Jameson // Metallica

OF WOLF AND SHEEP

Oh, shit.

My first instinct was to turn around and run.

And I almost did. But then this little voice in my head, the same voice that convinces you that it's a good idea to lick frozen metal in winter, said that this was just too good to let it slide.

Leaning against the doorframe with one leg inside his bathroom, I took in the scene before my eyes.

James was reclining comfortably in the bathtub filled with scented foam. Only his head and neck were sticking above the bubbly surface. Eyes closed, his cowboy hat pulled deep onto his forehead, a bottle of Coors within easy reach. No wonder he didn't hear my knocking—with the headphones of his walkman in his ears, James was singing, "I'm a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride, and I'm waaanted, dead or alive . . . ."

With all this fucking hazing and other shit I had to take from him, oh yeah, there were times when I very much wanted James dead. But then there were also other—confusing—times when I actually liked being around him, with his roughness, weird sense of humor, and all.

I stepped over his boots and perched on the edge of the tub. From up close the bubbles smelled sweet and fruity—raspberry? Strawberry? Whatever it was, it smelled nice.

I swiped my hand over the surface of the water, scooping up a handful of bubbles. A second of hesitation, and I planted the whole thing on James's face.

With fascinated interest, I watched as James stopped singing mid-note and jerked his head to the side.

"What the fuck?" His hand wiped his face, just enough to get most of the stuff out of his eyes. After a series of quick blinks he focused his attention on me.

"Hi, cowboy." My lips stretched into a 1000-watt smile. I scooped up more bubbles and blew them into his face.

"What the fuck?" James repeated, yanking the headphones out of his ears. Jon Bon Jovi was still complaining about life on the road, but what did he have to complain about? He didn't have to put up with James every single day.

James wiped his face again. The next second his hand shot out and clasped around my wrist, twisting it and increasing the grip at the same time. I jerked, but he didn't let go. Instead, he pulled me down. My other hand grabbed the edge of the tub for support, and with maybe six inches between our faces we were staring at each other. Who was gonna blink first?

"Ouch!" I winced at the pain in my wrist. So maybe I'm a wimp, but we were on tour and I kind of needed my wrist intact.

"Get the fuck out." James's voice sounded almost relaxed, if not lazy, as he let go of me. He pushed the "Off" button on the walkman, wrapped the mini headphones around it, and tossed it onto the pile of clothes on the floor.

I could have left then. Any sane person would have grabbed the chance and left. But there was something about James that was making me feel not quite sane.

I stayed.

Not only that, I snatched his beer off the little shelf before settling myself on the edge of the tub again. With the bottle stuck between my thighs, I massaged my abused wrist.

"Where's the famous Hetfield growl, cowboy? Are the bubbles making you mellow?"

"Cut it out, Newkid, and get out before it's too late."

"You should've locked the door, you know?" I reached for the bottle and took a swig, savoring the taste.

James shook his head; his hand pushed the hat over his eyes as he slumped lower. With arms crossed over his chest and chin tilted up, he looked like he was trying to ignore me.