Hold On To Love || Kirk Hammett

Part 4- Hard Ride

Who's gonna ride that road with me?
Who's gonna show me where we're gonna be?
Who's gonna be the one to join the fantasy?
How about you now?

"Yea, sure." Her sweet voice rang through the room, "I'm so tired, I honestly don't give a fuck."

She may not be 'giving a fuck' but I certainly did. My heart was in my mouth, galloping with each second she spent near me. I pursed my lips, my nails digging into my palms as I tried my best to steady my breaths. 

My room was so messy, I didn't even want to know what she was thinking. My comics were piled up on my bedside table, obscuring the lamp from view- my guitars practically covering the bed. And don't get me started on the posters that were peeling off the wall.

I knew what I was going to do tomorrow morning.

The bed creaked as she crashed down, kicking off her shoes. I was not one to shame a woman for wearing what they did- but god, that looked uncomfortable just looking at it.

"Do you, uhm," Fuck it, Kirk, just tell her, "Do you want my clothes?"

"Oh, yes, please." She gushed.

I immediately rummaged through my clothes, finding something decent to wear. I couldn't have her wearing one of my stage clothes that were probably drenched in sweat. I pulled out a Misfits top, quickly tearing off the tag and shoving it my pocket. 

Perfect.

"This is cute." She giggled, picking up my fruit-salad-and-spaghetti pants from the floor.

My face flushed red, "I don't know how that got in there," I said, "Must be Jame-"

"Thank you, Kirk." She said, snatching my shirt and planting a kiss on my cheek.

I was still as a marble statue, every inch of my skin burning, air whooshing out of my lungs. The feel of her lips were imprinted in my mind- in my skin- as she sauntered over to the bathroom with my fruit salad pants and Misfits shirt in her hands.

I was sure I had dreamed this woman to life.

Reality slammed into me as I heard the door shut, my eyes darting across the room to assure me this wasn't some figment of my imagination- to convince my mind that the gorgeous woman on stage was going to sleep in my bed.

Oh God.

She's going to sleep in my bed. Savannah Stokes is going to sleep in my bed. What if I snore, or accidentally kick her? Or the roof comes crashing down on us while were in bed together?

"I'm," Her yawn cut her sentence short, "I'm so tired."

My words were tied in my throat. My breath was caught in my lungs. My eyes had dropped to the floor and my thoughts were trapped in my head.

My clothes held snug onto her body, tight enough to fit her but loose enough to be comfortable. She wore my shirt, and it was like she was wearing my heart on her sleeve. The fabric draped over her frame, and it was like watching my feelings come to life.

She looked so beautiful in my clothes, and I couldn't help but feel a sense of pride and ownership. It was as if she belonged to me, even if it was just for a moment. Beautiful. So fucking beautiful.

Her hair was pulled up into a messy bun, like a nest of curls on top of her head. It was both wild and elegant, with loose strands framing her face.

She looked like a princess who had just woken up from a long slumber, or an artist who was too busy creating to worry about her appearance. Either way, I thought she looked like the prettiest woman on Earth.