Hold On To Love || Kirk Hammett

Part 2- Sugar Pie

Savannah's POV

"Here you go." the waitress said as she placed our drinks on the table, snapping me out of my daydream. She was rather short, her stilettos drastically increasing her height. She had brown wavy hair, her eyeliner making her hazel eyes pop. Women over here were drop-dead gorgeous.

"Cheers, to our new start here in the U.S." Neil toasted as we all clinked our glasses together and drank to our new beginning. 

Between their dry jokes, and knocking shots like no one's business, my eye's flitted to the guys around the table. He looked even more handsome by the second. His Misfits shirt revealed his arms, veins trailing up. 

I noticed a few girls ogling at him. He smiled, waving back at them. And suddenly 100 pounds of jealousy slammed into me like a freight train.

I wasn't going to let any other woman get him. I downed my shot in one go and plastered a fake smile across my face. I got up, straightened my clothes, and strutted over to them feeling the girl's eyes boring into my soul.

If you could tell I didn't exactly think this through because I haven't got a fucking clue as to what I was going to say. All I knew that the only woman he'd look at tonight was me.

"Hi, mind if I hang out with you guys?" I said confidently. This was either the beginning of my humiliation or the start of something beautiful. I'm praying to god it's the latter.

"Hi, beautiful."  The blonde one said, patting the seat next to him. "I'm James. Come sit."

"Damn, you guys look like y'all could be in Mötley Crüe or something," I commented as I set down next to him.

I regretted my words the second they left the tip of my tongue. They all piped down, taking sips of their beer, and avoiding eye contact with me.

Maybe it's just culture difference or my twisted humor, but don't people take unseasoned insults as jokes?

Yah neh? I told myself, you fucked things up. Embarrassment washed over me like a tsunami, as I fiddled with the chains around my neck, trying to find something to say.

"Nah, we're Metallica." A brown-haired guy with a mustache and a cig between his lips piped up from the corner, "I'm Cliff."

Metallica. Holy shit, they're a band!

I returned his smile, and the Misfits logo on his arm caught my eye, "Cool tattoo." 

 "Thanks," he smiled, making me feel much more welcome in their sphere.

"So, how long you've played guitar?" 

I took steady breaths to ease my racing heart. Blood pumping through my veins furiously. He's actually talking to me.

Oh. My. God.

He's actually talking to me.

I mustered the courage to look at him. Whisky eyes. Plump lips. And an intoxicating smile.

He propped his elbows on the table, resting his face on his palms, a single curl falling across his face. He tried to blow it away, and I giggled at his failed attempt as he playfully groaned and gave up.

I was so mesmerized by his eyes, his question lay forgotten in my mind, until he said, "I don't bite, you know- not in that sense, anyways."

My cheeks blazed hotter, but thankfully, my voice came out cool and even, "Picked it up when I was thirteen, and now I'm 19."

He furrowed his eyebrows as he did the math, then opened his mouth in shock, "6 years?"

Golden warmth spread through my chest, coming out as a light chuckle, "Yah."