Heavy Metal Heart: A Bad Boy Rock Star Romance

by Fields,Annette

  After catching him with several more hard drugs, he changed his story but was always the victim.

  "I'm sick, baby," he said with his head hung shamefully. "I don't have control anymore, I need your help. I need you. Torsten pushes us so hard to perform a perfect set, then gives us dope so we can relax and unwind." His body wracked with a sob. "I feel like a slave to him and to these horrible fucking drugs!"

  He seemed so remorseful every time. When she confronted him about the pictures on his phone kissing and groping naked women, his face went pale, his eyes welled with tears, and his lower lip trembled.

  "Baby, I'm so sorry. I... I don't remember anything about that day." He swallowed a lump in his throat and his voice shook. He held her tenderly in his arms and rubbed her back, the first affectionate touch she felt from him in months. "Torsten must have roofied my beer again. The guys do it occasionally as pranks. I'm so, so sorry..."

  Then this last time. Six months ago. He came home and didn't get out of bed for two days. He looked worse than ever, sweating, shaking, scratching, and talking to himself. He told her he no longer had a job and she just knew. Her marriage died that day.

  Helena pushed the image of his face from her mind as she stepped into a dark, dusty pub. She scanned the place before making her way over to the bar. It was early, and therefore empty except for a few regulars.

  "A martini, please." She slid into a bar stool and pulled her cardigan closed in front of her chest, already feeling creepy leers from the older man a few seats down from her.

  "Coming right up," the bartender said with a friendly smile.

  He's cute.

  He really was; tall with a youthful, clean-cut face and dark eyes. This guy was a bit thin for her taste, though. It reminded her of how gaunt Lars became as his addiction worsened.

  Still, she was single now. Might as well get some flirting practice in.

  She gave her best attempt at a smile. "I'm Helena."

  "Bjorn." A faint blush crept into his cheeks as he shyly cast his eyes downward.

  Wow, this is easier than I thought it would be.

  After studying him for a moment, she noticed he wore a faded black Mjolnir t-shirt and her mood instantly soured.

  Ugh. Will I ever not see them everywhere I go?

  Bjorn set her drink down in front of her and must have noticed her reading his shirt. "You a fan, too?"

  "Yeah!" Helena chirped a little too loudly, trying to look anywhere but at his torso. "That's one of their first edition designs. You don't see many of those anymore." She focused intently on her martini olives, hoping he didn't know the band well enough to recognize their spouses.

  "That's awesome." Bjorn leaned over the bar slightly, trying to catch her eye again. "Not many women are into good heavy metal. What's your favorite album?"

  "Um, hard to decide. All of them are distinctive in their own way." She stared further down to the bottom of the martini glass, regretting stepping into this bar and beginning this conversation.

  "Yeah, that's true. My favorite's their first one, the self-titled album. Gotta love the classics, you know? You always love the album that got you into them in the first place."

  Bjorn's voice dissipated into background noise as Helena's memory took her back to when they recorded that album. Lars told her it would take a few hours, maybe the entire afternoon. He didn't answer his phone or return home until a full two days later.

  "I'm not kidding, babe! Everything went wrong with the equipment, and the whole process took thirty-six hours. Torsten wouldn't let us leave until the whole thing was completely done, can you believe it?"

  Fucking Torsten.

  The thought of him made her tilt her glass back and down the rest of the martini in one go. The burning in her throat matched her feelings of scorn for that man.

  Torsten asked Lars to jump, Lars asked how high. Helena sometimes wondered who he was really married to. He didn't start acting like a shitty husband until Torsten put himself in charge.

  She didn't know their full history, except that they were best friends and co-founded the band together. Somewhere along the way, Torsten made himself the leader and ground Lars into the pavement under his boots. Even music became their full-time jobs, rehearsing every day for sixteen hours or more seemed excessive to her.

  "Torsten's not a bad guy, babe. But he thinks he's Mozart or some shit. He wants perfection. He won't settle for being second best. Yeah, he makes us work long hours but I gotta respect him for that."

  "Didn't you say he gets all these hard drugs and encourages you guys to fuck groupies?" she asked bewilderedly. "He knows you're married, Lars! How can you respect him when he does shit like that?"

  "It's part of the lifestyle, baby. He thinks it's important to keep appearances up. But you know I'd never cheat on you..."

  He'd already cheated at least once that she knew of when he brought her to that party. She couldn't bring herself to look at Torsten, much less introduce herself to the man who encouraged addiction and infidelity.

  Ignoring him at that party had been difficult, nigh on impossible. His presence filled the room like a thick, unyielding smoke. He was handsome, no, make that ridiculously hot, and at least six inches taller than every other man at the party. His dark blonde hair fell in a careless, shaggy mane just above his massive shoulders. His eyes were a pale, piercing blue that raked over her skin when he looked at her. While all the other metalheads had long, unkempt beards, he kept his clipped short and neat, outlining his sharp jawline.

  "Can't leave any pussy juice evidence in here," she overheard him say while stroking it like an evil villain. The woman he said that to laughed uproariously and reached out to join him in touching his face.

  His voice rumbled like a distant thunder when he spoke, which made her wonder how it felt to hear him whisper dirty, forbidden things in her ear. Lars could never get into that.

  The girls at party wondered too, apparently. They never stopped clinging to him like spider monkeys on a tree. The last Helena saw of him was his broad, muscular back walking away with three women from the party. Disgusting and clearly arrogant.

  After that party, Lars informed her of Torsten's latest law: No more significant others at Mjolnir parties and events. Something about distracting the band members. She never hated Torsten more than after hearing that news.

  "You've got to stand up to him, Lars! Put your foot down and just take one day off! Babe, I miss you. I get so worried when I don't hear from you for days."

  "I'm sorry, I can't afford to, baby. If I miss one after-party, it'll look bad. Torsten says the whole band has to be there. Otherwise, fans and press will ask questions and spread rumors."

  "Another one?"

  "Hm?"

  Helena blinked, jolted out of her memory and back in the dark, dusty bar.

  Bjorn the cute bartender eyed her curiously. "I asked if you'd like another martini."

  "Yeah, sure. Thanks."

  "Daydreaming about somebody?" he asked, trying to sound casual as he mixed gin and vermouth.

  "Sort of, but not in a good way," she replied. "More like daydreaming about committing a murder," she added, hoping it sounded like a joke.

  "What? Did someone wrong a pretty lady like you? Just tell me where they live and I'll take care of it, Helena," Bjorn said with a wink.

  Helena tried not to roll her eyes. This guy was cute, but he was getting to be too much.

  "It's a bit complicated. I don't really want to get into it."

  Please take the hint.

  "Fair enough. Let me know if you need anything," Bjorn conceded with a polite nod. He set her second drink in front of her and walked to the opposite end of the bar to chat with other customers.

  She sipped her drink, feeling the alcohol unwrap all the years of animosity toward Torsten that she kept buried deep for Lars' sake.

  I fucking hate you, Torsten. If I ever see you again, I'll spit in your smug fucking face. You rode my sweet, kind husband's as
s like slavedriver until he broke. And then you discarded him like trash when you were finished. Leaving me to deal with what remained, which was nothing. The man I was forced to divorce was not the man I married.

  She gripped her glass with a shaking hand until her knuckles turned white as her inner thoughts spoke her truth.

  My husband died and you killed him.

  "...going to the show?"

  "Sorry, what?" Bjorn had been talking to her again, looking at her expectantly.

  "I said, are you going to the Mjolnir show tonight? They're kicking off their European tour here in Oslo."

  "Ah, no. I mean, I wasn't planning on it." Shit, shit, shit.

  Bjorn's eyes lit up. "Well, turns out I've got an extra ticket. One of my friends just flaked and I'd hate to waste it, so..."

  "Oh, wow! I, uh..."

  She looked down at her drink, trying to appear coy or shy or something while racking her brain for an excuse. The ink hadn't even dried on her divorce agreement! She definitely wasn't ready to start dating, let alone go on a date to see her ex-husband's ex-band.

  "Look, I know this is forward," Bjorn said, leaning in closer. "But it's a bunch of weird coincidences, right? We're both fans, you just happen to come into my bar, and I just happen to learn I have an extra ticket while you're here to tonight's show. I mean, it's gotta be fate or something, right?"

  An idea struck Helena like a bolt of lightning. Bjorn was right. This had to be fate. If Torsten was really that paranoid about his public image, there was no better opportunity to give him a taste of fucking her life over.

  She smiled and raised her glass in celebration. "I'd love to go with you, Bjorn."

  Chapter 2

  Helena

  Helena felt awful for ditching Bjorn at the concert, but time was of the essence. She had work to do and had to do it fast. Bjorn was her only way into the venue. Hopefully, the little black dress she wore and her expired press pass would take her everywhere else she needed to go.

  I should have brought earplugs, she thought miserably as she worked through the crowd. Her head already rang like a bell from the screeching opening act, some all-female local band that wailed like a bunch of banshees.

  She found out from Bjorn that this concert was the first of a special two-day show. Mjolnir would be playing tomorrow night as well before leaving on their European tour. She considered scoping out the venue this first night, then doing the real work tomorrow, but decided against it. The sooner she brought Torsten down, the better.

  Her heart fluttered nervously in her chest as she wove her way closer to the stage. The doubts crept in. Maybe I'm an idiot. This is stupid and petty.

  No.

  She shook her head to quiet that voice trying to talk her out of this.

  He killed your husband and your marriage. He ruined your life. It's only fair that his gets ruined, too.

  The massive room went dark and the senses of sound and touch dominated her world. Hot, sweaty bodies pressed in around her as everyone rushed the stage. Individual voices became lost in the single, collective voice of the crowd.

  Helena gripped the metal gate that corralled the rabid fans, keeping them a safe distance away from the stage. She could just make out the silhouettes of tough-looking security guards on the other side.

  I'm getting too old for this shit.

  The show hadn't even started yet and she already felt entirely too hot and claustrophobic. Slick bodies slid all around her like gross, giant slugs. For once, she was grateful for the pungent smell of marijuana hanging in thick clouds. It almost certainly overpowered someone's B.O.

  A drum onstage started beating a simple rhythm. Her heart froze for a moment; before remembering that wasn't her man up there.

  A guitar joined in, then a soft, melodic male voice crooned an enchanting melody. All at once, the stage lit up, nearly blinding her. The slow, soft entry to the song exploded into a thunderous roar. Pure energy from the stage hit her squarely in the chest, and the crowd returned that energy from behind her tenfold.

  Men and women headbanged, stomped their feet, and threw up horns. Except for her, the crowd moved as one entity. She had to admit Mjolnir put on a hell of a performance.

  She stood right under Stig, the vocalist, at center stage. Torsten shredded at his guitar to her right. Despite not being the voice of the band, his presence dominated the whole performance. Stig's voice seemed like an accessory to Torsten's music, rather than the other way around.

  In typical rock star fashion, Torsten was shirtless. Helena never considered herself one to ogle men, but her jaw dropped and her eyes couldn’t stop from devouring him. He could have stepped off an underwear ad.

  A thin sheen of sweat already coated his skin like an erotic massage oil, but not an ounce of fat clung to his frame. Every single muscle was so clearly defined, he could've been an anatomy chart: biceps, triceps, pectorals, deltoids, and so on. His chiseled abs looked like they went down forever if his jeans didn't cover them.

  His intricate tattoos stretched, jumped, and coiled as the muscles under his skin moved as he played. He propped one foot on an amp as his hands danced along the guitar neck. Even through his jeans, she could make out his massive quad muscles and perfectly round gluteus maximus.

  She felt physically unable to tear her eyes from him, even if she wanted to. Like his ink, his body was a work of art that would fuel the inspiration of Michaelangelo. She wondered what it was like to explore every inch of that skin, to inspect the art embedded into it, to see how it tasted.

  What the fuck is wrong with me? She shook her head, trying to clear her mind from her daze. But a bead of sweat creep down the hollow of her throat to between her breasts and she imagined it was a tongue trailing down her scorching skin. His tongue.

  I really need to get laid. Maybe I'll make it up to Bjorn later.

  She regretted the thought as soon as she pictured it. No way. I'm not a whore for concert tickets.

  Unsurprisingly, a group of women gathered directly under Torsten, screaming in high-pitched wails and stretching their hands out in hopes of catching a bead of sweat, a puff of air, or anything at all. He acknowledged their attention with the occasional wink, smile, and sexy stare, which the girls ate up like candy and sent them into a frenzy. One tried jumping over the security gate but was quickly dragged off by a guard. Torsten blew her a kiss as she was carried away, and the look on her face was one of pure bliss.

  A familiar pang of jealousy gnawed at Helena's core. She often felt it when watching any of kind of tender moment Aside from Bjorn’s awkward attempts that afternoon, she couldn't remember the last time anyone flirted with her. After this bitter divorce, she'd settle for a mere glance from a hot, arrogant asshole too.

  But her body wanted more, and she hated admitting it. Just from seeing Torsten move and play, the energy and charisma coming off him in waves, her body awoke with a carnal hunger she never felt before. Watching him play was bearing witness to beauty and art, strength and passion, all coming together before her eyes. He wasn’t performing music, but a spell, some kind of sorcery that flushed her core with heat and fired off every nerve ending in her body.

  With one final, heavy shred on the guitar strings, Torsten ended the song and the crowd erupted in cheers. Helena found herself cheering too. The crowd’s energy was infectious and she couldn’t pretend the song didn’t have an effect on her. She wanted more.

  Torsten scanned the crowd with his sharp, ice-cold eyes. His lips pressed together tightly as he breathed heavily, his chest and abdomen falling and rising like his body was made for sex. Helena found herself hypnotized by the rhythmic movement of his muscles with his breaths.

  His eyes continued to sweep over the crowd as the vocalist spoke something about the new album and thank you for the support; she wasn't really listening. With a slight turn of his head, Torsten's gaze searched her section of the crowd and locked his eyes onto hers. They didn't move.

  Oh, shit!

  With the
spell broken, Helena dropped her gaze and withdrew backward. Thankfully, the people next to her thought Torsten looked straight at them and jumped in front her to yell and wave.

  Mjolnir kicked off into the next song as she sidled her way to the far left side of the stage, trying to control her swelling panic.

  Fuck, fuck fuck! I hope he didn't recognize me but if he did, he'll be busy for the next few hours anyway. I still have a job to do.

  She wanted nothing more than to be swept up in the rapture of Torsten’s music, but squeezed her way out of the main floor and found her way to the empty lobby. Everyone was inside enjoying the show except for the bored-looking bartenders and merch salesmen.

  After using the restroom to keep them from watching her, she strolled as naturally as she could down the narrow hallway to the backstage area. A massive security guard stood squarely in front of the backstage door, as she expected.

  Helena took a deep breath and put a bit more sway in her hips. She had one chance to do this right and couldn't blow it.

  "Hey, how's your night going?" she asked with a smile as she approached.

  "Alright. Can I help you, miss?"

  "I'm a journalist for Underground Sound, a new music magazine," she said just as she rehearsed, flashing her press pass and praying he wouldn't inspect it. "I'm working on a piece about those who work behind the scenes in music. Sound techs, roadies, security." She gestured in his direction. "Do you work for Mjolnir or the venue?"

  He hesitated before answering and she could practically see the wheels turning in his head. "The venue contracts my company."

  "Do you feel like the work you do is underappreciated?"

  "Well yeah. I mean, sometimes. I could be at home with my family now, you know?"

  Yes, got him.

  She pulled a small audio recorder from where she stashed it in her left bra cup, making sure he had a clear view down her dress. With a winning smile, she pressed the record button.

  "Do you mind if I interview you?"

  The guard, whose name was Andre, seemed delighted that someone would rather talk to him than watch the show, especially a woman in a low-cut dress. He told her stories of having to throw out both rowdy fans and musicians alike, and showed her secret backstage areas where the guards liked to watch the concerts.