by Black, Lena
As we begin to settle, lying in the cold, damp, sex-scented sheets, he kisses my lips, my face, my neck, blanketing me in heart-trembling warmth. I never knew it could be like this, so beautifully profound.
We lay together, our legs tangled, his fingers tickling along my spine.
“That was…”
“I know,” I sign out contently, digging my face into his beard and inhaling his manly musk.
He sighs. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
“What?” I ask, my voice hazy.
He scratches his chin tucked under all that fur on his face, contemplating whether or not to continue. “You’ve been talking in your sleep and you mention someone’s name, a man’s name.” I tense up. “Alec.”
The air is sucked from my lungs, and the blood in my veins feels like ice water. I shut my eyes and burrow my face in his neck further.
“I haven’t talked about him in a long time,” I mumble.
Unknotting our legs, he rolls me onto my back, occupying the space between my legs with his torso. His face level with my tummy, he kisses my belly button then speaks gently against the taut skin, “Who is he, baby?”
I run my fingers through his hair, mussed-up from sex, giving me comfort. “He was my fiancé.”
He glances up at me. “Was?”
“Mm hm. We were going to celebrate our graduation from NYU. He was running late, and I didn’t want to sit inside alone, so I waited for him outside the restaurant. I saw him across the street. He waved at me and stepped into the road... By the time I saw the SUV coming, it was too late. It struck him right in front of me.” The words hurt coming up, like needles. “H-He died a few minutes later in my arms.”
“Fuck,” he breathes out. “Lace, I’m sorry.”
I bow my head. “It was the most devastating moment of my life, watching the man I love leave this earth in the most violent way.” Even now, after six years, the wounds feel painfully fresh. “He was going to propose to me you know.”
“He was?” he says, reaching up and sweeping some hair behind my ear. For someone who doesn’t cuddle and shit, he sure is good at it.
“He had the ring in his pocket. That’s why he was late for our date. He went to pick it up just before. They found it in his coat pocket, the band twisted and cracked.”
He rests his chin on my stomach and kisses just above my womb, his beard hairs tickling the lips of my pussy.
“Can we change the subject?” I suggest, feeling remorseful lying naked with the man I’ve fallen madly for cradled between my legs, while speaking of the one who once held my heart. Alec was everything to me for so long, no one has ever compared to him…until Gunnar. What saddens me even more, is that I may love him more. And I never thought that would be possible.
“Anything you want, baby doll.”
There’s been something I’ve been going over in my head lately, a realization of sorts. Gunnar Haze is obviously made-up…So, who exactly have I been sleeping with these past few weeks? Who have I fallen madly, stupidly, never-coming-back-from-it in love with?
“What’s your name?” I twist my fingers in his coarse beard.
“Gunnar Ha…”
“No,” I interrupt him, “not your stage name. What’s your real name?”
“None of the other girls ever wanted to know, why do you?” He takes my hand from his beard and squeezes it, locking our fingers.
“What can I say? I’m one of kind, baby,” I tease, trying to ease him. I don’t understand why it’s so hard for him to tell me something as basic as a name. “Please tell me.”
He puffs his cheeks and pushes out air between his puckered lips, blowing around the hair about my face. It’s cool and smells of peppermint. “Wyatt Matthews.”
“It’s so…”
“Boring, I know,” he comments, glancing away from me.
With my free hand, I grip a fistful of hair, making him look at me. “Normal, in the best way.”
“I hate it,” he gripes, curling his upper lip.
“Well I like it. It’s nice to see you in a different light.” I rustle his hair, and he laughs. “You aren’t just some unreachable rock star.”
“I’ve always hated it.”
“Did you change it for the band?”
“I did it to leave my past behind.” His hand tightens, crushing my fingers slightly. It hurts, but not nearly as much as the pain on his face.
“What are you running from, Gunn?”
He frowns. “Him.”
“Who him?” I don’t want to push, but I need to know more about him. I have this desperate need in me to understand this man as much as I can with the little time we have left. Even if a part of me hopes he’ll ask me to go with him, deep down I know I shouldn’t have these feelings. In a few days, he’ll be gone, and I’ll be a wreck.
“The man I’m named after, my father,” he answers, freeing my from my depressing thoughts.
Is that why he despises his name so much, because of his dad?
“Why are you running from him?”
“Because he was a fucking sack of shit, that’s why.” He pulls his hand from mine and places it over his face, hiding whatever emotion has overcome him. “It’s the same sad story told a million times before. Dad was a mean drunk, abusive. And my mother was too weak to leave him.”
He sits up on his knees, taking me with him. I straddle his lap, wrapping my arms about his head. Mimicking my actions, he enfolds his about my waist. His face buried into my chest, I feel hot tears break free, trailing down my torso.
I glance down to his upper back, near his shoulder, where the purple scar tissue sits, taunting me with its insight to his past. I know there’s a heart-wrenching story behind it.
“There’s more, isn’t there?”
He pulls away, and I see the tears glimmer on his cheeks. His eyes glassy. He turns his head and wipes them away.
“Yes,” he mumbles, licking his dry lips.
“I want to understand.”
He freezes, keeping his eyes focused out the window, his grip about my back stiffening. After a few moments of silence, he finally stares me in the eye, giving me a vulnerable pleading look.
“When I was fourteen, my mom and dad had gotten into a huge argument. I was lying in bed upstairs, listening to them just go at each other. My father was a real sonofabitch when he drank, not that he was so much better sober, but when he got booze in him, he was the fucking devil. He would beat my mom until her eyes closed over and her whole face was black and blue. Once, he slammed her to the ground and started kicking her until he broke her leg and three ribs.
“I knew this fight was probably going to end the same way. I could hear her telling him he was a lousy drunk and a no good father and provider. She worked three jobs just to keep the house together while he sat around getting drunk with his buddies all day. Anyway, suddenly, I heard the familiar thud of her hitting the ground and I knew he’d hit her. I’d had enough. I couldn’t stand by and watch him hurt her any longer. So I jumped out of bed and ran downstairs, finding her sprawled out on the floor, her cheek already turning blue. I looked at her and then him. All I saw was red. I was out for blood. I screamed and ran at him, ready to pummel him into a bloody mess.
“That’s when he pulled out the gun he was hiding behind him in the waistband of his jeans. He pointed it toward me, but it didn’t stop me. I grabbed onto his wrist and we struggled for a bit. I had the upper hand until he managed to punch me in the throat. I clasped one of my hands over where he’d made contact and he wrenched his wrist from my grip, aimed, and shot me.”
I glimpse down at the scar, feeling like I could just ball up and cry.
“Then he aimed it at my mom’s head and something took over, adrenaline, the instinct to survive, to protect her. I snagged his wrist and yanked the gun from his hand when he wasn’t paying attention, focused on my mom. I pointed it at his chest and pulled the trigger. He dropped to the floor like a bag of rocks, lifeless, eyes o
pen, bleeding out until he was lying in a pool of scarlet.”
“Jesus, Gunnar, I…” I don’t know what to say. What do you say to something so terrifying, so surreal?
“It’s ok, Lace…It’s in the past.”
Obviously, that’s not the case. It’s forever imprinted in him. Right there, on his shoulder, a permanent reminder of the horror he was put through.
“What happened after that?”
“I was taken to the hospital, and the cops conducted an investigation. Though, it was pretty much an open and shut case. Everyone knew how he was, including the cops. They decided it was self-defense and that was that.”
“So, if he was dead, why did you still leave home so young?” I ask, my voice trembling.
“I couldn’t be there anymore. I loved my mom, but I also blamed her for putting up with him for so long. She let him hurt me. She let him fucking destroy us. It was just too painful. So, I moved around a lot until I made it to L.A. when I was sixteen. I met Jay shortly after in a home for street kids. We used to get into all kinds of shit together, breaking into people’s homes, stealing cars, drinking and drugs. We were arrested more times than I can count on my hands.
“Then we met Dylan one night in lockdown. I think we had all hit rock bottom at that point, so we cleaned up our acts, started the band, and worked odd jobs to pay rent on this shitty little studio apartment. We still drank and shit, but we were too focused on our music to get in any real trouble. It was the best time of my life.”
“Are you happy, now?” I feel like it’s a simple question, but one that’s hard to answer honestly. It’s hard to be completely truthful with yourself.
“What’s not to be happy about?” he says unenthusiastically, avoiding the question.
“You’re deflecting,” I state, lightly tugging on his beard.
His brow cocks, a playful smirk brushes across his face. “What are you, a reporter?”
I laugh. “Yes, it just so happens I am.”
“Why are you so curious?” he asks.
The lightness fades and the mood shifts drastically, becoming sullen.
“I want to know who I’m letting inside me.” I cup my hand over his cheek, rubbing my thumb against his cheekbone.
“Mm, that’s hot, baby.”
He falls forward, taking me with him, and lays between my legs so we’re pelvis to pelvis. His eyes stare into mine, turned up at the corners when he smiles.
“Please, just answer that last question then I promise no more for now.”
He lets out an exaggerated breath and rests his forehead against mine. When he lifts his face again, his serious eyes bore through me, there may even be a hint of sadness in them.
“No, Lace, I haven’t been happy for a long time.” A look of realization seems to wash over his face. “I haven’t been happy for a long time.” The second time is for him, allowing the thought to soak in.
I rest my hand over the other cheek, searching his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Gunnar.”
His lips kink up on one side. “I know how you can make me happy.”
“Yeah?” I say with a breathy voice. “How?”
“Like this,” he replies, submerging inside me with one hard thrust.
“Wyatt,” I moan, clawing at his back, mine arching severely. I’m not sure how he’ll react. But, instead of stiffening or giving me a wounded look, he moans in return, “Lacey.”
I hold her in my arms while she sleeps next me, her head resting on my chest. I caress her back, feeling the soft, smooth flesh under my fingers. It calms me.
After tonight’s fucked encounter and revealing conversation, I need this more than anything. Watching her mother tear her down was painful. The look of sadness in her eyes tore me to shreds. It’s not so much how her mom sees me, most people have the same opinion she does, but I couldn’t handle Lace being abused like that by someone she’s supposed to be able to trust. Her own fucking mother of all people.
When she finally spoke up for herself, it was the moment I knew she changed. That’s when I knew I loved her.
We walk into Lombardi’s, a narrow room with red and white tablecloths, real old school, gangster type shit. We grab a booth in the back toward the kitchen and settle in. Lace sits a few feet away from me and I pull her closer, dangling my arm over her shoulders.
“I’m fucking starving,” she comments, skimming the menu, but I already know what we’re ordering. When the waiter comes over to our table, I order the staple of this New York constitution, the Margherita pie and a couple beers.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve been on a date,” I comment, relaxing back into my seat.
“Is this a date?” she asks and bites down on her bottom lip.
“I know it isn’t very fancy,” I say apologetically.
“Gunnar, I hardly think you’re the fancy type,” she teases. “I like that about you. I don’t need to be on all the time like some show monkey.”
“You like me?” I ask playfully. “Like, like me?”
She slaps her hand over her face with a giggle. “Oh my God. Shut up, asshole.”
“Make me,” I groan into her ear, removing her hand from her eyes. She leans into me and places her cherry red lips against mine, shoving her tongue into my mouth. I grab the back of her head and hold her against me, meeting her tongue with mine.
When we pull away, she’s breathless, her face flushed and slightly embarrassed. Some of the patrons are watching us, whispering to one another.
“So, how was your day at work?” I ask, curious about whether she’s finished the article for Anarchy Reigns.
“It was work.” She shrugs.
“Just work?” I pry, hoping to get more out of her than just a boring answer you might get from a teenager when asking about school.
“We can’t all be rock stars, Gunn.” She smirks at me over her shoulder before resting her head against mine.
Fuck it.
Looks like I’ll just have to come right out with it. “So…How’s the article going?”
She pops up, turning back to me. “Oh! So that’s what this is about!” She giggles and shakes her head at me. “Uh-uh, nope. I’m not going to tell you. You will just have to buy a copy like everyone else.”
I yank her back into me, caressing my lips against her ear. “Ah, come on, baby. Just a little taste.”
“Nope, not even a lick,” she retorts then clamps her mouth shut.
“Well, at least fucking tell me it doesn’t paint me in a shitty light.”
She doesn’t say anything at first.
“Ok, I will say this…It’s honest.”
Ah, shit. What the fuck does that mean?
“I have ways of making you talk,” I growl into her ear, sliding my free hand down the front of her jeans and cupping it against her pussy.
“Oh, I’m sure you do.” She places her hand on my thigh, squeezing tight when my finger slides between her wet lips. “And I’d love to see what you’ve got,” she challenges me with a moan.
“Fine.” I nip at the lobe of her ear, flicking it with my tongue. “Tonight, I’m going to fuck it out of you. You’ll be begging to tell me when I’m through with your soaked pussy.”
She bites on her lower lip, her eyes closing over as my fingertip lightly strokes her clit.
“Mm. Game on,” she murmurs.
I pull away and she glares back me, causing me to laugh. I like when she pouts or gets mad. It’s a turn-on. I’m going to miss it.
I’m going to miss her.
What if you didn’t have to though? What if…you asked her to come with you? Well, why the fuck can’t I? That’s it, I think with concrete resolution. Tonight, I’m going to ask her to run away with me.
We drive back to her place, her holding my hand resting between us. When we park in front of her building, her fingers unlock from mine. I climb out, walk around to her door, and grab her hand, helping her do the same.
“Come on, baby.”
&nb
sp; We head up to her apartment, realizing we’re alone after Lace calls out to Gwen and we’re answered with silence.
She releases my hand and walks into the living room, taking off her coat and dumping it, along with the helmet, on the couch. “Want a beer?”
“Sure. I’ll get ‘em.” I comment, walking over to the fridge. “You want one?”
“Yup.”
I open it up and grab two bottles, bringing them over to her on the couch. Slumping back, I sit beside her and hand over a beer.
“Thanks,” she says and then puckers her lips about the rim. Everything she does is a boner inducer.
“No,” I murmur with a skewed grin. “Thank you.”
She warily glimpses out of the corner of her eye, her mouth still wrapped about the bottle.
“Asshole,” she mutters into her beer. I chuckle and shake my head, throwing back a nice swig. “Would you mind if I changed? These jeans are freakin’ tight.”
I nod my head.
She kisses my cheek and leaps up, scooting off to her room. I’m glad she gave me a minute to think. I have to figure out how I’m going to bring this up to her. I can’t just blurt it out like Vegas. It has to be brought up with careful consideration. But first, I’m gonna have to tell her I’m in love with her.
I take another gulp of my beer and notice her laptop is open, sitting right on her desk.
I know the article is due soon, but she refuses to tell me what’s in it, and I want to know before it comes out. I’m not very patient. Living a life of get what I want, when I want, lends to that.
I get off the couch and stroll over to the screen. I’ve never been so fucking nervous about a review, but this is different. I’ve never loved anyone who critiqued my music. Screwed, sure, but not loved.