Metal & Lace (An Opposites Attract Novel Book 1)

by Black, Lena

  “You fuckin’ ass. Get up front and shut your mouth,” I order. “All of you. Now.”

  “Take it easy, bro,” Jay, our bassist, chimes in, holding his hands up defensively.

  “You take it easy, bro.” I step toward him with my fists clenched at the sides of my legs, ready to leave an impression of my ring in his face. I don’t know why I’m so protective over her. She hates my fucking guts. But it still bothers the shit out of me. “She isn’t a groupie.”

  “I’m the journalist here to watch your every move,” she adds with a satisfied smirk.

  Jay and Dylan stiffen up, giving each other side-glances.

  “Uh, shit,” Dylan says, tucking his shoulder length locks behind his ear. “Sorry about what I said.”

  “It’s fine.” She sits back in her chair and stares out the window.

  They lurk up to the front with their heads tilted forward, and I turn to follow.

  “Thanks,” she says in a low voice.

  I nod at her and walk back to my chair. She doesn’t speak to me the rest of the flight.

  Wow, that was actually decent of him. Who would’ve thought he might actually have a kind bone somewhere in that fine body. I can’t believe his bandmate said the one thing I worried about most, looking like a dumb groupie. I knew I shouldn’t wear this dress. Totally unprofessional of me. The way he glanced down at my thighs nearly made me go weak in the knees…But I suppose, deep down, I wanted him to look at me that way. I liked it. Hell. I loved it. But I can’t let my attraction get in the way of what I’m here to do, reporting an unbiased, honest story. I just need to keep it together for a few days. This will all be over then and I’ll never have to see him again. I feel a sharp stab in my chest at the thought.

  I retrieve headphones from my purse and stick them into my ears, drowning out my inner monologue with The Runaways. Exhaling, I sink back into my chair.

  We arrive at our hotel, Chateau Marmont, perched above the Sunset Strip. Known for its legendary debauchery and intoxicating atmosphere, the hotel has a way of casting a heady spell over you and your inhibitions. This hotel has seen some wild things, a haven where the rich and famous can come and lose themselves. Everything handled with the utmost discretion, the castle on the hill carries many depraved secrets within its walls. And like most of Hollywood, it’s a world of excess.

  We head straight up to our rooms from the underground parking lot. She doesn’t look at me the entire ride up.

  Fuck that. If she’s going to ignore me, I’ll do the same.

  The cab stops on the sixth floor, the band’s floor, and Dylan and Jay step off. But I’m frozen. Realizing I didn’t follow, they glance back at me with dumbass looks of confusion. I honestly don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. But a hot piece of ass will do that to a man.

  The doors close, giving me a few seconds alone with this fucking woman I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the past few days. I’ve pictured her in every position my filthy mind can create, sweating, panting, clawing at the sheets as she comes violently around my cock. However, she seems to care less about my presence, staring forward, not even the decency to acknowledge my existence.

  Why the fuck do I care?

  When we arrive at the seventh floor, she brushes past me, avoiding eye contact. I walk out after her, following her to suite 79, and watch how her ass sways back and forth, hypnotizing me with every fluid movement.

  I could get used to this view.

  Feeling his eyes on my ass, I have the urge to glare at him, but I fight it, repeating a mantra in my head. Don’t look back. Don’t look back. Don’t look back. It’s simple but effective.

  When we arrive at my room, I shakily slide the key into the lock – no cheap plastic cards here – and click it over, opening the door to my junior suite.

  “Have a good evening, Mr. Haze,” I mumble, scooting in promptly, shutting the door behind me before he can say anything. Dropping my purse in the entryway, I lean against the wall, my cheeks puffing out as I force air between my lips.

  Once I’ve had a chance to gather my scattered self, I step into the sitting room, giving it a onceover.

  Whoa.

  Other than the flat screen TV, its motif has an Old Hollywood elegance. The furniture is retro, but doesn’t feel outdated. It’s airy, contemporary without losing that feel of days gone by.

  On the west end of the living room are double glass doors that lead out to a balcony, which has a spectacular view stretching out far past the Hollywood hillside to Santa Monica.

  I walk back inside and over to the south facing windows. Opening them wide, I lean out to steal a peek at the courtyard below, filled with umbrellas and tables and well-dressed guests chatting while they have a late lunch.

  My eyes drift up the white stucco walls of the east wing, and on the terrace of the suite diagonally across from my room, I spy Gunnar sitting on the thick cement railing. His legs hanging over, dangling six stories above The Strip, he takes a long drag of his cigarette while looking out over the open landscape of Hollywood and beyond.

  Before he can spot me, I stick my head back inside.

  Next, I check out the bedroom situation, just off the living room, separated by two French doors draped in sheer white cloth. It’s cozy, barely big enough to fit a few side tables and the queen-size bed, decked out in white, high thread count sheets. Beckoning me, I sprint and hurl myself onto it, arms spread out like a bird.

  “L.A., I have arrived,” I say to myself with a giggle.

  Later that evening, the guys and I get ready to go out. There’s been awkward tension between us since the start of the flight. But they deserved it, acting like coked-up assholes. After her ignoring me though, I’m not sure I should’ve said anything. It caused me nothing but grief.

  I button up my black shirt and roll the sleeves up to my elbow, showing off all my forearm tats.

  “I’ll meet you downstairs in a few,” I tell them, heading out of our penthouse suite.

  I stride down the hall, take the stairs up a floor, and walk toward her room at the end of the west wing hallway. I have no clue what the hell I’m doing here, or what I’m going to say, or if she’ll even want to see me, but I knock anyway. There’s no answer.

  I only wait a moment before turning away to head to the elevator.

  Idiot.

  “Where are you going?” a small, confused voice says behind me, and I spin around. She’s standing at the door in a robe, drying her long wet hair with a towel, her head tilted slightly to the side.

  She looks even better wet.

  I stiffen up, not wanting to show how much she affects me. “I just wanted to see if you were down for dinner or whatever.”

  She scans the length of my body with a perplexed look.

  “No,” she answers, “I have a date.”

  A date? How could she have a date? We’ve only been in L.A. for a few hours. I know she’s hot, but FUCK!

  “Yeah, fine,” I spit out. “Have fun on your fucking date.”

  “What’s your deal?” she snarls.

  “You.” I’m not lying. “You’re my fucking problem.”

  “Me?! You’ve been nothing but an asshole since we met.”

  “I could say the same about you.”

  “I didn’t come barging into your life like a child on a tirade! That was all you, buddy…! And to think, I actually thought for one second you weren’t a complete douche.”

  She takes a step back and slams the door in my face. I’m stunned for a moment before seething rage boils my blood, and I punch my fist in the wall beside the door, my rings taking the brunt of the blow.

  I walk away with a bruised ego, a bloody hand, and a hard cock.

  Great.

  I rest against the door, towel pressed to my chest when I hear a loud thud and a muffled growl.

  I know I lied, which was no easy feat. I could have gone to dinner with him, but I don’t know how much I could handle being around him before I gave in. With his t
ats peeking out from his shirt and his light eyes contrasted against the tan flesh of his face, all I wanted to do was lose myself in him. But that’s a perilous thought. I can’t let that happen. He’ll break my cracked heart, and I’ll be left a mess, picking up the shards. I just couldn’t deal with that after all I’ve been through.

  I take a deep breath, steadying myself before I head back to my bed to immerse myself in work. Just as my ass hits the bed, my cell goes off. I can tell from the ringtone, it’s my bestie and new roommate. I answer and her smiling face pops up on the screen.

  “Hey, Gwen.”

  “Hiya, toots! I’m guessing you made it to the golden state intact.”

  “Yes, made it hear a few hours ago.”

  “Oh, you have to tell me how the man meat is out there. I hear there are some bona fide hotties.”

  “I haven’t really noticed.” I’ve only seen Gunnar and I wasn’t going to tell her about him. I’d never hear the end of it.

  “So, have you thought of what we talked about?”

  “Yeah, and I’m not sure if it’s for me. I’m not that girl, Gwen.”

  “That’s the point. You need a shock to the system. In your case, a dick. Seriously, Lacey, you need to get out of this funk.”

  About two months ago, I called off my engagement to my fiancé, Holden. I told him I wasn’t in love with him, that it wouldn’t be fair to marry him when I just didn’t feel the same. The whole truth was he wasn’t good for me. He was a mental and emotional abuser.

  I moved out that night. Now, I’m crashing with Gwen in her spare bedroom.

  Last night, we got wasted on tequila shots and talked over a carton of ice cream.

  “I was thinking,” she said, licking the sugary excess off her spoon, “the best way to get over one guy is to ride another.”

  “I’m not ready to start dating again,” I commented, digging mine into the creamy contents of the carton. “I only just ended things with Holden.”

  “Nothing serious, just a good ole nasty fuck-a-thon. Have a little fun. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you legitimately happy, Lacey, not since…”

  “Don’t say it,” I interrupted her before she said his name. I still can’t bear to think about him, but the mention of his name kills me.

  “I know. I’m sorry,” she apologized with a sympathetic gaze. “It’s just starting to worry me.”

  “I’m fine,” I insisted. “I just need time.”

  “What you need is a big wiener,” she stated.

  That’s my Gwen. There was nothing that a giant dick couldn’t cure. Which is fine for her. No judgement. I’m just not that girl…usually. Now, Gunnar actually has me considering her slutty advice. And I hate myself for that. It’s not the advice itself. But why did it have to be him I was attracted to?

  “Just think about it,” she says, breaking my train of thought. “You need to let loose a little. You’re like one giant knot of sexually pent up stress.”

  “Thanks,” I murmur blandly. “I’ll give it some consideration.”

  I didn’t eat much, nothing in fact. but I did do a shitload of drinking at Bar Marmont, about a block away from the hotel. Shot after shot, I drowned my anger with expensive booze.

  I had a few offers while I was there, horny fans looking to get a great story they can tell their friends about, how they fucked some famous person. But I wasn’t in the mood to be some random bitch’s story. I just wanted to be left the hell alone.

  By the time I was ready to go back up to my room, I was hammered. I stumbled my way back to the hotel, into the lobby, and over to the elevator. I pushed the call button, which was a lot harder than you’d think. The little shit wouldn’t stop moving. And I got on.

  Now here I am, my body slumped against the elevator wall, barely able to stand on my own, and all I can think about is her. I wonder how her date went, who the little cocksucker was that took out my girl.

  I glimpse down at my watch and the four blurry hands tell me it’s…I don’t know…late.

  I get the best idea I’ve ever had and press the button that will take me to the source of the pain in my balls.

  The doors open and I practically fall out of the cab, laughing to myself all the way down the hall. When I arrive at her room, I slap my hand on the wall where I had gotten into a scuffle earlier. My hand looks like shit, but I’m so wasted I don’t give a fuck!

  I lean my weight into the wall and knock on her door. Three… slow…loud…thumps.

  She better answer.

  Suddenly, I hear loud movement and the sound of a girl moaning. Unsure if it’s coming from her room or one close by, I tense up.

  What if she brought her date back here? No big deal. I’ll just kill him, I think to myself with a shrug. That’s what I’ll do.

  The door opens, and there she stands, sleepy and beautiful, wearing only a concert tee, too short for her tall, gazelle-like frame. I want to reach out and touch the warm skin between her bare thighs.

  Then I feel relief at the realization the noises weren’t coming from her.

  “What are you doing knocking on my door at nearly two in the morning, asshole?” She yawns out asshole.

  “Did you have a good…time on your date, Lace?”

  Her eyes narrow and she sets her hands on her hips. “What’s it any of your business? And you’re drunk.”

  “An-swer me, Lace.”

  “Why do you keep calling me that?”

  I lean through the doorway, positioning my other hand unsteadily on the frame. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

  “First off, it’s Lacey. Secondly, not to you it isn’t.”

  “Then what should I c-all you, Lace?”

  “Miss Cummings, Mr. Haze.” Well, that’s certainly better than asshole. “Now go back to your room. You reek of booze.”

  She tries closing the door on me again, but I smack my hand against it, stopping it. I smile wickedly, but I’m sure it’s more sloppy than anything else.

  “Ciss Mummings, huh?” What the fuck was that? GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER, FUCKER!

  “What do you want, Mr. Haze?” She sounds really irritated.

  “I’m guessing your date didn’t come back with you tonight,” I say in really shitty tone.

  “You’re a pig.” Her little nose crinkles at the bridge.

  I ignore her.

  “Did he kiss you, Lace? Did he kiss you on your pretty little mouth?”

  Did I say that aloud? Fuck it.

  The tension in her body seems to melt away; her arms fall to her sides. I take a step into her dark room, forcing us into the entryway. She moves up against the wall as I lean closer into her, placing both my hands against it on either side of her head. I get a good look at her eyes from our closeness. I never realized how incredible they really are. A deep blue circles the pupil, bleeding into a golden brown trim around the edges of the iris. They’re unreal.

  “Did he, Lace? Did he kiss you?” I murmur with our faces inches apart.

  “What if he did?” she says, challenging me.

  “Did he know how to kiss that smart mouth of yours? I bet he didn’t.”

  “Better than you ever could,” she retorts.

  “Brat,” I growl.

  “Asshole,” she hisses.

  I can’t control myself. Determined to prove her wrong, I crash my lips onto hers, probing my tongue into her mouth, and kiss her with everything I’ve got. It’s warm and wet and sweet. It makes me want to shove other things in there.

  She places her hands on my chest, in what I think is surrender until she pushes into it, forcing me away.

  “Get the hell off me, you drunken animal. Get out of my room!” I snap out of my drunkenness, which I don’t blame entirely on the booze, just long enough to realize I’d fucked up big time. I stumble back out of her room, unable to look her in the face. “Have a good night, shithead. See you at tomorrow’s interview.”

  She shuts the door hard, causing me to cringe and my head to ache. />
  Fuck. My. Life.

  The next morning, sleep-deprived, I head down to the band’s suite, but when I knock, there’s no reply. I wait for a moment then do it again, harder this time. Again, nothing.

  What the hell?

  I do it once more, hard as my little hand can take, and after a few seconds, Dylan, their drummer, answers. His long, thin blonde hair and lanky tatted body gives him that California punk skater look. He rubs his bloodshot eyes, looking like absolute shit, and yawns.

  “What time is it?” he asks in a throaty voice.

  “It’s time for your interview,” I answer. “Is he up?”

  “I don’t know…I’m barely up.”

  In no mood to deal with this prima donna, rock star bullshit, I push past him and stomp down the long hallway, my heels clacking on the black and white checkered tile floor. When I enter the living room of the suite, I turn back to Dylan. “Where is he?”

  Without a word, he points to a door back down the hall. I think he’s shocked. But I don’t care. We have an interview, one Gunnar insisted I had to do to make up for a slanderous review. And thus far, I’m not impressed.

  I march into his room, finding him face down on his bed, passed out in the clothes he wore last night. I walk over to the side of his bed and find a half-filled glass of water on the bedside table. I pick it up without hesitation and dump it onto his face.

  He wakes with a rapid jolt, rubbing his face and screaming, “What the fuck, man?!” When he moves his hands, his tired eyes find mine glaring back at him. “What did you do that for?” he snarls.

  “We have an interview, and you’re not up. I don’t appreciate having my time wasted, Mr. Haze.” He just stares at me. “Now, get up and showered. You still stink of last night’s drunken debacle.”

  With that, I walk back out of the bedroom, pleased with myself.

  Twenty long minutes later, he saunters out of his bedroom, showered and dressed in ripped jeans and a tight white tee that clings to his lean muscles. He moves with a languid swagger, a cocky gait that is uniquely Gunnar. He certainly isn’t in a rush. His shoulders teeter with every step, almost cat-like in their fluid movement. His wet hair, which he wears buzzed on the sides, long on the top, is slicked back. His beard is freshly trimmed. He looks…yummy.