So Close (a James Hetfield story)

Chapter 1

It was louder in the lobby of The Concert Factory, an old theater that had been converted into a music venue years earlier, but at least we were now out of the sight of the ticket guy's creepy stares.

"What the hell was that?" Kelly asked, shivering in disgust. "He was literally undressing you with his eyes. So gross!"

"He's a total perv," I agreed. "And, he thought we were groupies when I told him we were friends of the band. He couldn't believe that we were actually here to hear the music."

"Groupies? Ewwwww. Don't they like, sleep with the band and stuff? He thinks that's why we're here? Why would he even think that?"

I looked away guiltily then. I hadn't really explained what to expect when we got here, afraid Kelly would back out.

She caught me avoiding her eyes and was immediately suspicious. "What aren't you telling me Leila?"

"It's just...well...the band is a little...raw. They don't really get many girls at their shows. The music is hard edged and fast and angry."

I started towards the entrance to the main hall as I spoke. The music was getting louder, its frenetic energy making my friend noticeably apprehensive. I, on the other hand, felt my own pulse quicken with anticipation. So close.

Opening the doors we walked in, Kelly's eyes going wide as she took in the room. There were no disco balls, strobe lights and fog machines. There were no wannabe pop princesses working their best dance moves to Olivia Newton-John and Michael Jackson. Instead, the dance floor was crowded with mostly guys, their fists pumping in time with the hard driving rhythms screaming out of the PA's. Those not crammed up against the stage were dancing wildly, slamming their shoulders against each other aggressively.

"What circle of hell have you brought me to Leila?"

I slid a sideways glance at my friend and stifled an impulse to laugh at her horrified expression. "It's not really as bad as you think...."

The sentence was left unfinished as I had looked to the stage, my eyes immediately drawn to a mass of dirty blond hair as it swirled and shook, obscuring the face beneath it. I felt the familiar pressure tighten in my chest, my breathing becoming more rapid, every nerve ending in my body tingling with awareness of him. That's all it took, just being in the same room and I was a mess.

Unfortunately, to him I was his family, his anchor, the best friend he counted on to have his back while he lived his crazy rock and roll life. Sighing deeply, I was instantly reminded that things would be so much easier if I weren't completely and totally in love with him.

Had I known when I was nine years old that I would someday be in this pickle, would I have insisted on taking violin lessons instead of piano? Would I give up the years of friendship, the good times and special moments that made up the most important relationship I had ever had? Despite my unrequited love, despite how much it really sucked loving him and knowing it was pointless, I would never have chosen a different path, no matter the pain it caused me now.

That fateful day when I was nine years old, I found myself waiting in the front living room in the home of Mrs. Dolores Beecham, a widow who made ends meet by teaching piano to children of all ages and ability. My mom had insisted that learning an instrument was important for a well-rounded education, and had signed me up on the recommendation of a friend. It was my first day and my mom had dropped me extra early, but as Mrs. Beecham was still in with another student, I was forced to sit there nervously wondering what I was in for.

The front door opened unexpectedly and I jumped in my seat. A boy my age walked in, but stopped suddenly when he saw me there watching him. Sitting down in another chair, he dropped his head down, his blond locks doing a poor job of hiding the flush of his cheeks. I could see he was uncomfortable, and I was surprised by how much I wished that he wasn't.