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“I never cry. But that night I did. Tears rolled down my face, and for the first time in as long as I could remember, I didn’t think about myself.” – Vince Neil, when he was under the impression that Nikki Sixx had died.
/ / /
“It’s a sad night for rock ‘n’ roll,” a news anchor said, immediately catching Vince’s attention. “We’ve just received unconfirmed reports that Mötley Crüe bassist Nikki Sixx has died in Hollywood this evening of an apparent drug overdose.”
What the fuck? Did he hear that right? No, he couldn’t have. This wasn’t supposed to happen. No, fuck. No no no. Vince threw the remote at the TV as hard as he could, clamping a hand over his mouth to muffle a scream as he did. Nikki’s picture was up there. Vince’s blood ran cold as he collapsed on the couch behind him, burying his face in the pillows and pulling at his blonde locks. This couldn’t be happening.
Nikki was dead. That fucker, he was dead. Gone.
Yeah, Vince definitely had his fair share of disagreements and arguments with the bassist—anyone who’s been around the two of them for as little as five minutes could attest to that—but at the end of the day, he loved Nikki. Despite all the shit Nikki put him through. He knew it as soon as he stepped into that shitty, run-down apartment of his on the Sunset Strip to audition for what would soon become Mötley fuckin’ Crüe. Meeting the bassist was the best thing that had ever happened to Vince; no one rocked his world quite like Nikki did.
Vince had been trying so hard not to cry, but he didn’t think he could do much to stop the tears from rolling down his cheeks. Nikki was fucking gone and Vince cursed himself for never being able to work up the fucking courage to tell him how he felt, that he loved him, because it was too late now. He was out of chances. He had all the chances in the fucking world, it seemed like, and… he’d chickened out every single time.
He was curled in on himself, hugging his knees tight against his chest. This wasn’t supposed to fucking happen. He felt dizzy. This wasn’t a part of the plan.
The TV cut from a commercial break back to the news, pulling Vince from his thoughts. They were showing a video of Sixx, now, from one of their concerts. Shout at the Devil. Vince bit his knuckle—he had always loved watching Nikki perform that song on stage, and now… Now he’d never get to see Nikki’s hazel eyes all lit up again as his fingers worked the strings on his bass. The blonde singer choked back another sob. God, this wasn’t fucking fair.
“We’ll continue to bring you details on this developing story,” the reporter said, right before moving onto an update about the weather. Vince felt like he was gonna throw up any second now.
He turned off the TV. Then he laid there on the couch for an hour, not moving because he couldn’t, before deciding that he needed to call someone. He needed to call someone before he fucking lost it. And so, even though his hands were shaking badly, he managed to dial Tommy’s number. Him and Tommy went way back, all the way to high school, and the drummer's number was one of the few that the singer actually had memorized.
The phone rang twice before he answered. “Vinnie? What’s up, dude?”
Vince sniffled, wiping his still-teary eyes. “Nikki—”
Tommy cut him off. He was a lot calmer and more collected than the blonde singer was at the moment as he said, “Nikki isn’t dead, Vince.”
“What the fuck are you talking about, man?” Vince cried. “The news… I—he overdosed. I saw it on TV.”
“The paramedics brought him back,” Tommy explained. “He’s okay, he left the hospital and he’s at home right now. You can call him and see, if you want. I just did.”
Vince couldn’t speak. He could only sit there, stunned. “He’s okay?”
“Yeah, man.”
“Y-you’re not joking, are you?” Vince eventually said, his words slow. “He’s really alive?”
“Call him, Vinnie.”
“I—Thanks. I’m gonna,” Vince told the drummer.
“Cool,” Tommy said. “Take care, man.”
After Tommy hung up, Vince sat there for a while. He’d started to zone out while staring at the black TV screen in front of him. He didn’t know why he was suddenly so nervous to call Nikki—okay, that was a bullshit lie. He knew. Oh, he knew.
The phone rang. Once. Twice. And then Vince got Nikki’s answering machine. Fucker.
“Hey, it’s Nikki,” Vince smiled at the sound of his voice. He’d always thought Nikki had the loveliest voice, even on a shitty recording like this one. “I’m not home…Because I’m dead.”
There was a long beep. Silence. Vince contemplated whether or not he should even bother leaving a message, and he ultimately decided to just hang up and give it another shot. Maybe—hopefully—Nikki would answer.
Vince sighed, punching in Nikki’s number for the second time. He restlessly tapped his foot as he listened to the phone ring.
“Hello?”
“Nikki, you fucking asshole! Your answering machine—That’s not funny,” Vince nearly screamed. He was crying again and his voice came out a lot whinier than he’d wanted it to.
“What—? Are you crying?”
“Yeah, and fuck you for making me,” the blonde said.
Nikki laughed. “No fuckin’ way.”
Vince paused for far too long. He ran his fingers through his hair, then took a breath. He opened his mouth but then closed it almost immediately. His nerves got the best of him, like they always did when it came to Nikki. Jesus, how hard was it to say three stupid fucking words?
“I gotta go, uh, take care of some shit, Vin,” Nikki said.
The blonde wanted to kick himself when all he said was, “Bye, Nikki.”
It was quiet after Nikki hung up.
Vince Neil never cried. But tonight, for the first time in a long time, he did.