The eighties was a time to be alive. Music was truly at its peak, rock and pop alike.
Everyone was drawn to it, no matter how much you fought it, everyone ended up in the same groove.
Y/n was no different. She had dreams, ambitions of being someone.
That was all ruined by the life she was forcibly surround by. Her family was an oddity in the Beverly Hills area. Her dad's business was incredibly secretive which gave y/n the growing suspicion something wasn't right.
At eighteen her father sat her down and began to explain the family business, well, what was the family business. Unfortunately, her father was wrapped up in some money disagreements with the Bartva (or the Russian Mafia).
According to him, they were simple business partners but clearly he was in over his head.
He also confessed that he was a political leader and organizer for an underground party which had caused a lot of turmoil with his other non-Russian associates.
Was he a communist? Y/n was so conflicted. Her father, an effortlessly charming man was a criminal? A commie criminal at that.
After unloading all of that, he finished with the largest shocker of all— they were under attack and he was going to have to sent to a Russian refuge home/colony run by her father.
What. The. Hell?
She couldn't even fight, let alone process this all. She agreed and walked off to her room.
She turned on the radio to hear a song play, it was a loud song, filled with clashing drums and fun guitar solos. It was the best escape she could ask for.
Art, art was all she had. All she ever wanted to be.
It felt like within an instant she was in the heart of America, surrounded by cars and clubs. Flashing lights like she'd never seen. Music came from every directions, none meshing together quite well.
Running from home felt like the only way to live life for her own.
She was fully dissociating as she knocked into someone, knocking her right on to her butt.
"Sorry," she muttered before looking up and making eye contact with someone who looked like he belonged on a television screen.
He had long blond hair, and dressed like a typical rock star... or maybe more metal? She wasn't fully sure, but she knew she liked it.
She blushed a bit as he offered his hand to her, so she could get up.
Once on her feet he looked at her disheveled appearance carefully.
"Are you alright?" He asked concerned.
"From the fall? Yes, yes I'm fine. I'm sorry-"
"No, as a general statement." The man said harshly, before trying again,
"Sorry that came off a bit strong," he chuckled, "I mean, what is a pretty girl like you doing walking around all alone at midnight on these streets?"
She was blushing hard but knew she needed to muster up a response "I-..I uhm.." she'd always been an honest person "I ran away. Well- no not really? I'm an adult but I've always like.. lived with my parents but.. I just- uh" she rambled before getting cut off,
"Okay woah it's alright," he placed his hands on her shoulders to ground her "my name is James, James Hetfield... and you're?"
"Y/n."
"Okay, y/n, do you wanna come to my place? You can crash there 'til you sort things out 'cause no offense but you don't seem all there right now."
She tensed up, was she really about to go with this stranger? What other choice did she have?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They arrived to a large home, filled with flashing lights and cars that she'd never knew existed filled the lot.
"Ah," he started, "I forgot to mention, there's a party going on right now," he turned to her and smiled slyly.
YOU ARE READING
A Thousand Times Goodbye to a Memory that Remains
FanfictionA Story Involving That Of The Most Famous and Important Rockstars of the 80's.