In which Dave Mustaine entertains an enemies-to-lovers relationship with a talented guitarist, one of his former band's member sister.
↳ TW: mention of S.A. and substance abuse
↳ favoring chapters helps me a lot!
Started: 10/01/2023
Finished: 05/05...
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If there was one thing I missed about France, it was the second-hand music shops. I could buy records at least once a week from unknown artists. But the music shops in California weren't all that bad either. As I entered the shop, a small bell jingled above the door, and the owner greeted me with a warm smile. He was an older man with slicked-back gray hair and hands adorned with silver rings. The shop itself was a delightful mess, with stacks upon stacks of vinyl records piled haphazardly on shelves. It was a treasure trove, a place where you never knew what musical gems you might unearth.
But today, I wasn't here to lose myself among the shelves. I had a specific goal in mind.
"Hi Pat," I said, flashing a sheepish smile at the older man as I leaned against the counter.
"Hi Donna, how are you? Heard you had a pretty big concert last week," Pat replied, his hands busy organizing boxes.
"That's for sure. Don't worry, I'll keep a seat for you when I'm the biggest rockstar in the industry. First row," I joked.
Pat chuckled, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "That's what we'll see."
Leaning closer to him, I lowered my voice as if sharing a secret. "Do you have what I asked you for?"
Pat caught on quickly, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Oh... I'm sorry, Donna. I just sold it to a customer. He left a few minutes ago."
"What?! Who would even want to buy that? You promised you would keep it for me," I lamented, frustration bubbling within me. How unlikely was it that someone else wanted that specific record?
"Sorry, but you didn't pay in advance and weren't quick enough," Pat replied, his tone apologetic.
"Come on, Pat, you know I'm broke," I sighed, feeling a sense of defeat.
"He forgot his jacket in here. He's probably coming back to get it. If you want, you can wait and see if you can strike a deal with him. It's not my problem," Pat offered, tossing a black leather jacket covered in patches my way. It had a worn and lived-in look, but it felt strangely familiar.
I couldn't resist the urge to put it on, despite its oversized fit. The leather enveloped me, and its comforting scent wrapped around me like a nostalgic embrace. Leaning against the counter, I slipped my hands into the jacket's pockets, and there, I felt something. It was a piece of paper—a torn page from a notebook, adorned with random lyrics and crossed-out phrases. Alongside it, I discovered a pamphlet from a Californian senator named Alan Cranston, with a quote that read, "The arsenal of megadeath can't be rid of no matter what the peace treaties come to."
Before I could delve deeper into the mystery of these findings, the shop's door swung open, and I looked up to see a familiar face. Time seemed to pause for a moment as our eyes met, and my breath caught in my throat.
