Metal & Lace (An Opposites Attract Novel Book 1) (7 page)

I changed into some jeans, a vintage concert tee, and a black
blazer, attempting a mix of professional and casual. I slapped on some make-up and pinned my hair into a high, loose bun.

“Are you ready yet?” Gunnar asks, sitting on my bed while he flips through a rock magazine from my nightstand.

“Hey, I didn’t take that long,” I reply from the doorway of the living room. He lifts his head and smiles at me.

“You look choice, baby.”

“Thanks,” I murmur.

He’s still wearing the same thing from earlier but looks hot as hell anyway.

“Ready to go?” He sets the magazine on the bed and sits on the edge of the bed, sliding his feet into his boots.

“Not quite.”

“What now”

“Will you please restrain yourself while were out? I don’t want anyone thinking…”

“What, that we’re fucking?”

“Well, I mean, we haven’t. But yes, exactly. It wouldn’t look right.”

“Alright, Lace, I’ll play along.”

I grab my messenger bag stocked with all the things I would need for tonight. “Okay, now I’m ready.”

We lean against the mirrored back wall of the red and gold
elevator, about a foot apart, while Dylan, Jay, and Callie stand in front of us.

As we ride down to the lobby, I think about the past twenty-four hours and how everything has changed between us. Just yesterday, I couldn’t stand being around him for more than five minutes without wanting to punch his face in, and now...

You’re not supposed to fall for this guy. You fuck him. Remember, it’s just sex. It’s just sex. It’s just sex. IT’S JUST SEX!
As I repeat this chant, his hand clasps onto mine, carting me closer to his side. I peer up at him, but he doesn’t look at me. He stares directly ahead with a kinked grin.

Callie glimpses back at him then down at our hands before focusing on her phone again. I yank mine from his hold and inch away from him. He counters by stepping closer to me and sliding his arm about my neck, leaning his weight into me like a crutch.

He looks at me from the corner of his eye, his crooked smile still intact.

When the doors open, I try to pull away before we walk out, but his grip about my neck tightens as he forces us forward.

“Don’t make a scene,” he whispers into my ear. As if he has to remind me not to call attention to us any more than we’ll already draw. He’s Gunnar Haze for Christ’s sake. He’s noticed no matter what.

We stride through the lobby, and I spot a few cameras snapping shots of us, people whispering and gawking.

Great.

“Relax, baby doll,” he says with a satisfied tone.

“I told you not to call me that in public,” I snap back, already pissed he ignored my request to keep things private. The last thing I want is my sex life splashed across the front pages of the tabloids.

We exit the main entrance into the mild weather; a sweetness floats in the night air from the flowers about the property. Suddenly, blinding flashes of light blast at us from all directions, and I catch glimpses of the paparazzi running at us up the driveway, clicking off shots and yelling questions. I hear more than a few ask Gunnar, “Who’s the girl? Is she the latest in your girl of the month club?”

He leans into my ear again. “Ignore them. They’re just trying to get a rise out of you, baby.”

He guides us over to the waiting limo and follows me inside. We take a seat at the back while Callie, Dylan, and Jay occupy the longer seat that goes the length of the stretched car. The tinted windows help with the bright flashes of the cameras, but they’re still annoying.

“Your life is a cliché,” I comment while I stare out at the ravenous animals desperate for their piece of meat.

He laughs and puts his arm back around me. “Yeah, but it’s mine.”

I wonder how he’s able to handle all of this, the stress of being under the scrutinizing gaze of society. But I suppose I’m no better in some ways, criticizing him in my article for the enjoyment of others. I suddenly feel bad about what I wrote. I mean, sure, the guy is brash and lives a wild life, but underneath all that, he’s kind, funny, charming, and, from the preview I got last night and today, an excellent fuck.

The limo pulls out of the driveway, lined with white brick walls that run about the entire property, a marker that is distinctly the Chateau.

“Get out of there,” Gunnar says softly, so only I’ll hear him.

“What are you talking about?”

“Your head, Lace, get out of there. You think way too much.”

“Would you prefer I were like your band skanks?” I inquire, puckering my pout.

“Fuck no,” he says, “but you need to let go a little, baby doll. You overthink shit.”

He’s right. You do.

“I’m afraid to let go.”

Whoa, where did that come from?

“What are you afraid will happen if you do?” he asks, sweeping his knuckle over my cheek.

Under the trance of his touch, I blurt, “I’ll lose myself.”

Shit. What? That was only supposed to be in my head.

“Would that be so bad, Lace?”

No.

“I don’t know.” I glimpse away, uncomfortable with my baring candor. But my mouth just won’t relent.

He lies his palm over the side of my face and makes me look at him, leaving it there. “Isn’t that why you’re with me?”

I think about it for a second, but it’s pointless since I already know the answer. The whole point of this ‘experiment’ is to escape myself.

“Yes.”

“Then get the fuck out of that head of yours. Or, I’ll make you right here in front of everyone.”

I smirk at him and say flirtatiously, “I bet you wouldn’t.”

“Don’t dare me, Lace.” He leans into my ear, grazing his soft lips over the hood, and clamps the hand over my cheek onto my upper thigh. “I can still taste you on my tongue, and I’m ready for more.”

“Is that so?” It comes out shakily, but I’m not really in control of my faculties right now. His breath against my ear and the hand on my thigh is assuring that.

“Can’t you still feel me between your legs?” Nodding without hesitancy, I peek out of the corner of my eyes at the other occupants in the limo. Callie’s eyes are targeted at his hand clenching onto my leg, her upper lip snarled.

Have they…?

“I’m going to make you forget yourself,” Gunn states quietly. “Let me do that for you, baby.”

“Can we talk about this later?” I suggest, removing his hand from my thigh. The arm around my shoulder is pushing it, but his hand nearly on my crotch takes it to a whole other level of inappropriate. How am I supposed to give an unbiased article if I’m fucking around with the lead singer? I’ve done a bad thing, but it’s not too late to pull out.

“Are you shy?” he asks, nipping my earlobe.

“No, but I don’t like talking about this around,” I gesture my hand about the limo to indicate our lack of privacy, “everyone.”

“Alright, Lace,” he slouches back into the seat, placing his head against the headrest, “we can save it for after the show.”

“Thank you.”

I sink back into my seat as well, feeling a little less tense.

Tightening his hold on me, he says in a hushed, hoarse voice,  “Then I’m going to do things to you, Lace,” he lifts his hand to my face and glides a finger over my bottom lip, “vile things, things that’ll make it hard for you to live with yourself after.”

Holy fuck.

He held my hand the whole time we were backstage, keeping me
close to his side until he stepped foot on the stage. He asked me to stand off to the side to watch and I did just that.

The way the crowd came to life when they saw him was electrifying. I loved how they chanted his name in repeated succession. The energy coming at the stage made my skin vibrate, every hair standing on end at the exhilaration that rippled through me.

Then the band started to play and they went wild, moshing, head banging, and throwing their hands into the air. It was pure pandemonium. From my point of view, it was absolutely incredible, and I don’t mean from offstage. Having that connection with him, made it all that more intense. They looked at him with undying admiration, as if he were a God among men.

Then he started to sing, and everything melted away. His voice, deep and raspy, belts out the first song, a hard ballad, Saintly Sinner. It’s about a fallen angel with broken wings, mended by a man who sold his soul to the devil. It’s always been one of my favorites from them.

Every song he sang was like an aphrodisiac. Watching the way he handled his guitar, fingering it with expert strokes, turned me on, enticing me until I felt weak in the knees and moisture between my thighs.

After a long set of all the familiar songs, the lights turn down, sticking a single spotlight on Gunnar sitting on a high stool, an acoustic guitar resting on his lap.

“I’d like to play something for you that’s near and dear to me. Can I do that?” he asks the packed crowd, and they erupt into an explosion of cheers and chanting. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he jokes. The audience laughs and claps for him. One female fan yells from the cover of the mob, “We love you, Gunnar! Woo!”

“Love you, too, sweets,” he responds with a coy smile, humbled by the outpour. “This is called, Graffitied Walls. I hope you like it.”

He begins to strum a lilting tune. It must be brand new cause I haven’t heard it before tonight. And he certainly didn’t feature it during the show I’d reviewed last month. It’s…beautiful, raw, and real.