The minute you agreed to help Mötley Crüe with the stage show — courtesy of Tommy, who just happened to be your little brother — everything felt right. You got along with everyone in the band, especially Vince, who had come to be your best friend since high school.

The one person you hated was Nikki. Well, you didn’t hate each other, per se, you simply couldn’t stand each other — he annoyed the crap out of you. When you first joined the band, Nikki seemed to really enjoy getting a rise out of you. He just didn’t like you, and you had no idea why. You thought it was getting better, but tonight, at the Mötley house, it was about to get worse.

You stared at the slip of paper in between your fingers like a cigarette, pulled out from a jar of names. Out of all the people in this damn party, the paper in your hand just had to say Nikki’s name. Motherfucker.

“Sixx,” you said aloud as you glared across to Nikki in the circle of people in the room. He popped his head up, pursing his lips at you. As you lifted your head from the slip of paper in your hand, everyone at the party was staring at you. Not just you; Nikki, too.

“Imagine doing seven minutes in heaven with the guy you hate most,” one of the girls whispered to her friend beside her. She giggled, but you repressed a glare. Shit like that always pissed you off — people trying to get a rise out of you.

You glanced over to Mick, who was perched on the couch. “Help me,” you mouthed, covering the side of your face with your hand so Nikki couldn’t try to read your lips. The bassist cleared his throat as loud as he possibly could, attempting to get your attention. You shot him a glare, annoyed. Mick waved his hand dismissively, but it did little to reassure you as Nikki was impatiently waiting.

“Let’s get this over with,” Nikki grumbled, standing up and motioning towards the closet. As much as you wanted to protest, you knew there was no way out. Resigned, you stood up and followed him to what was sure to be the longest seven minutes of your life.