by Black, Lena
An Opposites Attract Novel
Lena Black
Metal & Lace
By
Lena Black
Copyright © 2015 Lena Black
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the publisher or author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Editing: Joshua Minette & Julie Cameron
Cover design: Double J Book Graphics
Cover image: www.dollarphotoclub.com
IBSN:
ISBN-10: 1512354961
For
Jules
Content
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Playlist
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
Playlist
The Runaways - Hollywood
Terraplane Sun - L.A. Blues (Hotel Party)
Sebastien Tellier - Look (Poolside)
Adolescent - Hangshai (Club)
The Stooges - I Wanna Be Your Dog
Summer Fiction - By the Sea
Poison - Talk Dirty to Me
Mecca Kalani - Feel Me
Old Man Canyon - Phantom and Friends (The Article)
Banks - Waiting Game (N.Y.E Party)
For this playlist and others, please visit Spotify
https://play.spotify.com/user/12157988707
I drive into her repeatedly. Fucking this randy woman until her heels hang from her toes, lifted high above her head, in the alley behind some hole-in-the-wall bar. She grips onto my ass for dear life, partially hanging out the back of my sagging jeans, while I take her to pound town over some metal trashcan. It’s gritty. It’s messy. It gets me off.
She flirted with me inside the dark, sleazy bar, obviously a Connecticut housewife looking for some trouble in the big city, and I was just the one to give it to her.
“Are you Gunnar Haze?” she asked, twirling the ends of her teased hair, wearing clothes a little too tight and short for her age, which appears to be about mid-forties. But she was fucking hot and obviously good to go.
“Yeah,” I bob my head once, bored by the question, staring into my glass before I take a swig of my cheap whiskey, “that’d be me.”
You could see the horny wash over her, thighs rubbing together, chest heaving from hard breathing.
“I’m Julie,” she panted.
I bought her a drink and said a few cocky things, before she was practically begging for my cock.
What’s a fella to do?
So, here we are, me giving it to her and her taking it like a champ. She moans and writhes, doing all the usual motions. She palms her big tits and bites on her upper lip, bouncing off me violently.
“Does your husband know you’re a dirty little slut?” I ask with a gravelly voice, stressed from the exertion, and her juicy pussy squeezes my dick, nearly taking it off. She comes so hard she drips down my sac.
I keep going at her limp body, desperate to climax, but the release won’t come. Frustrated, I pull out, ripping the condom off with a snap and toss it on the alley floor.
It’s not her fault. Even though I’d like to believe it was, this isn’t the first time this has happened to me. Lately, I find myself unsatisfied with everything. I’m jaded.
I stuff myself back into my jeans and zip them up. Without so much as a glance, I skulk away from her, disappearing into the night.
“Where the hell have you been?” Jay, my bandmate, asks, parked on the couch and makeshift bed, plucking at his guitar. He’s been crashing here for two weeks and he’s already annoying the shit out of me.
“Who are you,” I glare at him, “my fucking wife?”
“Whatever, man.” He brushes me off, shaking his head, and then goes back to playing.
I head up to my bedroom, walking straight into the bathroom to wash off the sex. I stand in the shower with my hands splayed on the tiled wall, the spray of the water pummeling my tatted back.
I don’t know what’s been up my ass lately, but it’s even starting to piss me off.
When I get out, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I look worn down. I look like shit. My gray eyes are hollow. My skin, what you can see through the mass of tattoos decorating it, looks pale, almost ghostly. I’m hollow. I’m dead inside.
My eyes open a sliver, the morning light assaulting them, and I’m flooded with anger.
Damn, I’m still here.
I’m lying on my stomach, ass-naked, head fucking pounding. I can’t remember much of the night before, a flash here and there. Something in my gut and pounding head tells me that’s a good thing.
I flip myself over on the bed, staring up at the ceiling with a feeling of hopelessness.
Fuck my life.
I throw on some jeans, a white tee, and my trusty old boots. Running a comb through my medium-brown hair and beard, I finish it all off and head out of my bedroom. I need to get out of this apartment, this spacious, loft-shaped coffin hanging above Manhattan. It makes me feel claustrophobic. I can’t explain it.
As I head out the front door, Jay calls after me, “Hey! Where are you going now?”
I ignore him and keep going, arriving at the elevator just as my fine-as-hell neighbor gets off. She holds her tiny designer dog, Fifi or some bullshit froufrou name like that, glaring at me with contempt, scanning my tatted arms and neck.
“Good morning, Mrs. Burton,” I greet her with an overly friendly grin, knowing it would twist her little panties. She’s some hot little gold-digger who lives next door with her much older husband.
She huffs and walks past me. I smirk to myself as I get on, fucking delighted by her reaction.
She didn’t hate me when I was banging her brains out a few weeks back. Then suddenly, the bitch can’t stand the sight of me. Guilty conscience, perhaps? It seems like it was more trouble than she was worth.
Thou shall not fuck thy neighbor’s fine ass wife…again.
I ride the cab down to the lobby and head out to the busy streets of New York, alive with noises and smells and people you can only find here. I shove my hands into my pockets and start toward the local coffeehouse for some coffee and a blueberry muffin, desperate to feed this hangover. I slope my head in hopes that I’m not recognized. I’m not in the mood.
I make it inside without incident, instantly welcomed by the usual brunette spinner behind the counter. I think she purposely picks this shift so she can run into me. Her oversized grin is so cheerful and bright. It irritates me instantly. Not that she isn’t cute or even deserves to be despised, but I can’t stop myself. Everything ticks me off lately.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Haze. What can I get for you?” Her voice is breathy.
I turn my attention to the board behind her. “I’ll take the house brew and a blueberry muffin.”
She nods and goes about making my coffee and grabbing my treat, all while sneaking glances back at me.
“Here you go,” she sa
ys, sliding my order across the glass counter. I start to take my wallet out. “On the house.”
I know she’s trying to be nice, but it annoys me even further. I take a bill out of my wallet, slap it on the counter, and grab my breakfast, turning around to leave. As I’m exiting, she calls out, “Hey! This is a hundred dollars!”
“Keep the change,” I mutter without stopping.
As I’m heading over to Bryant Park to hangout and people watch, I spot a newsstand and head over. I scan the magazines and newspapers, my eyes pausing on a rock magazine, one I’ve been interviewed by before, called Rocked Candy Review.
I pick up a copy and throw a few bucks on one of the newspapers, walking into the park.
I take a seat on a bench, crossing my leg, and settle in. I sip on my coffee and take a bite of my muffin before opening up my morning reading material. I’m skimming through it when I catch a title that makes me do a double take.
The Reign Has Passed
What the fuck?
It’s an article about my band, Anarchy Reigns. More specifically, about our performance a month back. The writer rips us apart, saying we’re lacking in creative integrity and originality! The article goes on and on about the band and our lackluster performance.
Who the fuck does this asshole think he is?!
I jump back to the top of the article, finding his name just under the title.
L. Cummings
I know the magazine is based out of New York. Not far from here actually.
Well, L. Cummings, you are in for a rude fucking awakening.
I spring up and march out to the busy street. Shoving the tips of my thumb and pointer finger in my tight-lipped mouth, I blow a deafening whistle. A cab notices me, pulling over, and I leap in, giving him the address.
I don’t know why I’m fuming. This is not the first bad review the band’s gotten, and it won’t be the last. There’s just something about this sonofabitch’s words that grates me.
A few blocks later, we stop in front of an old, multi-level warehouse, which was probably once a sweatshop, now a hip office building. I give the driver some cash and jump out. Heading in through the front door, made of white painted wood and glass, I find myself getting angrier by the second.
Really, who does this fucker think he is shitting on my band? I’m going to give him a piece of my mind and fist.
I trudge past the reception desk. The young male hipster, with his stupid knitted cap and fake black rimmed glasses, tries to stop me as I advance up the stairs.
“Um, Mr. Haze. Can I help you?”
“Fuck off,” I growl at him as I dart up to the second floor, where I know a lot of the writers are located. “Where can I find L. Cummings?” I shout, halting everyone in their tracks. They watch me with scrutinizing eyes. “I’m not asking again.”
A small Asian woman with blue streaks in her bone straight hair points over to an office towards the back.
“Thanks,” I say coolly, as I brush past her.
I know I’m being an asshole. But I don’t give a flying fuck. I’m out for blood.
I spot the bastards’ name on the door and barge in, ready to tear into him when the stunning blonde standing at his desk halts me in place.
Fuck, she’s beautiful. She can’t possibly work here. She has to be a model or a dancer with those long gazelle-like legs and slight frame. Standing only a few inches shorter than me at six one, she’s tall and statuesque.
I feel a spasm in my pants as blood pumps into my cock, making it rock hard. I roll my shoulders back and tighten my jaw, collecting myself.
“Where’s Cummings?” I snap out.
She looks up from the stack of papers she’s sifting through, her huge hazel eyes piercing me.
“Who wants to know?” she asks, from full pink lips. They’re the kind of lips you want to bite and suck on, the kind you want to suck on you. Crossing her arms under her small, perky tits, enough for a good handful, she stares me down. But I’m too focused on those fucking tits, the peaks of her hardened nipples poking through the clingy material of her camisole.
I mentally slap myself across the face, pulling myself out of whatever hold this woman has on me.
I clear my dry throat and round out my shoulders. “Gunnar Haze.”
“Well, Haze,” she spews out my surname as if it were toxic, “you’re looking at her.”
I’m taken back.
This hot, tight piece of ass is the bastard I’m looking for? This might be harder than I thought.
I toss the twisted magazine on her desk. “Who do you think you are writing an article like that?”
“I’m a journalist.” She doesn’t even glimpse down at it. She knows exactly why I’m here. “That’s my job.”
“It’s your job to shit on musicians?”
She laughs, taking a seat in her chair. “No, it’s my job to be honest. It’s not my fault your band puts on a lackluster performance, or that your songs are less than appealing creatively. It’s yours.”
Kitty has claws. Which only makes me harder. No one talks to me like this. EVER. I have never been so furious and horny all at once.
In a gesture to intimidate her, I set my hands on her desk and lean in. “You’re going to correct your article about us.”
“The hell I am,” she huffs, her upper lip curled.
“Where’s your editor-in-chief?”
“In the editor-in-chief’s office,” she replies in a smartass tone.
I turn sharply and head out of her office, adjusting myself when she can’t see me anymore.
After fifteen minutes of threatening to sue, Jim, the young-ish head editor at the magazine caves, adhering to my demands. He calls Cummings to his office, asking her to shut the door behind her when she enters.
He leans back in his chair, tapping his pen on the palm of his hand. “I want you to write a new article about Anarchy Reigns.”
“No,” she says outright, avoiding me as I smirk in her direction, pleased I won, “I’m not going to do that.”
“You have to,” I retort with an overly pleased tone, knowing it would irk her.
“Lacey,” Jim shifts in his chair, visibly uncomfortable by the situation, “you have to do it, or he’s going to sue for slander.”
Lacey, I repeat to myself.
As if she can hear my thoughts, she spins around and glares with her piercing hazel eyes. There go the spasms again.
“You’re a real asshole, you know that?”
“Yes I do.” I twitch my lips into an evil, crooked smirk. “But you better get used to it, baby doll. You’ll be seein’ a lot more of me.”
“What does he mean?” she asks her boss, who gives a look of remorse.
“You’ll be heading to L.A. this weekend with the band.” He tosses the pen on his desk and steeples his fingers in front of his mouth. What a pretentious douchebag. “Spend a few days out there while they finish up the end of their tour.”
“Can’t you get someone else to go?” she pleads.
“No,” he shakes his head, “he requested you personally.”
She snaps her head back to me. “You really are a prick.”
“Snob,” I retort.
“Asshole.” With that, she leaves the office and me with a rager.
I do love a good chase. It’s been so long since I’ve had to pursue a woman. This is going to be fun.
What a fucking prick! How dare he come in here and demand that of me! Who the fuck does he think he is?! Oh, right, Gunnar Haze, Rock God. He’s so…so…so hot and completely infuriating! Why did he have to be so goddamn sexy?!
He’s the first man I’ve ever met who both angers and turns me on at the same time. I’m mad at myself for being so attracted to an asshole like him. Everything about him physically draws me in, his clear blue eyes with the constant come-hither stare, his trim, towering build. And personally, I’m not one for beards, but even that looks downright fucking delectable on him. Oh God, and his tattoos! From what I can se
e of his arms and neck, he’s decorated head to toe. And I want to thoroughly examine each and every one with my tongue.
Get it under control, girl, I reprimand myself.
Seriously, who am I trying to convince? I can’t stop these dirty thoughts from racing in my head. It’s hopeless. Sex takes a physical form, and its name is Gunnar Haze. But, oh, does he drive me mad! And, I don’t mean with lust…Well, not only lust anyway.
Now I have to go with him to Los Angeles for an entire weekend!
This is not going to be fun.
She isn’t here yet. We’re about to take off, and she isn’t fucking here. I can’t believe this shit. I pound my fist down on the armrest, clenching and grinding my teeth together. I swear. If she flakes, I’ll… Holy fuck.
She steps onto the plane wearing a sundress and jean jacket, her honey hair pulled back in a tight ponytail so her long neck’s exposed.
She looks so hot I could throw her down right here and lick her pussy dry.
She walks up to me and, with bite, asks, “Where is everyone else?”
“Hi to you, too, baby doll.” I glimpse down at her exposed thighs, admiring the gap between, a sliver of light peeking through from the open cabin window behind her. I grin wickedly.
“You’re disgusting,” she comments when she notices where my eyes are focused.
“Brat.”
“Jerkoff,” she murmurs under her breath as she walks past me toward the back of the cabin and takes a seat in one of the white leather chairs.
I quietly laugh to myself, amused.
Just then, my bandmates come out from the back, rubbing their noses and sniffing. Smooth, guys, real fucking smooth.
They spot Lace, giving them a look of revulsion.
“Who’s the groupie?” Dylan, our drummer, asks with hooded, bloodshot eyes.
“Excuse you?” she asks.
I rise from my chair quickly and head back before they ruin shit further.
