. The second, where Lita was standing, looking lustfully at whoever was taking the photo. The bathroom she was standing in, it seemed, was the same one from the first picture, the one with Axl turned around.
A light bulb went off in Jack's head. "Slut," was the first thing that came to his head in boiling anger.
He didn't know when these were taken, but they must've been recent, from this tour, possibly from before Lita had broken up with him. Jack knew: that must've been why she broke up with him. Lita had found another man, a tied down, engaged one, and she didn't need him anymore. That's why she pushed him away. She'd cheated on him!
Jack turned over the other three photos, and it was even worse than he'd suspected. Jack was hurt at Lita for doing this to him, that she couldn't tell him the truth, and that he had to find out like this. Jack had no idea that these lude photos were from after their breakup, and Jack certainly and most narcissistically did not blame himself for the ending of his relationship. He blamed Lita, no matter how much he was in the wrong.
But this wasn't over.
And so, he left the room with the photos, making sure not to leave evidence of his presence. He called his manager, asking for the number of Los Angeles's department that he knew Lita despised, and called them personally, saying he had the scoop of the year, and that, as soon as he could, he'd send over the photos and the story alongside it.
Oh, the trouble and misery he would bring that back-stabbing slut.
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