Heavy Metal Heart: A Bad Boy Rock Star Romance (21 page)

Her place was completely trashed. 

Shattered glass littered the floor, from the vase that once held flowers in her foyer. Holes and dents decorated the walls where her pictures once hung. 

Through the foyer into the kitchen, the refrigerator and pantry doors hung open. Dry foods scattered across the counters, floors, and walls. All her drawers were pulled out and her kitchen utensils tossed carelessly out of them. 

She rushed to the kitchen as quickly as she could, trying to be silent but a loud crack sounded when she stepped on shattered glass. Ignoring it, she scanned the torn-apart kitchen, desperately searching for what she needed. 

There you are!

She picked up the large kitchen knife from the floor just in time. 

"Helena?"

She whipped around in the direction of the hoarse, scratchy voice that said her name, and gasped at the person she saw. 

The man she once loved, who, at one time, she believed would be the only man she'd ever love. This man who lied and broke her heart countless times but convinced her to stay because she believed his excuse of, "I'm not a bad person, baby, I'm just sick. We made vows to stay together in sickness and in health". 

She finally made the decision to leave him and her old life in the past and start anew, with a love that she never knew was possible. And the shell of that man stood before her.

Six months had passed since she last saw Lars. She thought he couldn't possibly look worse than then, but the figure hovering a few feet away like a ghost was absolutely frightening. 

He was deathly pale and thin, blinking at her with sunken, bloodshot eyes. He was the same age as her, 26, but looked like he aged at least twenty years. His hair, once full and a beautiful auburn color, clung to his scalp in thin, lifeless wisps. When he opened his mouth to wheeze in air, she was shocked at the amount of tooth decay. Several of his teeth were also missing. Lars had a radiant, beautiful smile at one point. 

Helena thought she felt the entire range of emotions possible for Lars. During and after their marriage she felt love, denial, betrayal, hurt, hate, anger, then finally nothing. But staring at this weak, lifeless man standing in her kitchen, she only felt pity. 

"Oh my God, Lars," she whispered. The blade in her hand still pointed straight at him. 

"You can put that away, baby. A toothpick can knock me down." His attempt at a laugh sounded like a death rattle. 

She kept the knife pointing at him, remembering how manipulative he could be. "How did you get in my house? How long have you been squatting here?" 

God, I hope I can keep him occupied and Torsten gets here soon.

He held his hands up in a surrendering motion, visibly trembling. "Can I sit down?" he rasped, nodding at the only bar stool that stood upright. 

She nodded in reply, keeping her eyes and the blade trained on him. "Talk. Now." 

Lars sighed defeatedly. "I got in with your spare key that you left taped inside the drainpipe outside. Some things never change, eh?"

"Why are you here? How long have you been here?" she snapped. 

Lars raised his hands again, this time in a 'calm down' motion. "I'm getting to that, baby. Jesus, you always gotta jump down the throat with questions. You journalists, I tell ya. And look, I resent the term squatting. I'm not a fucking bum, I'm in an awesome band now, as a matter of fact. We're gonna be bigger than Mjolnir, baby, just you fucking wait." 

Oh. My. God. He's like a rambling, senile 80-year-old. Definitely high as a kite right now. Wait, does he have drugs in my fucking house?

"That's great, Lars," she answered tersely. All her pity began to dissipate and turn to annoyance. In just a few months, she somehow forgot what a self-righteous prick he was.

"But anyway, I owe some people money and decided to lay low for a while. We're waiting on gigs to pay up, so I'm in between living spaces right now. I figured my sweet old lady wouldn't mind me crashing for a while. Maybe we could go back to the good old days." He smiled a black, rotten grin and Helena felt her stomach churn. 

"Those days are over. We're divorced. We'll never go back to that."
God fucking damn it, Torsten, where are you?

Lars narrowed his eyes at her. "So I've been hanging out here two weeks, baby. And you're just now getting home. Where've you been?"

"How you do even know how much time has passed? You're blitzed out of your mind," she spat.
Keep stalling. Keep stalling. Come on, Torsten…

"I'm a drummer, baby. Keeping time is what I do best. Seriously, where the fuck have you been?" He rose to his feet and Helena tightened her grip on the knife. For the first time, he seemed bigger, stronger, and more threatening. 

Fuck. He put on a good act of being a sad little weakling. Of course, there's no sincerity left in him but you've got to keep stalling.

"Since when do you fucking care? I haven't seen you in six months. What the fuck do you care where I've been for two weeks? I'm moved on from you, that's where I've been." She raised her voice, hoping Torsten could hear if he was near the door. 

"Moved on with Torsten?" he demanded bitterly. 

She froze, the shock written as plain as day on her face.
How the fuck did he know?

"Everyone in the metal scene is talking about you two since that stunt in Romania. Fucking cheap trick. Torsten knows all the tricks to make the headlines and steal the bitches." 

"
What?!
 It was
not
 a trick! Plus he didn't steal me, I already divorced you. And furthermore, I'm not a bitch."

"Whatever, baby. He's a smart fucker, I'll give him that. But he definitely paid those amateurs to kidnap you so he could come in like a hero." 

"You're 
lying! 
You always lie. He told me the truth about everything. Even that you two lived together and were like brothers." Her hand steadied on the knife as though exposing the truth to his face gave her strength. “He was
never
 behind any of your fuck ups. It was
all you!
” 

Lars shrugged his skinny shoulders. "Suit yourself, baby. Hope you're enjoying the cock that's fucked every pussy in Norway and abroad." 

"Like yours hasn't? While we were fucking
married?
" She couldn’t believe the hypocrisy coming out of his mouth.

Lars' tense expression fell to one of surprise that mirrored Helena's. "Oh wait... so you don't know?" He brought his hands to his mouth and started giggling maniacally.

Helena's confusion grew as Lars' laughter went on. Her eyes darted to the front door which remained halfway open. The street outside remained empty. No Torsten in sight. 

"What the fuck is so funny?" she demanded. Lars' giggling evolved into a full on belly laughter as he wiped tears from his eyes. 

"Baby, don't you know that Torsten is married?"

Torsten raced home in his supercar and arrived within fifteen minutes. He custom built his home just outside of the bustling city of Oslo. It wasn't mansion sized but it would be enough for him, Helena, whatever family they would have, plus a few guests. 

He pulled into the detached garage where four of his other vehicles waited patiently for their turn. But they would have to wait a bit longer. 

He jumped from the car and left the garage as quickly as he entered, speed walking through a side door into the main house.

"Angie? Are you home?" he bellowed, his voice echoing off the tall glass windows. 

Shoes clacked on the tile floor. A short, middle-aged Spanish woman appeared from around the corner and gasped. 

"
Ay Dios mio,
 Torsten! You're home, mijo!" She rushed over to wrap her arms around his neck, practically dangling off him, and planted a fat motherly kiss on her cheek. "I missed you, mijo."

He smiled at her. His housekeeper certainly was like a mother to him, next to Lars' mother. "I missed you too, Ang. I brought you lots of vodka from Russia."

"Hmm, no tequila? No handsome Italian husband for me?"

"No," he chuckled. "But Angie, I did meet someone. I'll explain to you later but I need the van keys. She's moving in. Today."

"Moving in?
Ay Dios mio
! She must be special, mijo."

"She is. I know you'll love her as much as I do." 

"Mijo in love!" Angie clasped her hands together and grinned widely. "Oh yes, the van keys!  They're in the key box in the cleaning closet. I'll get them for you--," 

"No, Angie. I'll get them. Aren't you off duty now?" He hired her three years ago and still couldn't believe how hard she worked and how much energy she had.

"No! You must be hungry! I'll get dinner started while you and mija move in. What's her name?"

He sighed. The force of nuclear explosion couldn’t stop Angie from taking care of a home. 

"Helena."

"He-
le
-na." She enunciated every syllable in her name as she skipped off to the kitchen. "
Que bonita
..." 

Torsten smiled to himself as he retrieved the keys from the closet and walked in long strides to his second detached garage which he used as a type of junkyard. He stored most of his old audio equipment there along with tools, old furniture he restored in his spare time, and the van. 

He hadn't driven the vehicle for about six months, so the resistant click-click-click sound upon turning the key didn't surprise him.

Hmm, dead battery. Sorry, my love. I'll be a few minutes late. 

He popped the hood and lifted the battery out. When he hooked it up to the charger he frowned and tugged at his beard. Charging a dead battery would take several hours. He didn't want to delay moving Helena in but sometimes obstacles couldn't be avoided. With a disappointed sigh, he fished his phone from his pocket. He pulled up her number and prepared to call when an idea struck him. 

Various car parts sat scattered about the garage and he got to rummaging immediately. After tearing open several bins and emptying their contents on the floor,
success!
 Maybe. 

He pulled out a battery that looked older than the one currently charging. The odds weren't great, but he held his breath and checked the voltage. 

"Fuck yeah," he muttered victoriously. It was only at twenty percent charged but it would do. He figured he'd just leave the engine running while at Helena's place. 

He hooked up the battery and turned the key. The engine was reluctant at first but a second try coaxed it into a roar that was music to his ears. 

On my way, love! Nothing can stop me.
 He shut the hood with a triumphant slam, shoved his phone back in his pocket, and hopped back in the driver seat. Just as he released the brake, his phone vibrated. 

His mouth pulled up into a smirk when he saw a text from Helena. Probably wondering what was taking him so long. 

He opened the text which contained a string of gibberish. "vbcnjfl;gjhfgm," it read. 

"Are you pocket-texting me with that beautiful ass?" he began typing his reply but stopped. He looked at her message again and a stone formed in his stomach. 

Something wasn't right. She needed him, but couldn't type a message or call for some reason. He couldn't explain how he knew, but he did. 

He shoved the phone in his pocket, shifted into gear, and pressed the gas pedal to the floor. The van flew out of the garage like a bat out of hell, tore out of the driveway, and onto the road. 

Adrenaline surged through him like a drug as he sped down the streets, completely ignoring all signs and traffic lights. He intended on getting there faster than he would in any of his sports cars. He'd run the van straight into her house if it meant reaching her faster. 

Hold on, my love. I don't know what kind of trouble you're in but I'm coming. You're a smart, badass woman. I know you can take care of yourself until I'm there.

Despite knowing how smart and capable she was, he felt extremely uneasy not knowing anything. This was nothing like in Romania. He didn't have clues to deduce information about the people involved. And he had no idea how much time he had. 

For all he knew, he was too late the moment he received that message from her. 

"Fuck! Hang on, my love..." 

From a full block down the street Torsten could see her front door halfway open. 

Not even five seconds later, he swerved the van to a screeching halt in front of her apartment. In another fraction of a second, he parked and leaped out, running up her stairs before the van came to a complete stop. 

He leaned his shoulder in through the doorjamb, trying to calm the blood pulsing through his eardrums and listen. 

His eyes swept across the room, surveying every detail of the damage. He spotted Helena's phone on the kitchen floor and crept closer. What he saw next made his heart feel like it was being squeezed by an invisible fist.

Droplets of blood made a trail through the kitchen.

Torsten sucked in deep breaths as quietly as he could while his hands clenched into fists. If he truly was too late, he could never forgive himself. 

A muffled male voice floated from the back of the house and set his hairs on end. He slinked toward it, swiftly and silently as a stalking cat. The voice sounded familiar to him and he couldn't ignore the pang in his gut. In his peripheral vision, the dotted trail of blood also led him to the disembodied voice.

The voice laughed raggedly as it grew louder. It came from the bedroom. Torsten stopped and listened intently from the hallway, straining to hear any sound from Helena, any sign that she was okay. 

There!
 He heard a soft, feminine sound like a sob or a whimper. Relief flooded his senses as crept slowly to the bedroom door. He should have grabbed a weapon from the kitchen, but it was too late for that. His raised fists as he readied himself for whoever was on the other side of that wall.

He waited until the familiar male voice starting talking again, then stepped into the doorway, hoping to catch him off guard. The person standing over Helena, who sat on the bed with her knees to her chest, was the last person in the world he expected to see.