by Black, Lena
“Forget some…?” I trail off when I spot the petite woman with lavender hair. It’s that light shade of purple that the elderly ladies used to rock, but now it’s a hip new hue for the young and fabulous. She sports it short and wavy. Think modern Marilyn. There’s even a little black beauty mark on her cheek. Wearing a black pencil skirt and a clingy silk blouse, she looks sharp, edgy, and sophisticated, everything I’m not. “Can I help you?”
She stares up at me from her phone just long enough to give me a quick unfazed look. “Are you Lacey Cummings?”
“Yes?”
“Well do you know or not?” she asks with an amused smile.
“Yes, I’m sorry.” I notice how stunning she is, how her outfit fits her perfect, hourglass figure. Unlike me. I’m all small breasts and slender frame. I’m tall, five-ten, so this tiny towel barely contains my snatch. “Let me get something on.”
“I don’t care, honey. I’ve seen a lot more.” She peeks back down at her phone when it buzzes then says without looking back up, “I’m Callie, Anarchy’s band manager.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I murmur, trying to pull my towel down a little.
“Likewise. Look, I’m just here to do damage control for the band. Make sure nothing gets put in that story of yours that we wouldn’t want getting out.”
“Then you’re not leaving me much to go with,” I retort teasingly.
She shoots me a glance and a smirk. “Gunnar also sent me up here as a messenger of sorts.”
“What did he say?” The perk up in my voice is apparent.
She shoots me an intrigued look. “He wants you to meet him in the restaurant.”
“Did he say why?”
I really need to hide my feelings better. Lust, hatred, intrigue, I’m not sure what I feel for him just yet, but they are definitely there, and they are palpable.
“All he said was to have you meet him down there. He tells me to do something then I do it. No questions asked.”
“Tell him I’ll be down in fifteen.”
“On it,” she says, looking back at her phone and walking away.
I glance down at my buzzing phone and read the text.
Fuck me.
I dressed in a summery floral print dress with a pair of white flats, and threw my long hair into a ponytail before heading down.
I stroll through the lobby, admiring the detail. I haven’t had a chance to soak it all in, locked away in my room since we got here. There’s something about the French inspired atmosphere, an alluring magic. It is decadence at its finest.
The lobby lounge has a charming mix of mish-moshed furniture, no one chair or sofa the same, all worn and cozy, in muted blues, reds, greens.
I head into the restaurant, divided off into an indoor and outdoor area, the garden terrace, which I have an overhead view of from my room. It’s a place where you’ll hear talk of movie deals and the latest Hollywood buzz. For a journalist, it’s heaven.
When I don’t find him inside, I head out there. It’s a perfect day in Los Angeles. Light chatter hums about me, mingled with the gentle clinking of silverware on plates and spurts of laughter. I’m walking along the cloisters, taking in the liveliness of my surroundings, when I hear. “Over here, baby doll.”
I spot him off to the side, tucked away into a secluded corner with tall, dense shrubbery behind him providing shade. He’s wearing a pair of worn leather boots, faded black jeans, a black tee, and square Ray Bans also, you guessed it, black.
“I’d appreciate if you didn’t call me that out in public,” I scorn as I approach the table, but I secretly love it. “I want to keep a professional appearance in public.”
He stands up and pulls out the red and cream woven chair beside his. I sit in the one across the table from him. He chuckles lightly.
“That dress isn’t very professional,” he comments as he lowers back onto his seat.
Really? It’s just a simple floral dress.
“I’m dressed appropriately enough. Besides, it’s a nice day out and this isn’t an interview.”
“Isn’t it?” I smile at his playfulness. “So what should I call you, baby doll?”
He smirks, peering up at me from over the rims of his glasses.
“Asshole,” I retort, but it sounds like a term of endearment.
“Asshole, huh? Alright, asshole, if that’s what you want.”
“Ugh.” I roll my eyes. “No, you’re asshole. I’m Lace.”
He reaches over the table, taking my hand in his. They’re callous, rough from years of practicing the guitar until his fingers literally bled, practically playing them to the bone. I love the way they feel against mine.
“As long as I’m your asshole.” I laugh and he shakes his head. “That didn’t come out right, did it?”
“No,” I chuckle out.
He rubs his thumb over the back of my hand. The smile fades from his lips. I can’t tell what his eyes are doing behind those shades. I discreetly glance around me to check if anyone’s watching. Other than a few women, most everyone is wrapped up in their own fabulous lives, chatting, laughing, eating. But I become anxious anyway and pull my hand from his hold. This is already getting intense. I have to ease up.
He palms a pack of smokes off the table and picks one out, placing it to his lips and lighting it with a long, slow drag. Blowing two streams of smoke from his nostrils, he sets the lighter and pack back on the table.
“That’s not very healthy.” I point out.
“I hadn’t heard,” he says blandly before inhaling another extended draw. I note the large rose taking up the back of his right hand as he holds it over his mouth, cigarette wedged between his pointer and middle finger. He exhales upward, pushing all the smoke above us. “I didn’t ask for you to join me to be lectured on my dirty habits. I wanted to talk to you about last night,” he states, twisting one of the many rings adorning his fingers. This one has a skull’s face on it, it’s eyes, two black diamonds.
Well, he just came right out with it, didn’t he?
“Okay. Let’s talk.” Suddenly, the waiter approaches our table with a tray, setting a plate and drink down in front of me. “I didn’t order this.”
“I did,” Gunnar says, signaling the waiter away. “I thought you might be hungry.”
Wow.
“Yeah, actually, I’m kinda starved.”
My stomach grumbles and my mouth waters. He ordered me eggs and bacon with a side of fruit and a glass of orange juice.
“I really didn’t know what you’d want, but I thought…”
It’s perfect.
“You did good, Gunn.” He smiles softly before putting out the butt of his smoke and digging into his breakfast. “Why did you leave last night?”
He finishes chewing then replies, “I didn’t leave you last night. I left this morning to shower and get dressed in some clothes I hadn’t sweat into the night before. Plus, I thought you were tired so I let you sleep.”
That isn’t at all what I’d had in my head. I pictured him sneaking out in the dead of night after I’d fallen asleep in his arms.
“Well, that changes things.”
He cocks a dark brow up from under his sunglasses. It’s sexy as hell.
“You thought I’d left you like some shady cocksucker.”
“I hate to admit it, but yes.”
“Have issues with that, do ya, Lace?”
I become offended even though I know it’s true. Probably why I’m so offended. I snap back at him, “Oh, please. You’re just the type to...”
He drops his fork on the plate, creating a jarring high-pitched noise, and sits up straight. “I’m just the type to what, Cummings?”
“Um, shit…I didn’t mean…”
“Yes you did. You think because I’ve got tats and don’t look like some uptight, Wall Street asshole, I must be a real piece of shit. Fuck you, Lace.”
That was really thoughtless of me. Because the truth is, I know firsthand just how that type of man can be. I grew
up around them. I was ready to marry one.
“I…”
“I’m out of here,” he says, rising from his chair with a violent jerk.
“I’ve been hurt,” I blurt out without looking at him. I can only stare down at the table.
“Who hurt you?”
“Life.” He sits back down in the chair beside me instead of his own, allowing me to explain. “I grew up in high-society New York. But my life has been anything but privileged. I’ve been through my share of hardships, Gunnar. Most recently, I was engaged to this Wall Street broker, Holden. He was your typical polo-wearing, Hamptons-living douchebag. He had a shiny veneer, perfect to the outside world, but he wasn’t. He was terribly flawed underneath it all. Let’s just say he wasn’t good for me. Anyway, two months ago, I broke off our engagement, told him I didn’t love him. I found myself husbandless, homeless, and feeling worth even less. So, you’re wrong about those guys. They hurt you, too.”
I don’t know why I told him all this. Perhaps I wanted him to know part of the reason I’ve been acting so shitty towards him. The other being his arrogant, assholey behavior. However, I’m starting to think there’s more to Gunnar.
“I’m sorry, Lace.” He grabs my hand on the table. I don’t pull away.
“It’s not your fault he’s a slime ball.”
“It’s not yours either.” My eyes shoot up to his, which are still behind their barrier. But I could just picture how blue they must be out in the daylight. “Why did you say that crap about how I look?”
“I was hurt and I wanted you to feel the same.”
“What do you think about all my tats and shit?”
I think they’ll be the end of me.
“I like them.” I underplay just how much they turn me on. “I like everything you got goin’ on.”
He smiles crookedly at me. “I like everything you got goin’ on, too.”
He places my hand on the table, palm up, and traces the faint lines with his pointer finger. It has an E at the base. I glimpse at the other three. It spells…RIDE.
His other hand is in front of him, tucked close to his body as he leans in toward me. I’m curious what that one says.
“Well, this explains things,” Dylan comments over the table. Gunnar releases my hand. I glance up as he and Jay take the seats across the table from us. He has a real shiner that takes up a quarter of his face. I wonder who gave it to him until I notice the outline of Gunnar’s skull ring embedded in his forehead.
“How’s the eye?” Gunnar asks with a sharp tone, reclining back in the chair he now occupies beside me.
I wish he hadn’t let go of my hand, but I know it doesn’t look right.
“It’s fine,” Dylan answers with a grumble. He looks sorely annoyed.
“It’ll teach you not to open your stupid fucking mouth again,” Gunn says with a calm but challenging voice, folding his decorated arms over his chest.
“What am I missing here?” I inquire.
“Oh, yeah, like we’d tell you,” Dylan snaps at me.
“Hey!” I jerk when Gunn barks out at him. “You don’t talk to her like that. Or there’ll be a repeat of last night.”
Rising up and holding his hand out to me, he asks, “You with me, baby?”
I bow my head and place my hand in his, standing up and trailing behind him as he walks us back toward the lobby. I glance down at our fingers intertwined and spot the letters etched into his other knuckle, HARD.
“Ride hard?” I ask, my nose scrunched. “Does that have a meaning?”
He glances down at our latched hands. “Yeah, it means, Life’s a bitch, so ride it hard.” He chuckles and looks forward again. “It’s dumb.”
“Does it mean something important to you?”
“Yes.” He nods his head gently.
“Then it’s not dumb.” I tug on his hand, and he smiles at me, tightening his grip.
“Since you brought it up…You wanna go for a ride?” he asks as we stride toward the elevator.
What does he mean by ride?
“It wouldn’t be a hard one, would it?” I grin up at him, mentally patting myself on the back. He leans real close to my ear and says with a deep rumble, “I don’t know any other way, baby.”
“What did you have in mind exactly?”
We step up to the elevator, and he presses the call button, turning toward me. “On my Harley, Lace.”
“Ah. I’ve never been on one before.”
The doors open and we enter, moving to the back and leaning on the wall, our hands still glued together.
“Well, if you’re yellow,” he taunts me.
I glare at him through his glasses. “I am not afraid.”
“Then come with me for a ride.” Before I have much time to think about it, the doors open onto my floor. “Go grab your jean jacket. I’m going to head to my room and grab mine. I’ll be back in a minute.”
I smile up at him and exit, heading for my room.
He’s going to be trouble.
I am an asshole.
I couldn’t tell her why I really left this morning. Technically, I didn’t lie. I did need to shower and whatever, and she looked peaceful when she was sleeping. Which is why I felt like an even bigger piece of shit for walking out on her this morning.
I should stop this before I take it to a place I can’t return from, but I want her. Pure and simple, I want her.
She has a broken wing. I’m only going to make it worse when I leave in about a month to start the European stem of our world tour. But I want her.
I’m one twisted fuck. She has no idea what she’s getting herself into by taking me on. I should tell her, piss her off so she never wants to see me again, push her until she loathes me. But I want her.
“Ready?”
“What?” I ask, coming out of my daze. She’s standing in front of me wearing her light jean jacket and a huge smile.
“Yeah,” I smile back, sliding on my studded leather jacket, and press the button for the underground parking lot, “I’m ready.”
She told me she had never actually been to L.A. before, so I drove her around the city all day, showing her the sights and smells. Every time she would get nervous, mostly when I went too fast, her hands would grab on tight to my leather jacket and her head would dig into my back. It gave me a bigger rush than drugs.
We eventually made it west to the beach, and when we hit that dead end, headed up the coast.
The fishy smell of the sea is overwhelming. And there’s a slight chill in the air. The sun is going to hit the waterline soon, and I know it’s something she needs to see. So, I head further north past Malibu to a place I used to go to when I lived out here.
When I see the enormous boulder that sits on the lookout, I point to it. Understanding, she taps my back. We drive up and park just in time. The sun hovers over the water and the sky has turned to fire.
We remove our helmets and climb off the bike, standing side by side as the bottom of the sun dips into the ocean. I shoot her a side-glance and notice her shiver when a breeze brushes past her.
I move behind her and wrap my arms about her waist, pressing my body into hers for added warmth. I feel her ease back into me, stationing her arms over mine and her head on my chest. My beard hits the crown, which tickles when she moves.
“Mm,” she moans. “I love the sound of the waves crashing on the rocks.”
“Me too,” I agree.
We watch the sun until the last glint of orange disappears into the horizon.
“That was so beautiful,” she comments.
“I’m glad you liked it, Lace.” I put my face against her hair, smelling the floral shampoo from the hotel. There goes the spasm in my pants again.
“I did.” She takes a long breath. “I don’t know how this day could have ended more perfectly.”
I move down to her ear, nipping at the lobe.
“I do,” I growl with a gravelly voice.
She whimpers. “What did you have
in mind?”
Spinning her around, I lift her up and sit her on the seat of my bike, so both legs hang over one side. “How far do you wanna go, Lace?”
“Um…”
“Relax, baby doll. I’m not going to fuck you yet. I’m just going to eat out your little pussy.”
“You’re very blunt,” she comments, breathless.
“Never been talked dirty to before?”
“Not like you,” she admits, her voice honeyed.
Damn fuckin’ right.
“I’m one of a fucking kind, baby.” Grabbing her face, I kiss her hard. When I break away, she looks foggy.
I clasp my hands onto her thighs and move them under her skirt to her panties, hooking my fingers onto the sides. She elevates her ass off the seat just enough for me to take them down, and when they get to her ankles, I notice they’re a simple pair of white cotton panties. They’re fuckin’ sexy hanging about her feet.
I crouch down and remove the cock-hardening undies, shoving them in my jacket’s pocket.
“What if someone sees us?” she asks with a nervous whisper.
“Would that turn you on?” I ask, aroused by the thought.
“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “I’ve never had it happen to me.”
“Don’t think about it, Lace. You can’t control what happens and worrying about it only ruins the moment.”
I reach up and pinch the hem of her skirt between my fingers, lifting it up about her waist. Her thighs shut tight, I only see the V of flesh with a hint of slit. It makes my dick so hard it aches.
“Your pussy wet, baby?” She glimpses down at me and bites her upper lip, rubbing her thighs together. “Spread your legs and show me how juicy you are.” She hesitates. “I bet it tastes like cherry pie.”
She unlocks her knees and slowly spreads her thighs open, leaning back on the bike. It’s mouthwatering. Its puffy lips are chafed, flushed red from grinding into the seat all day. It must’ve felt good because they’re slick with her arousal.
“Did my bike feel nice on your clit?” I lightly run my finger over the swollen folds. “Did it make it tingle?”
“Yes,” she admits on an exhale.
