Get Hitched (Hard Rock Roots Book 9)

by C. M. Stunich

  “Sure am, doll face.” He chucks me under the chin and winks at me with those warm brown eyes of his. “Get dressed up, baby. I'm taking you out.”

  “The bloody floor is spinning,” I say as I look down at my bright yellow heels and then up at the wall of windows—and the city moving by beyond them. Ronnie and I are standing at the top of the Space Needle in the SkyCity restaurant, the twinkling lights of Seattle moving slowly past as the entire floor rotates 360 degrees.

  Reaching down, Ronnie tangles his fingers with mine, as dressed up as I've ever seen him. He's got on a slick black suit jacket over a black t-shirt with the Amatory Riot logo scrawled across it in teal. Slacks with a crease so sharp they could cut and shiny dress shoes that look fresh out of the box.

  But it's his face that really gets me, the way the light shimmers off the color in his eyes, the way his mouth curves up in a smile as he looks at me, the way my heart flutters in response when I look up at him. I'm still staring awestruck at his expression when he lifts my knuckles to his lips and presses a kiss there that thrills me straight down to my toes.

  “Since we're, uh, rockstars and all,” he tells me, pulling me close enough that his dress shoes and my heels get near enough for a little pashing. Ah, if only they had tongues. “They'll seat us right away”—a quick glance at the fangirling hostess—“or we can wait the thirty minutes until our reservation and head to the Observation Deck.”

  “The deck,” I whisper back as Ronnie leans down and captures my mouth with his, the touch as soft and whimsical as anything I've ever felt. Clearly, no part of me deserves him or this, not with all the awful things I've done, but God … God, I want it. I want it all. I want my rockstar lover and his baby and the music—everything. Do dirty fucked-up little sinners like me get second chances? Because I feel like I'd give anything to have one …

  “You know,” Ronnie says as he leans back, the tattoos on his neck wicked vibrant in the fancy expensive lighting of the restaurant. “This would be romantic as fuck if not for the camera crew standing behind you.” He flips off the small cluster of people and then guides me out toward the lift, like a tattoo covered prince, a man that's almost as twisted and messed up as I am, just in different ways.

  “It's romantic anyway,” I tell him, loving the way his long fingers capture my hand and hold it. The way he's touching me, I feel like I could sing as loud and wild as his drums, like he could play me as easily as he plays them. “When you look at me like that, it doesn't matter if we're alone or in front of millions, the only person I can see is you.”

  Ronnie chuckles softly and shakes his head, giving the crew another narrow eyed look over his shoulder. They keep their distance, but we are wearing mics and being followed by several of Brayden's men so there's not much privacy in any of it.

  I don't care.

  As long as we're together and I'm not being shot at, I'm happy.

  “What's the occasion anyway?” I ask and Ronnie's mouth tweaks up a little in the corner. He pretends not to hear me as we pile into the lift and head for the Observation Deck. “Hey, I'm all fine and good with dressin' up for nothing, but if you've invited me all the way up here to break it off, I will kick you right in the crotch and I won't apologize for it.”

  “Break it off?” he asks with raised brows, focusing that intensity back on my face. As he looks at me, I wonder if this is the way he looked at his long lost love, Asuka. And then I decide that I don't care. This tenderness … right now it's for me, it's mine, and it's okay if he felt the same way for her. I won't let myself be jealous over a dead girl. “Do you really think I'd do that? Cast aside the only girl I've felt something for in ten years?”

  “I suppose not,” I say as I use my free hand to straighten out the tiny black scrap of dress I've got on. I figure soon enough I'll be bigger than a boat, so I'm trying to cram in as much slutty costuming as I can get while the gettin's still good. “But I was warning you just in case. Because if you'd taken me up to the top of this building and then done it, I'd have pushed you right off.”

  Ronnie laughs and I grin, loving the sound of his voice, the way his eyes are bright and alert now when they were nothing but cloudy and dark before. Something about me has pulled him up from the darkness. Now, if it's only because I'm such a twisted little mess that he can't focus on his own shit, that's okay. I'm just happy he's stopped trying to commit a long slow suicide. That sadness inside of him will never go away—real grief is the only true immortal in this world—but if we can keep it small and tended, it doesn't have to break him. Him or me.

  I'm sorry, Poppet, I think for the millionth time, pushing thoughts of my sister from my mind. I called my dad a few weeks ago, but he didn't have much to say. He's always been a man of few words but now … I'm worried even those might've been stolen from his lips. My sister's been cremated and now I have her ashes and no fuckin' clue that to do with 'em.

  Subconsciously, I find my hand on my tummy and wonder if a little ankle-biter might help my dad cope with the loss of my little sister?

  I blow out a long, deep breath, gearing myself up for this confession. I won't do it now, here, because I'll be fuckin' damned if I talk about this shit in front of the cameras, but soon. I won't keep secrets from Ronnie—not when our whole life has been turned upside down by them.

  Neither of us says anything as we head out into the windy evening, a slight dampness in the air but no rain. Lucky us, I guess. Just about every local here's commented on it. The first question they all seem to ask—from one of the venue staff to a stand-in cameraman to a roadie—is have you ever been to Seattle before? And then as soon as I tell 'em no, they whistle, raise their eyes to the sky and say well you're just lucky it hasn't rained yet.

  So … lucky.

  I'll take the adjective. Better than shot, maimed, dead or off ya guts, right?

  I stand next to Ronnie on the narrow pathway that curves around the Space Needle, the view of the city only slightly obscured by a bit of fencing made up of steel cables. I step forward in my bright yellow pumps, the fabric of my little black dress riding up my thighs in the back as I curl my fingers around one of the cold, wet cables and look down at the twinkling lights of Seattle.

  It's fairly crowded up here but the sternness of our bodyguards and the size of our camera crew buys us a bubble of space, pushing back the onlookers until their whispers are nothing but murmurs and whispered gossip.

  Screw 'em all.

  I could give two shits less if they're staring, what they think of us.

  “It feels like it's been forever since I was this sober,” I say as I watch cars rush through the night in a sea of yellow, white and red lights, cutting the city into squares and rectangles obscured by glittering skyscrapers. Elliott Bay is a dark splotch cutting into the coruscating shimmer of the city. “Everything feels sharper, like all the edges of the world are cutting into me, shaping me.”

  “Sounds painful,” Ronnie says, coming up behind me and wrapping his arms around my smaller form, putting his chin against my hair. I can feel his warm breath on my scalp and the hot hardness of his body pressing tight to mine. He's aroused, but there's no surprise there—so am I. My thighs feel sweaty and warm and liquid and my nipples are hard as diamonds.

  “It is,” I whisper, closing my eyes, wishing he could slip his hand down and under the short nothingness of my dress. I'm not wearing much underneath either, just a sexy little nothing bit of bum floss. Sure, sure, yeah that's vulgar but it's better than calling it a thong. Thongs are those ugly little beach shoes that everyone around here calls flip-flops. “But it also makes everything seem bright, new, different, like I've just opened my eyes after a long, long sleep.”

  “My sleeping beauty,” Ronnie says, holding me tight as I cover his hands with my own, right over the top of my still flat belly.

  “My rocker prince,” I say, and I might not be able to see his face, but I feel him smile.

  I feel him.

  Inside, outside, all around me
.

  Turner is going to fucking kill me.

  But I bought this ring and I'm damn well going to use it before it's too late. Because—much as I hate to admit it—he's right. The asshole is right. Life doesn't last forever. No, not even close. In fact, it's almost as if the time we think we have left is an illusion distracting us from the time we have now. Tomorrow, next week, next year, sometimes those things don't come. Sometimes the love of your life lies bleeding while you tune your guitar in some shithole venue that you can't even remember the name of. Sometimes people die or leave or change.

  Right now, though, I'm here. And Lola is here. And I want to make her my wife.

  Plus, I'm kind of a hopeless fucking romantic. I would've been thrilled to marry Asuka Maebara and call her my wife, buy a house, have kids, and never think 'well what else, what more is there'. The more is right here, in my love, in the round face of this woman that looks at the restaurant around us with awe. And it's in me, the clean emptiness of my sober self. And it's in our baby, the one growing in her belly that she thinks I don't know about.

  This time, I'm going to do it all right. The girl, the kid. Everything.

  I know Lola doesn't think she deserves another chance, but she does. We all do. If inside, you fully and truly want to change, if you commit to it, nobody has the right to judge that; nobody has the right to tell you no. Unless, you know, you're a child molester or rapist. Then fuck you; you can hang. Everyone else is cool though.

  “The food here costs twice what a plane ticket home would be,” Lola says as she leans back, her dark hair long and glossy, her tattoos turning what otherwise would be a fairly simple cocktail dress into a dream. It's sleeveless, her cleavage full and ripe as fuck where it swells out the top, but it looks like it has sleeves because of her ink. The leopard print, the birds, the cat with its yellow-green eyes.

  I smile.

  “Well, if there's one thing we got out of all of this: it's money. And it's true what they say: you can't take it with you.”

  “Unless you get, like, cryogenically frozen or something, right?” she asks as we both take in the brief moment without the cameras. We sat here so long, talking in soft, low voices and debating what to order that the crew decided it was time for a quick break.

  Paulette Washington is going to murder them when she finds out what they're about to miss.

  Fuck that cunt.

  I hope she cries about it, too. But I imagine her tear ducts are so plasticized at this point that not much comes out. No, crying is too organic for that monster. And I thought her sister was bad. Hilarious.

  “I wouldn't want to be, frozen I mean,” I say as I lean back and cross my hands behind my neck, watching those big round blue eyes of hers watch me back. Each one is like an oceanic world all in its own right, this swirling sea of waves that hides entire ecosystems underneath. I'll spend the rest of my life—however long that is—searching through them, diving deep.

  If she'll have me, that is.

  I'm not as arrogant as Turner in that I think this is a sure thing. No, if Lola told me to screw off, I'd understand. I have four kids already and it looks like a court case to fight for custody of at least one of them. My parents … well, I don't know about them yet, but Shannon's parents refuse to let me see Phoebe at all. They've changed their number, their emails, and now they've moved. I know I was a fuck-up in the past, and if I could give my life to bring their daughter back, I would. But I can't. And we have a kid. And I will be a part of her life. I can't let my past mistakes dictate future ones. At least the other two women involved—Eve and Maria—have both agreed to give me another chance.

  I don't want to take any chances with Lola though.

  “What are you staring at, fuckface?” she asks, tossing a piece of bread in my direction.

  I grin and catch it, leaning forward and tossing it back in the basket.

  “Did you know I wrote a new song?”

  “A song?” she asks, wrinkling up that cute little nose of hers. God, that makeup tonight is flawless. Lips as red as a red, red fucking rose. I will gladly kiss those every morning to wake her from her beauty sleep. And then, you know, I'll probably try to fuck her too because I am a rockstar after all.

  “Yeah, a song.”

  “Doesn't Turner usually write all of Indecency's music?” she asks and I smile, rising to my feet, the city spinning in a slow circle around us as the restaurant rotates beneath our feet. I like the way it frames Lola's pale face and dark hair, that inky black night with all its electric stars shining in windows of lives so close yet so far away. People I'll never meet, never know. But at least I found the one person in all of that that I was waiting to find.

  “Come with me,” I say as I hold out a tattooed hand and she stands up to take it, mouth parted slightly with curiosity as I lead her over to the grand piano in the center of the room. I've already worked it out with the staff, so nobody bothers me as I release Lola's hand and scoot onto the bench, cracking my knuckles and taking a deep breath.

  I've been playing my drums for hordes of live demons, frothing at the mouths, waving pitchforks and yet … this is the most nervous I've been in a long time.

  Fuck, I hate singing. I've been doing backup vocals for Turner for years, but I can only sing like a trick pony can jump hurdles. I've been taught the right way to do it, but that doesn't mean there's any passion or skill there, just practice.

  Alright Ronnie, you stupid asshole, you can do this. Get your shit together.

  As counterproductive as it might seem, I close my eyes for a moment and think of Asuka, of the way she closed her own eyes and kissed the music with her fingertips. Each note thanking her with genuine gratitude as it burst from the piano in a wave of sound so vibrant it seemed like it was colored in, white and yellow and pink and red and orange. I could see it floating in the air like a cloud.

  That's how I want to play tonight.

  “What are … you doing?” Lola asks, her voice low and breathy and maybe like it's already on the verge of tears. That's okay. Hell, I hope she cries. The girl is almost too tough for her own good. If there was ever a night to let it all go, it would be tonight.

  My hands start to move across the keys, eyes opening as I watch the long dirty fingers of my soul trace the instrument with reverence. I don't deserve to sit here, to touch it, to make these notes, but it happens anyway and all I can do is bow down and be fucking grateful for it.

  “I broke it all, my everything. And as it shattered I watched with apathetic pain. It was there but I was numb. Your gaze broke that chain and felled these shackles.” My voice is soft, not at all like I play it onstage when I scream the background vocals in the places Turner can't get to during a live performance. But it's not soft because I'm feeling tentative or weak, but because this song is really only for the ears of one woman. “My heart was broken, but my spirit was whole, and in the sanctity of your arms, I finally found myself on my feet. There's so much more to you, more than you even really know, and all the things I want to say to you, they'll take an endless stretch of time.”

  My filthy sinner's hands press into the ivory keys, the tattoos inked into my flesh at such distant odds with the poshness of the grand piano and the restaurant with its elegant patrons. Compared to all of this, Lola and I must look dirty, wretched, gritty … like rockstars. I try to put a little of that ragged strain into my voice, the same sound that suits the stage so well, that fills the darkness when Lola and I are together naked and sweaty.

  “And I need every moment, every single second to say the things I feel. But you have to let go of all this pain, watch me as I shed the darkness and the shame. So, will you break apart your passionless shell and step into the rain? Because I need you there to hold and kiss away the blame.” I take a deep breath and glance over at Lola, finding her standing there with her hands clasped together in front of her face, big fat tears rolling down her cheeks as she stares at me with eyes I'm so used to seeing shrouded in sarcasm and doubt. Right n
ow, they're wide and open and searching.

  I smile.

  “You always blame yourself, and I do the same. Shut your eyes, and take my hand, the two of us together, moving mountains and standing in the rain.”

  The entire restaurant is focused on me as I repeat the chorus and the hook, hoping I'm not fucking this whole romance thing up completely. Hell, maybe Lola would've been happier if I'd popped the question while we were tangled up together, while I was inside of her looking into her eyes? Or maybe I should've shucked tradition and booked us a trip to the moon or something?

  But this is what I got, so I'm gunning for it.

  I lick my lips and pull the song into a fading, breathy rhythm, what I imagine to be the soft sigh of a baby's breath. Usually, Indecency's songs are like the devil's wails of pain, so this is basically the complete opposite. I don't fumble or fuck-up at least, and by the time I finish, I'm ready.

  My right hand slides off the keys and into my pocket, pulling out the little box.

  Maybe she'll tell me to go fuck myself.

  Maybe she'll say no.

  But I have to ask.

  I turn on the bench and crack the top of the box, watching as Lola's sad face turns into a laugh and she clamps a hand over her full red rouged lips.

  Yes, it's a traditional box, but this fucking ring … is anything but.

  I had to stay at least a little rockstar, now didn't I?

  Lola and I don't even make it into the bus before we're at each other's clothing, tearing and ripping fabric out of our way as she presses red kisses along my neck and stains my skin with color. I try to lift my right hand up to grab the door handle, but my fingers keep slipping and fumbling against the slick metal. Just about the moment Lola told me yes—sorry, screamed yes at the top of her lungs and threw her curvy little body into my arms—it started to not just rain but pour outside.

  Bad sign?

  I refuse to keep seeing fucking omens and shit. Like, what am I, a goddamn seer?