by Black, Lena
“He’s the one I went with to Los Angeles to interview. I told you this.”
“No, you said you were going to interview some band, not Anarchy fucking Reigns! Gunnar Haze is an absolute wet dream.”
She’s completely right. Gunnar Haze, rock god, is a guitar-toting, knee-weakening wet dream come true.
I start to feel uncomfortable with her fawning over him, practically frothing at the mouth. She’s a second away from grabbing the nearest pillow and letting out a lovesick sigh like some teenage girl.
“Yeah, he’s hot.” I shrug my shoulders and shake my head.
“When I told you to get under some guy, I didn’t know you would pick such a wild man.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, Lacey, I mean, he has quite the reputation in the bedroom. Honey, that boy has seen more pussy than a gyno.”
“He’s a manwhore?”
“Minus a pimp, but yeah.”
“And you’re excited I may or may not have slept with him?”
“I’m sure he’s clean. Just ask for a test before you hit the sheets…if you have or have not already, and use a rubber. But, honey, a man with that kind of experience can rock your world.”
I don’t want to talk about this anymore. It makes me anxious. I don’t have experience with many men. Two in fact, and quite honestly, the sex was less than satisfying.
“I think I’m going to head to bed. Can we talk more about this tomorrow?”
I rise from the couch and give her a look of exhaustion.
“Sure. I think I’m going to crash, too. See you in the a.m.”
I shuffle into my bedroom and shut the door behind me, falling onto my bed when I’m close enough.
Every other minute, I glimpse down at the clock on my cell praying that the next time, by some divine power, hours have passed.
Gunnar never said when I’d see him again, but I have to assume it wouldn’t be long if we have only a finite amount of time. I do my best to shake the thought, burying myself in work for the rest of the day.
By five, when I haven’t heard from him, I chalk it up to a no go and head home feeling disappointed. When I walk through the front door, I find Gwen sitting on the couch with a bottle of beer, fingering through a fashion magazine.
“How was your day?” she asks, looking up at me from her reading material.
“I survived,” I joke with a shrug.
“Anything new to report on?” She takes a sip of her beer, avoiding eye contact with me. She wants to know about Gunnar.
“He hasn’t called.” I take out a can of soup, wanting something simple and easy to clean up for dinner.
“Yet. He hasn’t called, yet.”
I sigh and roll my eyes, pouring the condensed soup into a pot when suddenly there’s a knock on the front door. Gwen jumps up, skipping over to answer it. When she opens it up, she pauses, staring out into the hall, dumbfounded. From the kitchen, the door blocks my view.
“Who is it?” I ask, stirring the simmering broth in the pot.
When she doesn’t answer, I glance up and find Gunn standing at the edge of the small kitchen.
“Hey, baby,” he murmurs seductively.
“Hey,” I whimper out, taken back by how good he looks standing in my kitchen. He’s wearing a stressed leather jacket, ripped jeans, and his scuffed boots. His beard has been trimmed and his hair is freshly cut. All his tats, except on his neck, hands, and the odd one poking out from a tear in his jeans, are covered.
He frowns down at the soup on the stove and shakes his head. “That’s what you’re having for dinner?”
“What the hell is wrong with soup?”
His lip curls. “Nothing if you want to be hungry an hour later.” He goes back out to the hall and brings in two brown paper bags. Whatever’s inside smells gut-grumbling good. “I thought you’d prefer this more. And there’s enough for everyone.” He glances over at Gwen still by the door, gawking at him with her mouth agape.
He dumps the bags on the counter and Gwen raids them, pulling out foil containers with cardboard lids.
“That was really thoughtful of you, Gunn.”
He smiles faintly at me. “It was nothing.”
He begins taking the lids off, revealing the steaming, mouth-watering contents, linguini with a white clam sauce, spaghetti with meatballs, and extra cheesy chicken parmesan.
“Yum! Italian!” Gwen exclaims, clapping her hands together. She’s a sucker when it comes to Italian food.
We take the containers, plates, and wine into the living room, chowing down until we’re stuffed and groaning. Once Gwen heads off to bed, too tired to keep her eyes open after the button-busting meal, Gunnar and I settle back into the couch with a glass of wine.
“I wouldn’t take you for a wine-drinker,” I comment.
“I’m not. I’m more of a whiskey double type guy.” He takes a sip and winces slightly.
Definitely not a wine guy, I laugh to myself.
There’s so much I don’t know about him. Like, everything. I figure it couldn’t hurt to find out about the man I intend to let into my bed.
“Gunn, will you tell me something about yourself?”
“What do you want to know?”
There’s only one thing that pops in my head. “You have bad reputation with women. How much is true?”
“I enjoy fucking, Lace.” He grasps his hand onto my thigh, rubbing it with his thumb. “I don’t hide that.”
“I know I’m new to all this, but…Where do we stand if I choose to go through with our, for lack of a better word, relationship?” I inquire, even though I may not get the answer I want.
“Do you mean, will I still fuck other women?” He tilts his head to the side, searching my face for my response.
“Yeah.”
“I hadn’t really thought about it.” He pushes his bottom lip out into a pout as he ponders this thought. “I don’t have intentions of fucking anyone else. Do you?”
“I don’t know. Would it be a problem if I did?”
“Yes, it would.” The expression on his face goes from thoughtful to stone cold in a flash. “What’s mine is mine.”
“Do you have, like, regulars?”
“Two,” with the hand not firmly glued to my leg, he pops his long fingers up into a peace sign, signifying the number, “but it’s complicated with both of them.”
Suddenly, a horrifying thought strikes me. “Gunnar, have you been with anyone since we met?”
He looks down at his lap, removing his callous hand from my lap. “Some questions shouldn’t be asked, Lace.”
I feel a burning mass form in the pit of my stomach.
“I thought you said you didn’t get with that groupie.” The hurt in my voice is evident.
“And I didn’t.”
I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all. I mean, sure, we aren’t technically together…Hell, we aren’t even together in theory, but it still stings.
“When did this happen?” I ask, again, not sure I want to know the truth. I guess I’m just a fucking emotional masochist.
“Baby, does it really matter? If you tell me you want me, I’m yours. Isn’t that enough?”
No. It’s the least. But, seriously, what do I expect from the guy? He’s probably had more ass than a subway seat.
“Yes, I suppose,” I reply with little conviction.
“Would you want me to lie to you?”
“No, I want honesty. But it doesn’t make it hurt less.” The idea that he fucked someone else, since this became more than just an article, feels like a knife of betrayal has just been plunged into my chest. But if it wasn’t the groupie skank… “Who was it?”
I can tell he’s uncomfortable. But I don’t know if it’s the subject or me hindering him from telling me. When he finally opens his mouth, I stiffen up, bracing myself for the knockout. “Callie.”
“Callie? You screwed your manager?” I inquire, disgusted.
“Yes,” he says
, annoyed by my reaction, “and now it’s over between us, her and I.”
A sharp snort escapes my nose. “Yeah, until you leave for your tour.”
“Lace, you have to lighten the fuck up. We aren’t together like that.” Uh, hurtful. “And it’s more than I would give anyone else.”
“Meaning?”
“I’ve never given up my women for another.”
He’s never…I don’t know if I should be flattered or perturbed about what I just heard.
“You can’t be serious.”
“I’m very serious.”
“Okay, so then why me? What makes me so special?”
“I don’t know, Lace.” Huh? What the hell does that mean? “Still working that out.” He takes a decompressing breath and looks about the apartment then back at me. “You wanna get out of here?”
“Where do you want to go?”
“For a ride,” he says, voice gruff.
I know he isn’t just talking about on his bike.
“I’d love to.”
“You should go get ready, maybe wear some jeans.”
I get up from the couch and walk toward my room, just off the living room, and turn back to him. “Do I have time to shower?”
“Sure, I’ll wait.”
I nod and head into my room.
Fifteen minutes later, I walk back out into the living room and find him looking at a picture on the wall, smirking to himself. It’s Gwen and I one summer when we were six, at my parents’ home in the Hamptons. We’re holding popsicles in our hands, faces sticky with red syrup, grinning big, toothless grins. I looked so happy, so carefree. It was before my life changed forever.
He turns to me and gestures his head at the photo. “You were a cute kid…What happened?” I scowl at him, fighting back a smile. “You’re stunning. Even with that constipated look you got there.”
I can’t hold it back. I burst in a fit of laughter, snorting.
“You asshole.”
“No, you asshole. Me Gunnar.”
I laugh again. “Are we going for a ride? Or are you going to keep bustin’ out jokes?”
“Yeah, yeah, baby doll.” He walks up to me, a bit of a swagger to his step. “I’m taking you for a ride.”
“Where are we?” I ask as he pulls me down a pitch-black hallway. We came into the building through the lobby, but I hadn’t noticed any signs. There was no one else to ask. Who knew if we were even allowed to be here. For all I know, we just broke in.
“Get out of your head, Lace,” he comments, tugging me along through darkness. I can’t even see him. I don’t know how he can see where we’re going.
“Did we just break in here?”
He laughs. “No, we’re all good, baby.”
We stop suddenly and I hear the sound of metal grating against metal and a click. We start to move again then he halts me in my tracks.
“Wait here,” he orders then disappears.
I can hear movement but it grows faint. “Gunnar?” I become anxious. “Gunn?”
The lights come on and I find him standing on the other side of a large glass window, leaning his weight forward as he grins at me. I look around me and realize I’m standing in the middle of a recording studio filled with instruments and microphones.
“I thought we could hang here,” he says through a mic, allowing me to hear him through speakers.
“This is really awesome!” I smile at him until my cheeks hurt.
“I’m glad you like it,” he says with a soft, crooked smirk. It’s endearing and odd for him. He isn’t a coy smile kind of guy.
“You did good.”
He walks out to me, swaggering really. His shoulders sway and dip with every unhurried step. He has a way about his gait. It’s languid and confident. “I was thinking we could finish our little interview.”
“Um, I think I got all I need for the article.”
He sits on the garnet-hued couch against the back wall and pats the plush cushion beside him. “Come sit.”
I move over to him and he grabs my hand, yanking me onto his lap, shifting my leg over so I straddle him..
“What do you want to talk about?” I brush my fingers through his beard.
“I want to talk about us.”
I grab a fistful of the course hair, holding him in place. “What about us?”
“Tell me about this ex of yours.”
“Why would you bring him up?” I snap out, tensing.
“Because I want to get to know you, and relationships aren’t the worst place to start.”
“Well, he wasn’t always an asshole. My mother loved him. As soon as I brought him home, she was talking about marriage. But, about a year later, once we moved in together, he became critical of everything I did, kinda controlling. He wasn’t always bad, but when he was, he was horrific.”
“What did she think about the breakup?”
I tilt my head, examining his face. I wonder why he’s so interested in me. I thought he just wanted a quick fuck every now and then. I didn’t realize the position came with an interview and background check beforehand.
I shrug and say, “She wasn’t happy. My mom means well, but sometimes she’s so focused on her own agenda, she forgets I’m human, with my own ideas of how I want my life to go.”
“That must be difficult.”
“It can be.” I nod, staring away from him.
“Do you still love him?”
Wow. He went right for the kill, didn’t he?
“Things aren’t always black and white.”
“Do you still love him?” he repeats.
“No, okay? I don’t love him. I haven’t loved him in a long time. I was relieved when I called it off. I just wish he hadn’t been such a fucking prick.”
“Tell me about your parents.”
Jeez. He’s firing on all cylinders.
I squirm in his lap, and he reaches up, running his fingers through my hair from root to ends, pushing it out of my face.
“My mom is your typical, Fifth Avenue, Chanel-wearing, let’s do lunch type.” He sets his hands on my hips, making it hard to think straight. I pause, having to fight through the fog his touch puts me under, but I somehow manage.
“She has always wanted me to settle down with the perfect Wall Street husband, in our perfect Central Park adjacent penthouse, with our perfect two point five kids. My whole life was about grooming for a future I never wanted.”
Memories of growing up around my mother float through my head, taking me somewhere far away.
“A lady sits up straight, Lacey,” I murmur out vacantly. “A lady never fidgets, Lacey. A lady always speaks in a gentle voice, Lacey. A lady doesn’t get to make up her own mind, Lacey.”
He grips the back of my neck, forcing me to look at him, dragging me out of my thoughts. When I glance up at him, he stares deep into my eyes, searching them for something. Then his hand shifts to the side of my face, running his thumb over my bottom lip.
“What about your dad?” he asks, his voice low. “What’s he like?”
I glimpse into his clear blues, amazed by how attentive he’s been. The dinner, hanging out with Gwen, taking me here, it’s all more than I had expected. And the fact that he wants to know me beyond the bedroom makes him all the more alluring. It also confuses the hell out of me. I thought that’s what we had agreed this was sex, unadulterated, hanging from the ceilings sex without attachment. Maybe when he said he wanted something different, he truly meant more. Or…maybe I’m putting way too much into all this, and he’s just trying to be polite before screwing me senseless.
I realize I’ve slipped back into my head when I notice the look on his face. He’s searching my eyes for any sign of life.
What did he ask again? Oh, right, my father.
“He died when I was six,” I stutter, tripping on the words. “I remember he was kind and gentle. But it’s hard to remember everything about him. Sometimes, his face is just a blur to me until I look at his picture again. It m
akes me feel guilty. Like, if I forget him, he really is gone forever.”
“Lace, I’m sorry,” he purrs, grabbing my hands and interlocking his fingers with mine.
“It’s fine.” I clear my throat. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Your parents, what are they like?”
“My old man was a drunk,” he says, as if it doesn’t bother him, as if it were just a mundane fact. “My mom, the free spirit, lives with her new husband back in Arizona. But I only see her once a year or so.”
Was a drunk? New husband? Does this mean he’s not in the picture anymore?
“Is that where you grew up, Arizona?”
“Yup, Phoenix.” He wraps his arms about my waist, our hands still linked, restraining mine behind my back. “But I left home when I was fourteen and moved around a lot.”
I wonder why he would run away at such a young age. Was it his father? Was it because his mother remarried?
“What about…?”
“What about you?” He cuts me off. “Did you grow up in New York?”
Apparently, he doesn’t want to talk about his past. Playing along, I reply, “Yes, born and raised. I even attended NYU.”
His brow pops up. “Nice.”
I look off into nothingness, thinking about the eve of my graduation. I shake my head, trying to wipe away the thought. “My mom wanted me to attend Harvard.”
“Why did you choose music journalism as a career?”
“What’s with the inquisition?” I glare at him probingly. “I thought that was my job.”
He laughs and tightens his arms about my waist, holding me closer, my hands still locked behind me. “I could just flip you over on this couch and take you from behind if you prefer.”
I suck on my upper lip, attempting not to giggle like some schoolgirl. His crassness still throws me off.
“Come on, Lace.” He jiggles his legs, bouncing me around a bit, as if trying to shake the answer from me.
“Well, I’ve always had a deep connection to music, and I loved to write, so it seemed like a perfect fit. My mother nearly had an aneurism when I told her I wanted to study journalism. Her idea of college was to find a husband. That’s why she wanted me to attend Harvard. She wanted me to find a Harvard man like Holden. So I guess she got her wish for a little while anyway.”
