Heavy Metal Heart
A Bad Boy Rock Star Romance
by Annette Fields
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events reside solely in the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental. All characters are eighteen years of age or older.
©2016, Annette Fields. No portion of this work can be reproduced in any way without prior written consent from the author with the exception for a fair use excerpt for review and editorial purposes.
This title is for adults only. It contains explicit sex acts, adult themes, and material that some folks may find offensive. Please keep out of reach of children.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
Prologue
Torsten
Torsten sat like an ominous, watchful statue. His muscular, tattooed forearms rested on his thighs while his long, guitarist hands connected at the fingertips in a gesture similar to a prayer.
He didn't want to be there. But he had to do this. Every other option had been exhausted.And no one else but him could do this.
Across from him sat Lars, or rather, Lars' body being animated by whatever substance altered his brain chemistry at the moment. Who knew how much of the real Lars was still in there. Torsten stopped caring a long time ago.
Lars fidgeted, twitched and scratched. Every few seconds he would look at a space on the wall above him, then look away. His once round baby face sunk in, stretching tightly over his skull. The dark circles under his eyes indicated he hadn't slept for days. He didn't even seem to notice Torsten in the room.
The two men sat across from each other in sleek swivel chairs in the recording studio as they had many times before. Back then they wrote and produced songs, got into fist fights, bragged about the girls they slept with, the drugs they scored, and everything else in between.
They made memories in this room. After a grueling, non-stop twenty-one-hour session, they produced their first album in this room. Lars had certainly been on cocaine while they recorded, but he could still show up and hold his drumsticks then, so Torsten let it slide.
That album sent their band, Mjolnir, to the top of Northern Europe's heavy metal charts like a bat out of hell. Torsten's only dream and only reason for living had come true.
He named the band Mjolnir after hammer of Thor, the Norse god of thunder. While he kept his beliefs private, Torsten sincerely felt he relied on Thor for his source of strength, and his weapon, Mjolnir allowed him to reach a status he never thought possible, and destroy what stood in his way.
But he learned fame and fortune had a price. He didn't anticipate losing his best friend-- and the best drummer the metal world had ever seen-- like this.
"Where are the others? Are we recording today, Torsten?" Lars asked in an unusually high voice as if he were talking to a small child.
"No." Torsten paused to fully exhale a breath before continuing. "I'm removing you from the band, Lars. You're no longer part of Mjolnir."
He saw no point in pussyfooting around. Might as well rip off the band-aid all at once and get it over with.
For the first time since he arrived, Lars focused his eyes on Torsten. He said nothing but stared curiously for several long seconds. He then began to giggle as if Torsten just told a toilet joke.
"I'm dead serious. You're out," Torsten repeated. The depth of his voice filled the room with a heavy bass. Interviewers always asked him why he didn't do vocals. He always gave a generic brush-off answer about the guitar being his biggest strength.
He felt no pleasure in doing this to Lars, but it was necessary. At one point, Lars was an irreplaceable pillar that elevated Mjolnir to its new platform. But when people get big, some of them get lost along the way. Now, he was nothing but dead weight.
Lars continued to giggle. "Well, what the fuck are you going to do without a drummer? Play acoustic guitar while begging for change?" he asked, still in that high, childlike voice. The patronizing tone sent Torsten's blood simmering. He still didn't get it.
"We'll hire another one that shows up, gets shit done, and doesn't develop fucking junkie tendencies," Torsten answered curtly.
He didn't feel the need to say they already found a replacement drummer. The new kid, Markus, had excellent skill but lacked Lars' natural talent. But if he stuck it out, he could still learn.
Lars' childishness began pissing off Torsten years ago. Torsten never had an anti-drug policy with his bandmates. He knew it came with the lifestyle. His only hard fast rule was to show up and do your fucking job. If your extracurriculars made you late or play like shit, there would be problems.
His tolerance for bullshit among the band members hit an all-time low when Lars pulled up late and high out of his mind to a live show. He couldn't tell apart his drumsticks from his asshole. Thankfully Stig, the vocalist, knew drums well enough to take over. But that was Torsten's last fucking straw.
Finally, Lars stopped giggling. The crazed smile dropped from his face while Torsten remained still and watchful. He finally seemed to make sense of the situation and twisted his face into a mask of panic.
"Torsten! You can't!"
"It's already done. The decision's been made. At this point, your behavior has harmed Mjolnir more than it's helped."
He felt an uncomfortable tightness in his chest. He couldn't afford to show remorse, or any emotion, for that matter. But even for a hardened, iron-fisted leader, this was among the most difficult things he'd ever done.
"You were a brother to me, but I can't let you drag us all down with you."
Torsten tried his best to swallow the dry lump in his throat. If it had been any of the other band members, this wouldn't be as difficult. Without Lars saving his life, then pushing him to start a band all those years ago, Mjolnir simply wouldn't exist.
Lars leaped to his feet, scratching himself more fervently, his eyes bulging from hollow sockets. Veins protruded from his neck and forehead looking like they were about to pop. He stuck his face inches away from Torsten's, practically spitting on him as he pointed a bony finger in his face. Torsten didn't move and kept his expression neutral, but remained tense and coiled like a snake ready to strike.
"I made you!" Lars yelled at the top of his lungs. His panic quickly gave way to rage. "There'd be no Torsten, Heavy Metal God of Norway, without me! You can't cut me out! You owe me your pathetic fucking life!"
"You saved me," he responded flatly. His memory flashed to his teenage youth of living at a bus stop. Only Lars knew what he went through before his family op
ened their home to him.
"If your family hadn't taken me in, I would be in the same shape as you right now, if I were even alive. But brother--," Torsten's breath hitched on that last word. "I've tried to save you. We all have. But you'll drag us all down with you if you keep going this way. Everything we have will be lost. All of our hard work will be for nothing if you stay."
"EVERYTHING YOU HAVE IS BECAUSE OF ME!"
Lars’ whole body shook so hard with rage, his teeth rattled. He embodied the exact opposite disposition as Torsten, who prided himself on maintaining complete composure and control, at least outwardly.
Torsten sighed. This was going nowhere and already dragging on for too long. So much for ripping off the band-aid.
"Payroll has already deposited your final check into your account," he said plainly. "You'll have it in a few days."
Lars' demeanor changed swiftly. He backed out of Torsten's personal space and walked away a few feet. Like a mask again, his face changed from anger to sadness. His brows unfurrowed and his mouth dropped from a scowl to a frown. He seemed to realize anger and intimidated wouldn't work on Torsten, so he decided to plead.
"Okay, look, look... I'll get clean!" He dropped to his knees and flashed a desperate, rotten smile. He definitely lost more teeth since Torsten last got a clear look at his mouth. "I'll go to rehab and do the twelve steps and all that shit again, but I'm gonna need more money--,"
"I just said--,"
"Look, I gotta pay off some people, alright? I gotta keep these fucking dealers off my back, then I swear I'm going in for treatment. I swear on my parents' lives, Torsten!"
Torsten shook his head. He could not believe he was dealing with this. "You're a broken record at this point, Lars. There's no bullshit from your mouth I haven't already heard." He rose to his feet to tower above Lars still kneeling on the ground. "This is goodbye. There's nothing more to say."
Lars scrambled to his feet again, his eyes just at Torsten's chin. He was all twitchy, an uncontrolled ball of nervous energy. Even when not on drugs, he always had to twitch or tap on something. They always joked his hands only steadied when hitting the drums or holding his dick.
In contrast, Lars alway said Torsten was only a metalhead because of the pole shoved up his ass. By rockstar standards, Torsten was as straight-edge as could be. His drugs of choice included tobacco, alcohol, and playing the guitar for up to six hours a day. He enjoyed reminding Lars and the others they were the richest, most famous metal band in the country because of their rigorous practice schedule.
Those memories floated like ghosts through Torsten's mind as he looked at Lars, feeling his first stabs of pity and shame. This would be the last time he'd see him, the only man he considered a brother. He didn't want to remember him like this.
He exhaled a deep breath, relaxing his shoulders and letting them slump forward. “I really wish it didn’t have to be like this, brother,--”
"FUCK YOU for calling me your brother!" Lars was back to being angry, stabbing his finger inches away from Torsten's broad chest. "I'd never do this shit to you! Now I have nothing and you're throwing me out on the street!"
"You have a home, and your wife is somehow still supporting your ass. You're already better off than most. You'll figure something out."
"My WIFE?" Lars spat in his face, foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. "She's fucking onto me about shit. If she knows about this, she'll kick my ass out!"
"Then she and I have something in common. Tell her I said hello," he responded coldly.
Torsten tried to picture Helena, Lars' wife, in his mind, who he only met once. He remembered her being beautiful, though acting like she had no idea. She had those classic Scandinavian features: long blond hair, pale skin over high cheekbones, and large, pale green eyes that he found intensely sexy.
At the party where they met, she clung to Lars' side and seemed terrified by all the tattooed, long-haired, and bearded metalheads, himself included. She'd been with Lars since they were kids, and girls like her didn't mix with the metal scene for any other reason.
He considered getting her a drink and striking up a conversation. It felt odd to not be on friendly terms with his best friend's wife, but she seemed especially uncomfortable around him. Whenever he talked to Lars and glanced over at her, she avoided eye contact like her life depended on it. He didn't know what her beef was. Maybe she was on drugs and paranoid too. Whatever.
That was their only meeting because Lars claimed he preferred keeping his personal and professional lives separate, which meant he enjoyed fucking groupies and getting blasted behind her back. Torsten felt a deep stab of pity for the woman. She was the last person on Earth still willing to deal with him.
"Something in common? Oh, Torsten!" Lars started that really fucking annoying giggle again. "You've been my scapegoat for years to keep my old lady off my back. 'Fucking Torsten supplies all the drugs and bitches, baby. He says it's part of the lifestyle!' She eats it up every time!" He laughed as if telling the most clever joke in the world.
Torsten narrowed his eyes and clenched his fists, fighting to keep his temper at bay. All sympathy for Lars evaporated in that moment like a puddle in a desert.
"You're dead to me. Leave. Now."
"Aw, come on! It's funn--,"
"No, it's not fucking funny!" Torsten's voice grew louder like thunder as his patience gave way to his boiling blood. "I've lied to the press for years to cover up your fuck-ups! To protect your precious reputation. But you have no problem slandering my character to cover your own cowardly ass!"
Torsten shoved Lars forcefully away from him. It took all his resolve to not punch his stupid fucking face.
"This is your last warning. Get the fuck out."
Despite being at a clear physical disadvantage, Lars decided he wouldn't leave without a fight.
His fist swung and landed on Torsten's chin, but with zero strength behind it. Torsten returned with his fist to connect with Lars's cheekbone, which landed with a sickening crunch and sent Lars spinning away and landing on the floor.
He walked over to Lars's body writhing in pain and dragged him upright by the shirt. Half walking, half dragging Lars by the shirt collar, he forced open the studio with his shoulder and continued down the short hallway to the front of the building. With a final shove, he sent Lars sprawling across the lawn.
"I don't give a fuck what happens to you after this," Torsten snarled. "If I see your junkie face again, I'll mash it into a bloody fucking pulp."
With one hand on his cheek, Lars stumbled to his feet and walked as quickly as he could down the sidewalk with his twitchy, jerky gait.
Torsten pulled a cigarette from the slim, metal case in his shirt pocket. He lit it and took a long, heavy drag as he watched. His best friend, brother, and shining, drumming prodigy staggered away for the last time.
Chapter 1
Helena
Six months later
Helena robotically signed her name on the final page of the divorce agreement and shoved the packet of papers across the table as if it were an unsavory meal.
Her attorney, an attractive middle-aged woman in a crisp pantsuit, gave her a sympathetic look from across the table, but Helena missed it. She was too busy focusing on nothing.
"So that's it, then?" Her voice sounded robotic too.
"Yes, ma'am." The attorney forced a smile as she pulled the packet closer to her. "Once these are filed and you receive your official copy, you may legally use your maiden name again."
Her maiden name. Helena Forss. The name she was born with. No more Helena Stromblad. It felt so odd and unnatural compared to her married name. She barely remembered having a life before Lars. They had been together since they were fifteen when he was that sweet, energetic baby-faced boy. He was the only man she slept with, and the only one she loved.
Ten years later, this was the last place she expected either of them to be.
"Congratulations, Ms. Forss!" The attorney stood and extended
her hand, still forcing that plastered-on smile. "It's been an honor to assist you during this difficult time. You're finally free. Please call if you ever need legal assistance."
Helena shook her hand cordially and tried to crack a smile in return, but it felt completely unnatural. She couldn't remember the last time she genuinely smiled.
Finally free. Helena turned the phrase over in her head as she left her lawyer's office. What a choice pair of words for a situation like this.
Freedom was supposed to be a good thing. She could do whatever she wanted now. Divorcing her unfaithful, drug-abusing husband was supposed to be the textbook definition of freedom. Shouldn't she be jumping and skipping through the streets?
The last time she saw him played in her mind like a movie clip. She knew he had bad news the moment he walked in the door, twitching, avoiding her eyes, and with a swelling purple bruise on his face. In that moment, she knew what she’d been afraid to admit for at least a year: she didn’t love him anymore.
She stood at the street corner, wondering what to do with her newfound freedom. At least taking care of Lars had given her some kind of purpose. As a fresh divorcee, she felt like a raft drifting on an empty, massive ocean with no anchor.
On a whim, she turned left and headed toward the downtown street where all the bars were located.
Maybe a stiff drink will make me feel like celebrating.
Freedom meant she could date now, and flirt without feeling guilty. While married, she fantasized about someone who actually came home to her every night. Some faceless stranger would scoop her up in strong, tattooed arms and set her body on fire with pleasure. She'd feel loved, wanted, beautiful, and cared for. Lars hadn't bothered to make her feel any of those ways since the band got big.
But fantasies are light-years away from reality. Plus, he always knew the right things to say when he sensed her getting fed up.
"Torsten's been buying laced weed," he'd tell her with tears in his eyes. "I swear I gave up coke, baby! I swear on our future children's lives! I would never knowingly do coke again! But he bought it laced and told us it was straight. I'm so sorry, baby!"
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