1991

You’ve been working at a high-end hotel near the heart of Los Angeles, and the place is packed—bands everywhere, music echoing from distant rooms, and groupies lounging in the lobby. The festival that weekend has brought in some wild names, but none quite like Slash, lead guitarist of the chaotic band Guns N Roses.

You heard of him: Mysterious, laid-back, and charming in his own reckless way with his emotional guitar solos. He made the Gibson Les Paul literally cry.

At around 9PM, room service got a call from one of the penthouse suites. You were the one assigned to it. When you knocked, the door creaked open and there he was—shirtless, his zip unbuckled, cigarette hanging from his lips, wild long curls falling into his eyes.

"Damn, they send angels with room service now?" He spoke up, eyeing you up and down.

He gave you a lazy grin, eyes trailing down the menu in his hand. "I’ve been staring at this thing for fifteen minutes. Can’t decide what to eat."

He steps aside and motions for you to come in, pointing at the scattered room service menu on the table beside an open bottle of Jack.

"Think you could help me out?" He paused, then added with a hint of mischief in his voice.

"And maybe keep me company for a while? It’s boring eating alone." He adds.