by Black, Lena
He glimpses about the room as he moves towards the powder blue couch opposite the matching hued chair I’ve occupied. “Where’s Jay and Dylan?”
He takes a seat, crossing his legs and tossing his arm along the back of the couch. He watches me, waiting for an answer while I gawk at him.
Suddenly nervous, I clear my throat, my heart pounding in my chest, I reply, “I finished with them, Mr. Haze. I wanted to do you separately before I do the group together.”
His brow pops up, and a slow grin plays across his lips.
Holy shit! Rewind! Rewind!
“Alright, Miss Cummings, do your worst,” he says with that cocky grin still planted on his complacent face. Jerk.
I take a quick breath and start.
“What age were you when you realized you wanted to…”
“Pursue a music career?” He finishes my inquiry. “Come on. You can do better than that.”
I can feel my nervousness slip away, turning into annoyance.
“What lends itself to your creative process?”
“Life gives me all the inspiration I need.”
Is that it?!
“Would you like to expand on that thought?”
“No, I’m good,” he answers, linking both of his hands behind his head as if being arrested. A situation I’m sure he knows well.
“Why do you feel your fans connect to your music the way they have?”
He removes his hands and the smug look plastered to his face fades, shifting into a seriousness I haven’t seen from him.
“Two reasons. First, I don’t sugarcoat anything. I speak the pure truth. If you write from a true place, people will relate. We all have life experiences that connect us as a race, and when you speak to that, you’ve accomplished something astounding.
“Second, many of my fans, Anarchists, are outcasts, misfits, and the misunderstood and our music speaks to them. Music is a language everyone can understand, and I feel it makes those ‘black sheep’ feel connected to each other, to the music.”
Wow, that was actually amazing.
I rattle off a few more questions. Every answer he gives impressing me more and more.
“It’s been said by many that your music is considered angry and aggressive, affecting the world we live in today. Do you think your music has an impact on the world around you? If so, do you feel it is negative or positive?”
He’s impressed. The pleased smile tells me so. I like the warm, fuzzy feeling it gives me.
“Yes, our music can be considered ‘aggressive’ and ‘angry’. Do I feel it impacts the world? In some ways, yes. But I don’t see it as positive or negative. The world is far from perfect, Miss Cummings. There’s war, famine, poverty, murder, rape, humans dying for basic rights every day. Yet people are worried about whether or not our music affects that. I don’t buy it. I think people are just looking for somewhere to point the blame because we’re too scared to admit we all had a hand in society’s downfall.”
And just when I actually start to admire the guy, he says, “I hope you don’t write about last night. It was a lapse in judgment.”
“What?” I ask, acting as if I don’t know to what he’s referring. I don’t want him to know it got to me.
“Don’t play that game. You know what,” he says, calling me on my bullshit. “It was a huge fucking mistake.”
Hurt washes over me as tears form in the alcoves of my eyes.
I won’t let him get to me. I won’t let him see me cry.
I suck it up, pushing my raw feelings down deep, and square my shoulders.
“I couldn’t agree with you more, Mr. Haze.” I rise quickly, gathering my things. “Thank you for your time.”
I walk toward the door in double time and grab onto the knob, ready to open it, but his hand prevents me from doing so.
“It was a mistake, wasn’t it, Lace?”
Please, don’t call me that! I can’t take hearing it from your lips.
“The biggest,” I murmur.
With my back still to him, I shove his tatted hand off the door and make my escape. I just want to be alone.
What the fuck was that about? What is her fucking deal? She pushed me away last night! She acts like she hates me then gets mad when I admit I was in the wrong, which I don’t do. I’ll never understand the mind of a woman. Crazy. All of them.
Before we head out to the show, I knock on her door, but she doesn’t answer.
Fuck this shit.
I’m tired of trying with her. She isn’t worth this much fucking trouble. Plus, there are plenty of slutty fish in the sea.
I know I could get in trouble with Jim for not going to tonight’s show, but there’s one tomorrow, and I just couldn’t face him. I was so hurt and embarrassed. Mostly, because I let myself believe he might actually want me. But I was just another drunken mistake.
I worked on the piece a bit and watched an old movie called ‘Arsenic and Old Lace’ while I stuffed my face with a hamburger I ordered from room service. Then, somewhere around eleven, I passed out, slipping into a deep sleep.
When I lift my head, sweeping away the excess powder dusting my nostrils, I find a hot little redhead eye-fucking the shit out me. Her tight clothes and spiked heels beg, ‘Please, fuck me like a two dollar whore.’
She’s the kind of girl who would let you do all kinds of filthy things to her and then plead for more.
She walks over to me as the party favors start to take effect, the familiar drip in the back of my throat and the rush of euphoria over my entire body. Without a word, she smiles and takes my hand, leading me into the bedroom. She guides me over to the bed and pushes me onto it. Turning around and bending over like a bitch in heat, she presents herself.
No panties.
She runs her hand up the back of her thigh and asks in a seductive whisper, “See anything you like?”
At about two-thirty, I’m violently ripped out of my coma by loud, muffled noises. I flip my covers off and look out the window towards Gunnar’s suite, and just as I suspected, it’s coming from him.
Annoyed, I throw my robe on over my sleeping tee and grab my room key before heading out. I would call down to the front desk to handle this, but he is a celebrity, so he probably wouldn’t get in trouble anyway. And, to be totally honest, the journalist in me is just itching to see what’s going on for myself.
When I make it down to his room, I notice the door’s slightly ajar, music blasting at me, mixed with the hum of voices. I push it open to find people drinking, breaking things, and screwing right out in the open. It’s a fucking madhouse.
I make my way through the guests of the little after party, searching for him in the mess, but to no avail. I don’t see Jay or Dylan for that matter. I recognize some of the partygoers from fashion magazine covers and movies and whatnot, but I don’t see the one person I’m searching for.
I pass a young Oscar-winner snorting coke off a totally nude woman’s belly while she lies across the coffee table, the same one that divided Gunnar and I during our interview. It had my recorder there for Christ’s sake.
Note to self, sanitize immediately.
I weave a path out onto the massive terrace where guests have spilled over, but he isn’t there either. I’d call out for him, but the music is so loud, I can barely hear myself think.
Then, as I finally make my way toward the main hallway, ready to give up, a skimpily dressed woman exits his bedroom. My heart thumps a hard, abnormal beat. Spotting me watching her, she shoots me a look and then laughs as she shoves past. That’s when I remember I’m not exactly dressed for the occasion.
Suddenly, it doesn’t matter anymore when he appears from his room, no shirt, fly unbuttoned and hanging open, looking as though he just got thoroughly fucked. He doesn’t notice me at first but then our eyes lock, and his flare.
“Lace,” he calls, but the music mutes it.
I blow past him crying, rushing out of there as fast as my feet will carry me. I feel rejected an
d angry.
Why did I ever agree to come here?
Tap, tap, tap.
“Lace, open the door.”
I sit on my bed with my knees tucked into my chest, holding myself.
How could I be so stupid to want a man like him?
Tap, tap, tap.
“Lace, come on, open up,” he pleads.
“Go away!”
“No, I’m not leaving until you open the door and hear me out.”
I jump off the bed and charge toward the door, opening it fast and wide. He’s leaning forward, using both his hands as props on the doorframe, still shirtless, jeans open at the fly.
“What could you possibly have to say to me?”
“I want to explain what you saw.”
His clear blue eyes bore into mine, and I find it nearly impossible to get out what I want to say…Nearly. “You have nothing to explain to me. We aren’t together. I’m just a mistake, remember?”
He cringes. “That’s not what I meant by that, and you know it.”
“Just go away, Gunnar.” His eyes flash open, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve ever called him by his first name.
“You’ve never said my name before,” he almost seems to growl out.
“Well, there’s really no need to be formal right now,” I say with a huff.
“Lace,” he purrs, “nothing happened with that girl.”
Wait. Say what now?
“It doesn’t look like nothing happened.” I scan his ‘bare’ torso, making note of all the detailed artwork that covers his skin. Then I move further down to his open fly.
“Nothing. Happened,” he insists, pinning my focus back on his face. “But that doesn’t mean that’s how it started…I was going to fuck her.”
“Then what stopped you?” I ask, obviously wounded.
“You did.”
“She was walking out of your room when I got there. How did I stop you?”
He shoots me a look.
“Are you really that blind, Lace?” I suppose I am. “Do I have to spell it out for you?” I suppose you do.
I shrug. “I guess so.”
He stands up straight and steps into my room, forcing me back, then shuts the door behind him, standing inches away. Unlike last night, when we had our little encounter, he doesn’t smell of booze.
“I want you, Lacey.” Did he really just say that? “You’ve been all I think about ever since we met.”
I take in an unsteady breath. “You sure have a fucked way of showing it.”
He slips his inked hand about my waist and pulls me into him. “How should I show you, baby doll?” I hate to admit it, but I love when he calls me that. It makes me feel like I’m his.
He places his other hand on my cheek, but it’s so large, it takes up the entire half of my face.
“I don’t know.”
He inches his lips towards mine and asks with a whisper, “Do you want me, Lace?”
I’m afraid. I know once I say it, there’s no going back.
“I don’t know what I want,” I lie.
“Yes you do, baby.” He grazes his lips against mine so lightly it almost tickles. My eyes flitter closed, and I breathe him in until he fills my lungs. “Tell me what you want.”
He’s magnetic, and I’m steel, drawn to him as if by design. It’s impossible to resist instinct. No matter how much I fight it, I want him. The temptation is simply too strong. I’m flirting with danger, and he’s flirting right back.
I reach up and grip his messy hair, tangling it with my fingers. When my eyes open again, I notice his are shut. I smirk, murmuring the first thing that comes into my head, “Did she kiss you, Gunnar?”
His lids fly up, and his come-hither eyes pierce mine. When he spots my smirk, he grins in return, and I continue, “Did she kiss that pretty little mouth of yours?”
“What if she did?” he replies playfully.
“Did she know how to kiss that smart mouth of yours?” I hover my mouth over his, which is slightly open, and dip my tongue inside with a shallow thrust, licking his upper lip on my way out.
He groans.
“I bet she didn’t,” I whisper.
“Not like you can,” he retorts, holding back from me.
“What are you waiting for? Take me.”
Giving him the green flag, his mouth firmly presses into mine. This isn’t like last night. This isn’t sloppy, forced, or laced with the taste of liquor. This is dark and passionate and tender all rolled up into one electrifying kiss. Like white-hot lightening, it tears through me, stimulating every cell until they burn for only him.
He smells divine, of sweat and musky cologne. Unlike our previous encounter, which was a cocktail of stale cigarettes, whiskey, and him. To be honest, even that pungent mix made me wet between my thighs.
His arm holds me closer, smashing me into his torso and hips. His other hand moves into my mussed hair, gripping it and furthering the depth of our lip tango.
I feel a rush of need when the hand on my lower back slithers down toward my ass, freezing just shy. He’s holding himself back. I know he wants more, but I feel the hesitancy in his body.
The question is how far am I willing to let him go?
The sensation of her lips against mine, though familiar, feels like nothing else. I get more pleasure from her mouth than from any other woman’s entire body. It’s better than sex.
My hand starts mindlessly wandering down toward her perky butt. I should know what it looks like; I’ve seen it walk out on me enough these past few days.
I’m not sure how far I can take this, and after last night’s fuck-up, I’m not taking chances. I stop my hand before I cross the line into treacherous territory, deciding to follow her lead.
“Ah,” I grunt when her teeth bite down on my lower lip.
That’s how she wants it.
I slap both hands onto her ass cheeks and palm them, lifting her up into me. She wraps herself about me like a vine, and I walk us over to the bed, falling backward. This leaves my hands free to roam and play.
“Sit up,” I order through our lips.
She rises and straddles me, pressing her pussy into my raging hard-on. My jeans’ zipper open, her wetness soaks through my briefs onto my cock. She adjusts herself and grinds into me, letting out a whimpered moan.
“Did that feel good, Lace?”
“Yes,” she breathes out.
I grab her hips, forcing her against me, and begin to run my shaft along her moist snatch. She moans and moves with me.
“Does my cock stroke your little clit just right?”
“Mmm,” she purrs.
I reach up to rip open her robe, ready to take her, and pause when I notice the shirt she decided to wear to bed tonight. It’s an old concert tee from one of Anarchy Reigns’ first tours.
Her hands fly up to her face when I look up at her with a huge grin.
“Don’t look at me,” she mumbles from her hands, embarrassed.
I move them away so I can see her. She’s flushed. “Would you like to explain this?”
“I would like to pretend this isn’t happening.” She attempts to place her hands back over her face and I grab her by the wrists.
“Why?”
“I thought I was the one who was supposed to ask the questions.”
“This isn’t an interview, Lace.”
“Isn’t it?” she retorts with a crooked smirk.
“Come on.”
“I’m embarrassed.”
“I don’t judge, baby.” I push the robe off her shoulders.
She sighs. “I’m wearing it because it made me feel closer to you. I don’t want you to think of me like…”
“That cock hungry groupie back in the suite.”
“I wasn’t going to put it that way, but yes.” Her brow crinkles. “How far did you go before it stopped?”
With her straddling me this way, she’s got me between my cock and a hard place.
“She was about to
suck me off when I pushed her away.” I can see what I said stung her a little.
“You said I was the reason. What did you mean by that?”
I grab her by the hips and lift her up. She complies, moving onto the bed as I roll off. I button my pants and pull my shirt out from the back pocket, tossing it on.
“Did I say something wrong?”
She’s nervous.
“No,” I answer and shake my head. “Kinda heavy topic. I don’t think I should be half-naked and between your legs while we do this.” She reaches for her robe. “No, don’t. I like seeing you in that shirt. It’s fucking sexy.”
“Will you tell me what you meant?” she asks inching over to the edge of the bed.
“She was on her knees, ready to give me anything I wanted, and I couldn’t do it…”
“You’re not answering my question, Gunn.”
Gunn…? Okay.
I move my hand into her hair and clench a fistful at the nape. “I want you on your knees ready to give me anything I want.”
“What do you want?” she asks, breathless.
“You.”
We didn’t talk after that. He just crawled into bed with me and tucked a long, tatted arm about my waist, spooning me until I fell asleep.
When I wake the next morning, I’m alone.
I thought last night was a breakthrough, but it didn’t take long after finding he was gone to realize that wasn’t the case. I think back on everything that happened and cringe.
Why does he make me dumb with lust?
As I get out of the shower, there’s a knock on my door, and my heart skips a beat. Maybe he wasn’t such a jerk after all.
I open the door with only a small towel covering my naughty bits.