One

July 1983

Richie Sambora sat in the backseat of Tim’s pride and joy, Roxanne. Okay, so Roxanne was a ’57 Chevy, but hell, it had enough room for his long ass legs. Tim could name it whatever the hell he wanted. A quarter empty bottle of tequila sat between his thighs, the worm twirled around the bottom with each wicked turn.

“Fucking cabbies!” Tim slammed on the horn.

“Hey, it wasn’t my idea to spend my birthday in New York City. I can get trashed in Jersey just as easily.”

“Fucking Jersey,” Tim Pierce yelled back.

“Nah, man—Jersey boys like to fuck. Get it right!” Richie hollered back over Eric Clapton’s We’re All the Way. He tipped his head back, watching the street lights whip by. Each flash of light pushed his buzz a little more into drunk. The sweet scent of pot curled around his head as Lou blew out a stream of smoke.

It had been a good night. He might have bitched at the time, but getting dragged out of the studio was just what the doctor ordered. He’d spent every waking moment figuring out just how to blend Jon’s vision with his own for the record. Add in Jon’s nosy and bossy fuckhead of a cousin, and the sessions were getting downright tense.

Lou passed him the half gone joint. He drew in deep, holding the smoke as long as he could. The blue-grey stream rolled around the back window until the streetlights took on a starry quality. Now this was relaxing. He passed it back to Lou, content to enjoy Clapton’s sad guitar riffs.

The stingy crack of Tim’s window barely cut through the cigarette and pot haze. Too many men trapped in a sweaty studio and the pungent odor of tequila finally broke through his complacency and he rolled down his window. He laughed as the tape flipped and Cocaine blasted through night.

Tim started the next verse. “If you got bad news…You wanna kick them blues…Cocaine.”

Lou laughed and started in. “When your day is done…And you wanna run…”

The three men all sang together. “Cocaine.”

Richie lifted his tequila. The slosh of amber liquid echoed in his belly with each stinging, “She don’t lie, she don’t lie, she don’t lie—Cocaine.” He belted back a swig and passed the joint one more time. God, he was so glad to be out of the studio.

“Hugh!” he yelled out. Not even a glimmer of movement from the front seat. “Huuuge McDonald! You awake up there?”

Tim leaned over and slapped his face lightly. “Nah, I think he’s gone.”

Richie snorted. “Poor boy can’t hold his tequila.”

“Only you can hold tequila, son.” Lou answered with a laugh. “I’ll stick to beer.”

Richie leaned over and rubbed Lou’s big belly. “That’s why you look pregnant my man.”

“The girls don’t complain.”

“What girls?” Tim and Richie asked at the same time. Laughter bounced along the leather interior as the music was cranked even higher. “I demand Hendrix! It’s my goddamn birthday and I want to hear Purple Haze because you motherfuckers got me all fucked up.”

A quick change of cassette and Jimi’s gritty guitar and pounding drums in the background kicked up the mood. As always, he was amazed at the chord progressions and pure passion that bled from the song. Tim’s mixed tape included Foxey Lady next.

Instantly a pair of wild blue eyes popped into his head, followed by the memory of curls so big and multicolored that his fingers itched to get tangled for hours. Fuck, he hadn’t thought of her since Christmas. Holiday cheer, a black dress and decadent silver dripped off her throat and ears like tinsel. That was the last image he had of her. He lifted the bottle to his lips. The burn of alcohol put those thoughts back where they belonged. Away—buried…fucking banished.

“Louder!” he yelled as the song flipped to All Along the Watchtower. They bumped down the pot holed streets of downtown. Where the fuck were they going? It wasn’t like they needed anything special. A bar and some stale pretzels and he was pretty much satisfied. Finally the car stopped and he lifted his fuzzy head. “Are we finally here?”

“Yep,” Tim turned off the car. The silence immediately replaced by city traffic and fluorescent lights buzzing up the side of the decaying buildings.

Richie capped the tequila and rolled it under the front seat. “Where the fuck are we?”

“Lady Tanga’s.”

He wrapped his fingers around the door frame and pressed his forehead into his knuckles. “A skin joint? Man, I am not drunk enough for that, yet.”

“Not a skin joint, the skin joint. Snake told me about this place.”

Richie snorted and unlatched the door. “Great, Dave told you about this place? Do I need a Hep B shot before I go in there?”

Lou laughed and tapped Hugh on the head. “Rise and shine princess. Time to see some ladies.”

“I’m dreaming about a really hot lady,” Hugh muttered into the vinyl headrest. “I’ll watch the car.”

“Suit yourself.” Lou wrapped his arm around Richie’s shoulder. “I can vouch for Dave on this one my friend. There’ a girl in here that’ll make your dick twitch so hard, you’ll stuff twenties in her G string just so she’ll smile at you.”

“I don’t know, Lou. Your standards are pretty fucking low.”

Tim slapped his back. “We can’t bag all the hot chicks you do, Rich, but this one…I’ve heard Rosie will make you weep.”

“All right, let’s see this chick.”