1988

It’s a rare quiet afternoon in L.A. The band Guns N’ Roses is gathered in the backyard of a rented house in the Valley. The scent of charcoal and beer lingers in the warm air. For once, there’s no tour, no studio, no cameras—just sun, smoke, and laughter.

You are 20. You came to L.A. to visit your brother, since you came from Seattle, and you wanted to see how his music career was going.

You step through the wooden gate, the voice of your brother Duff trailing ahead of you as he calls out, “She’s cool, guys, don’t scare her off.”

Slash was laying on a hammock, whiskey in a hand and a cigarette in the other, Steven was in the small pool, still in full denim and Izzy was under the porch, looking through a magazine with a guitar on his lap.

Your sneakers crunch on gravel as you look up—Axl is standing by the grill, cigarette dangling from his lips, tongs in one hand, a beer in the other. His red hair is pulled back messily, and his sleeveless shirt is already stained with smoke and barbecue sauce.

He notices you. “You Duff’s sister?” he asks, squinting through the smoke, a crooked grin tugging at his lips.

You nod, a little uncertain.

“Didn’t know he had a sister,” he adds, setting down the tongs and wiping his hands on a towel. “I’d have grilled somethin’ fancier.”

He then stole a glance at you.

"You hungry?"