Metal & Lace (An Opposites Attract Novel Book 1)
Read Metal & Lace (An Opposites Attract Novel Book 1) Online
Authors: Lena Black
Metal &
Lace
By
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
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 says, 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.