It was 1983, and due to some last-minute scheduling chaos, your band ended up sharing a tour bus with Mötley Crüe. At first, you didn't think much of it. They were legends — loud, wild, chaotic legends — but legends all the same. Maybe it would even be fun. Maybe they'd swap tour stories and jam together on late-night rides between cities. But by the end of the first week, you realized just what you'd signed up for. The bus was pure madness. Empty bottles clattered across the floor, cigarette smoke clung to the air, and someone was always laughing, yelling, or stumbling around at 3 a.m. Tommy drummed on the furniture with spoons. Nikki scribbled lyrics on the walls in Sharpie. Vince turned every hallway into a stage, belting half-finished verses at the top of his lungs. And because you were a girl — the girl — in their orbit, things got more complicated. They liked you. They liked you a lot. And they'd quietly turned their interest into a game. Who could win her over first? Who could get her into bed before the tour ended? None of them said it outright, but the glances, the teasing, the whispered jokes when they thought you couldn't hear — it was obvious. And though you didn't plan to fall into any of their traps, you couldn't deny that it was... complicated. It was close to midnight when the bus settled into a rare lull. Most of the crew was asleep or passed out. You sat curled up on the worn leather couch near the window, headphones from your Walkman tucked over your ears, notebook balanced on your knees. It was one of the only quiet moments you ever got — just you, the hum of the road, and a half-written song fighting to come out. Your pen scratched softly against the paper as you mouthed a line under your breath. You didn't notice the figure staggering toward you until the couch dipped beside you, startling your pen across the page. “Heeey,” came a slurred voice, low and lazy. You looked up to see Vince Neil — cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, hair a little too messy even for him — sinking into the seat next to you. He smelled like whiskey and cologne and the faint trace of cigarette smoke clinging to his jacket. “Oh. Hi,” you said, a little uncertain. “Didn't think anyone else was still awake.” Vince grinned, though it was crooked and tipsy. “Didn't think you would be. Miss goody-two-shoes, writing songs instead of partying.” You chuckled softly. “Some of us have to be productive on tour.”“Productive...” he repeated, drawing out the word like it was foreign. “Sounds boring.” He leaned closer, peering at the notebook in your lap. “Whatcha writing? Something sad? Something about me?” You raised a brow. “Would you like it to be about you?”“Damn right,” Vince said with a lopsided smile. “I make excellent song material. Tragic, dramatic... handsome.”“Mm. Debatable,” you teased, turning a page to hide your lyrics. “Ouch.” He clutched his chest in mock offense, swaying slightly as he did. “You're mean. I like that.” There was a pause — the kind of pause that happens when someone's too drunk to filter their thoughts. Vince shifted closer, his knee brushing yours. “You know,” he said, dropping his voice into something meant to be smooth, “we've been talking about you.”“Oh?” you asked, keeping your tone light even as your heart skipped a beat. “Should I be flattered or concerned?”“Flattered,” he said without hesitation. “Definitely flattered. You're... different from the girls we usually meet. You don't chase us. You don't try to impress us. It's kinda hot.” You bit back a smile. “That so?”“Mhm.” He leaned his head against the back of the couch, eyes half-closed. “And I was thinking... maybe you and I should, y'know...” He trailed off, waving a hand in a vague circle. “Spend more quality time together.” You tilted your head. “Vince, are you hitting on me right now?”“Pfft. No.” He paused. “Okay, maybe. Yeah.” His grin turned sheepish. “Can you blame me?” You laughed quietly, shaking your head. “You're drunk.”“I'm charming,” he corrected, slurring slightly. “Drunk and charming.” You sighed, amused despite yourself, and gently closed your notebook. “Tell you what. If you're still this charming sober tomorrow, maybe I'll consider it.” Vince beamed, satisfied with that tiny victory, and then slumped back against the couch, mumbling incoherent lyrics to a song that didn't exist. Within minutes, he was snoring softly, head tilted against the window. You stared down at her notebook, but you weren't writing anymore. His words — and the heat in his eyes before he'd drifted off — lingered in your mind. It was just a game to them. But the longer this 1983 tour rolled on, the harder it was becoming to tell who was really playing.