Metal & Lace (An Opposites Attract Novel Book 1) (2 page)

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 see 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.

“You fuckin’ ass. Get up front and shut your mouth,” I order. “All of you. Now.”

“Take it easy, bro,” Jay, our bassist, chimes in, holding his hands up defensively.

“You take it easy,
bro
.” I step toward him with my fists clenched at the sides of my legs, ready to leave an impression of my ring in his face. I don’t know why I’m so protective over her. She hates my fucking guts. But it still bothers the shit out of me. “She isn’t a groupie.”

“I’m the journalist here to watch your every move,” she adds with a satisfied smirk.

Jay and Dylan stiffen up, giving each other side-glances.

“Uh, shit,” Dylan says, tucking his shoulder length locks behind his ear. “Sorry about what I said.”

“It’s fine.” She sits back in her chair and stares out the window.

They lurk up to the front with their heads tilted forward, and I turn to follow.

“Thanks,” she says in a low voice.

I nod at her and walk back to my chair. She doesn’t speak to me the rest of the flight.

Wow, that was actually decent of him. Who would’ve thought
he might actually have a kind bone somewhere in that fine body. I can’t believe his bandmate said the one thing I worried about most, looking like a dumb groupie. I knew I shouldn’t wear this dress. Totally unprofessional of me. The way he glanced down at my thighs nearly made me go weak in the knees…But I suppose, deep down, I wanted him to look at me that way. I liked it. Hell. I loved it. But I can’t let my attraction get in the way of what I’m here to do, reporting an unbiased, honest story. I just need to keep it together for a few days. This will all be over then and I’ll never have to see him again. I feel a sharp stab in my chest at the thought.

I retrieve headphones from my purse and stick them into my ears, drowning out my inner monologue with The Runaways. Exhaling, I sink back into my chair.

We arrive at our hotel, Chateau Marmont, perched above the
Sunset Strip. Known for its legendary debauchery and intoxicating atmosphere, the hotel has a way of casting a heady spell over you and your inhibitions. This hotel has seen some wild things, a haven where the rich and famous can come and lose themselves. Everything handled with the utmost discretion, the castle on the hill carries many depraved secrets within its walls. And like most of Hollywood, it’s a world of excess.

We head straight up to our rooms from the underground parking lot. She doesn’t look at me the entire ride up.

Fuck that. If she’s going to ignore me, I’ll do the same.

The cab stops on the sixth floor, the band’s floor, and Dylan and Jay step off. But I’m frozen. Realizing I didn’t follow, they glance back at me with dumbass looks of confusion. I honestly don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. But a hot piece of ass will do that to a man.

The doors close, giving me a few seconds alone with this fucking woman I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the past few days. I’ve pictured her in every position my filthy mind can create, sweating, panting, clawing at the sheets as she comes violently around my cock. However, she seems to care less about my presence, staring forward, not even the decency to acknowledge my existence.

Why the fuck do I care?

When we arrive at the seventh floor, she brushes past me, avoiding eye contact. I walk out after her, following her to suite 79, and watch how her ass sways back and forth, hypnotizing me with every fluid movement.

I could get used to this view.

Feeling his eyes on my ass, I have the urge to glare at him, but I
fight it, repeating a mantra in my head.
Don’t look back. Don’t look back. Don’t look back.
It’s simple but effective.

When we arrive at my room, I shakily slide the key into the lock – no cheap plastic cards here – and click it over, opening the door to my junior suite.

“Have a good evening, Mr. Haze,” I mumble, scooting in promptly, shutting the door behind me before he can say anything. Dropping my purse in the entryway, I lean against the wall, my cheeks puffing out as I force air between my lips.

Once I’ve had a chance to gather my scattered self, I step into the sitting room, giving it a onceover.

Whoa.

Other than the flat screen TV, its motif has an Old Hollywood elegance. The furniture is retro, but doesn’t feel outdated. It’s airy, contemporary without losing that feel of days gone by.

On the west end of the living room are double glass doors that lead out to a balcony, which has a spectacular view stretching out far past the Hollywood hillside to Santa Monica.

I walk back inside and over to the south facing windows. Opening them wide, I lean out to steal a peek at the courtyard below, filled with umbrellas and tables and well-dressed guests chatting while they have a late lunch.

My eyes drift up the white stucco walls of the east wing, and on the terrace of the suite diagonally across from my room, I spy Gunnar sitting on the thick cement railing. His legs hanging over, dangling six stories above The Strip, he takes a long drag of his cigarette while looking out over the open landscape of Hollywood and beyond.

Before he can spot me, I stick my head back inside.

Next, I check out the bedroom situation, just off the living room, separated by two French doors draped in sheer white cloth. It’s cozy, barely big enough to fit a few side tables and the queen-size bed, decked out in white, high thread count sheets. Beckoning me, I sprint and hurl myself onto it, arms spread out like a bird.

“L.A., I have arrived,” I say to myself with a giggle.

Later that evening, the guys and I get ready to go out. There’s
been awkward tension between us since the start of the flight. But they deserved it, acting like coked-up assholes. After her ignoring me though, I’m not sure I should’ve said anything. It caused me nothing but grief.

I button up my black shirt and roll the sleeves up to my elbow, showing off all my forearm tats.

“I’ll meet you downstairs in a few,” I tell them, heading out of our penthouse suite.