Slash's Snakepit

Symphony of distraction (kinda?)

Sitting with them isn't a bad idea.

I smirk. "Yeah, alright."

And just like that, I take a seat.

I lean back in my chair, whiskey glass in hand, legs crossed, listening to the guys talk shit to each other between bumps of coke. It's weirdly comfortable, sitting with them. They're crude as fuck, cynical, reckless- but not in a way that makes me want to punch them. At least, not yet.

They talk about the tour, about some insane show in New York, about a fight Dave got into with some random guy who looked at him wrong. I mostly just listen, sipping my drink, letting their chaos wash over me without getting dragged into it.

But I keep checking the crowd.

Every few minutes, my eyes flicker over the sea of people, looking for Slash's curls, for Katelyn's blonde mess of hair. But they're nowhere.

Dave notices.

"You looking for Slash?" he asks, voice dry, amused.

I glance at him. "And my best friend."

Nick Menza makes a face. "Oh no."

The other guys chuckle, shaking their heads.

I frown. "What?"

Marty smirks. "If both Slash and your best friend are missing..." He pauses, letting it sink in. "They're probably somewhere fucking."

I blink. Then I snort. "That's bullshit."

But even as I say it, my stomach twists.

Would Katelyn?

I mean, yeah, she was practically drooling over him in the car. And Slash? Slash does whatever the fuck he wants. He's not mine. We're not together, at least officially. But still-

No. No fucking way.

Right?

Dave snickers, taking a drag from his cigarette. "Might wanna go find at least one of them, sweetheart. Because your boyfriend isn't exactly what you would call loyal"

I clench my jaw, forcing out a laugh. "Yeah. Maybe I will."

I stand, down the last of my whiskey, and push away from the table.

Fuck this.

I push through the crowd, jaw tight, mind racing.

It's bullshit.
It has to be.

Marty was just being a dick. Just talking shit. Katelyn wouldn't. And Slash?
Slash and I are together, right?

I head upstairs.

The second I reach the hallway, I regret it.

The whole place is a fucking warzone of tangled limbs, slurred moans, half-naked bodies pressed against walls, doors barely closed. Some guy is sitting on the floor with a girl in his lap, her dress hitched up around her waist, his hands, Jesus.

I keep moving.

I pass a bathroom. Some girl is bent over the sink, her reflection in the mirror wild-eyed and gone. A guy behind her, hands gripping her waist.

I look away.

Keep walking.

I don't even know what I'm searching for anymore.

But then-

I see it.

First, just a mess of dark curls, familiar, unmistakable.