Get Hitched (Hard Rock Roots Book 9)

by C. M. Stunich

  “Nontraditional, I like it,” Sydney says as she plays with her own hair, braiding it and then wrapping it around itself into a coil on the back of her head.

  “Well,” Naomi says, looking down at her outfit with a sigh, “even a quickie ceremony in a chapel with a white dress and a suit is too traditional for me. But if it'll make Turner happy, then it's what I want to do. It might be the last gift I ever give him.”

  “Stop talking all morbid and shit,” Sydney says and we both watch in the mirror as Naomi lifts up her skirts and slips the gun into her the garter belt underneath it. It's the only one we have now. My gun got left at the scene of the nightmare concert in LA where Poppet was killed. I don't know what happened to it after that, but I haven't seen it. And between Paulette and Brayden, there was no way to get another. Sydney and I both have knives though, carefully hidden in our gowns.

  I just pray to hell I don't have to use one. Can you imagine that? Little ol' me, pregnant and nauseous as hell, wielding a frigging knife that I don't know how to use.

  “Everything is going to be just. Fucking. Fine.” Sydney leans forward to play with her makeup, teasing those bubblegum pink lips with more color as I try to still the girlish squealing inside my chest. I am more than happy with a traditional ending—a wedding, a baby, and a new band. I feel fucking awful about what happened to Blair, but if Amatory Riot will have me, I'll stay on as their keyboardist. As much as I keep fucking up their sets, I feel like the sounds escaping my fingers are more raw, more pure. Like I've finally gotten back to my roots, like I'm making music that's truly from the heart and soul again. Being with Ice and Glass, the toxic presence of Cohen Rose, the threat of Stephen Hammergren always hanging over my head, I hadn't realized how much life it had bled from me. I was exsanguinated, baby.

  But Ronnie … he's got the blood pumping again—and to all the right places, too.

  There's a knock on our door, and Sydney moves over to open it.

  “You guys ready yet?”

  It's Turner, dressed up in a rather nice suit, his hair still mussy and very rockstar, his eyes moving right past me and over to Naomi.

  “Fucking fuck,” he says, jamming his tattooed fingers into his pockets, flicking his tongue against his lip rings. “I think I might blow my load right in these fucking expensive slacks.”

  “Please don't stain them before the ceremony,” Naomi says, but she can't hold back a small smile as she moves over to the door and steps outside, Sydney behind her, and me last.

  Ronnie's waiting in the tacky black and red hallway in a suit of his own, his dark hair clean and razored, his brown eyes lifting up to find mine. I don't deserve this, but here I am. Here I fucking am.

  “When do I get my green card?” I joke when I pause a few feet away and watch him take me in slowly, starting at the red pumps on my feet—come on, it all can't be white—and moving up to my face. It's when he pauses there and looks at me that it all really starts to sink in what we're doing here. “Because there's not a single chance in hell I'm going through with this unless I get one.”

  Ronnie steps up close to me and brushes the hair back from my face.

  “You look beautiful,” he tells me honestly and I smile. To tell ya the truth, he's been nothing but a goddamn sweetheart this whole tour. I mean, obviously there was that amazing proposal, but beyond that, he's been nothing but nice. Something about that scares me a little though, like he was trying to take advantage of the time we had left or some other bullshit. He's been quiet but contemplative, watching everyone, taking in everything.

  “You look pretty strapping yourself,” I tell him, picking at the shoulder of his suit jacket with a grin. It's black as jet, as is his tie, his shirt, his pants, his shoes. But it doesn't look morbid, just striking against the brightly colored tattoos on his neck and hands. “You clean up real good, you know that?”

  “Why thank you,” he says with a theatrical bow, standing up to look at me with a smile etched onto his face. God. I never thought I'd be marrying another drummer. No fucking way. Drummers are just so fucking intense. And Ronnie, he fits that description to a T. “My only goal was to do you justice.”

  He takes my arm, the warmth of his body seeping through his suit and into my skin, filling me up from the inside out. When Ronnie touches me, it's like the world disappears around me. I could be standing anywhere—in a five star resort hotel, a parking garage, a tacky chapel—and it'd feel like I was in a palace, like a fucked-up pint-sized little princess.

  “You two going to sit there and stare into each other's eyes or are you going to take a minute to celebrate with us?” Turner gestures us into the bathroom just in time to find Sydney snorting a line and leaning her head back with a sigh.

  “Turner, we're pregnant,” Ronnie says with a smile and a shake of his head. “We can't exactly get in line with Snow White.”

  “She can't; you can,” he says, pulling his vibrating phone from his pocket and sighing. “It's Trey. Again.” Turner sighs and taps the screen. “Hey man, I can't talk. I'm about to get married.” There's a long pause, and I swear to Christ, I can hear the man screaming on the other end of the line. “I didn't want to put you in danger, bro. I know. In my heart you're my best man.”

  “Here,” Naomi says, handing over a pair of Pixy sticks and two bottles of sparkling apple juice. “Powder and bubbly for the pregnant couple.” She smiles and then moves over to the bathroom counter, bending down and using a hundred dollar bill to wipe out the line of white on the brown granite surface.

  Ronnie lifts the open Pixy stick up in toast.

  “It wouldn't be a rockstar wedding without some blow and booze, now would it?”

  I grin and smack sticks with him, entwining our arms and putting the paper candy straws up to each other's lips, tipping the powdered candy back onto our tongues.

  “Fuck, that's fucking fairy floss,” I gag, blinking at the sudden surge of sweetness and then smiling as Ronnie leans forward and kisses me with that dirty mouth of his, probably ruining the new knickers I'm wearing underneath this dress. Fortunately for me, I had the foresight to put a panty liner down there. Now no matter how much he wets the lacy little bit of bum floss between my thighs, they'll be brand-spanking-new by the time we get to gettin', if you catch my drift.

  “Three cheers for a ridiculously stupid and over the top triple wedding?” Naomi says, lifting up a plastic cup with champagne it. “Oh, and by the way, this was included with the deluxe wedding package we purchased, so you know it's on the up and up.”

  “Cheap champagne, expensive drugs, designer dresses,” Sydney says, leaning her head against Dax's shoulder with that wicked little sigh of pleasure that comes after that first kick from the blow. Ah, fuck a nun's dry cunt. For the first time since I found out I was pregnant, I'm almost jealous. But then Ronnie puts his hand on my still flat belly and leans in to kiss me. Six weeks along and I'm sick as a damn dog. But excited. Don't tell anyone, but the thought of having Ronnie's baby is thrilling. He's my rockstar stallion, my rockstar stallion. I don't see why other women should have the pleasure of having his baby and not me. “Is this what a real rock star wedding is supposed to be like?”

  “If it wasn't cheap, lousy, and debase at its core then it wouldn't be hard rock,” Naomi says with a grin, downing her drink and then crushing the cup in her hand as Turner continues to console Trey in the background of the chapel bathroom. Outside, the camera crew is waiting, hovering like vultures over roadkill. I don't much like being carrion.

  “Jesus, your brother's a whiny twat,” Turner says as he finally hangs up the phone. “I think he was, like, fucking crying or whatever. It's not like I didn't want him to be my best man. I mean … fuck, he's one of my best goddamn friends. I just … I'm trying to protect his stupid ass.”

  “He'll get over it,” Sydney says with a wave of her hand, finishing her own champagne and chucking the cup in the trash. “Shall we?”

  “We shall,” Dax says, leaning down to kiss her as a str
ange thrill breaks free inside me and I start to realize that despite the rush, the lack of planning, the danger: this is my bloody wedding day.

  “Let's get hitched,” Turner says, holding the door open for us with a grin.

  We step out into the hallway and head toward the chapel.

  The uh, officiant, really does look like Kurt fucking Cobain. It's actually kind of creepy, like looking at a ghost. He stands up there in front of Lola and me and recites these ridiculous 'rockstar vows' that make us both laugh.

  Honestly, standing there with the others slouching in chairs behind us, smoking cigarettes and clapping inappropriately, it's sort of the perfect moment. Back in the day, I used to imagine marrying Asuka in a towering church with stained glass windows and sprays of red roses, having my parents in the front row with the boys beside them. I thought if I did everything right, the way it was supposed to be done, made it this perfect fairytale, then our lives would be perfect, too. But Asuka never got to have a life. No amount of planning or prep or waiting for that ideal moment was able to save her.

  Now, I've got Lola and another baby on the way and a chance to actually live my life instead of skating through it high as a goddamn kite. And I'm going to take that chance by the fucking balls. So, a drive-by wedding in Vegas is just fine with me. It doesn't really matter to me anyway. The moment I touched Lola's skin for the first time, the moment I kissed her lips, I was sold. As far as I'm concerned, a soul mate is a soul mate whether there's a piece of paper involved or not.

  “Did the bride and groom have anything they wanted to add?” Kurt asks as he lights up a cigarette of his own and grabs a guitar from behind the pulpit. I raise my eyebrows but, fuck, I guess I really do have something to say.

  “Yeah, actually,” I start and Turner groans from behind me.

  “Come on, man. Snap, snap. After this, we've got just enough time for drinks and then we gotta play Vegas, baby. Don't you want to set this fucking desert on fire?”

  “Turner, shut the Christ up,” I tell him and then turn back to Lola, looking into her blue eyes, thinking that they look like the sea where it meets up with the sand, this bright color overlay engulfing the earth, drowning it in waves tipped with white froth. She's done so many things she regrets, but so have I. Here, now, this is where we start over. “Lola,” I begin and that full mouth of hers, slathered in this purple-red color, pouts up and her eyes start to fill with tears.

  “Ronnie, don't,” she says and her accent thickens, making me smile.

  “Lola,” I start again, taking her hands in mine, touching my thumb to the silly ring I gave her. A normal ring just seemed … wrong. There's nothing about us—any of us—that's normal. “The first time I fell in love, I fell hard, with everything I had. I fell so hard that when that love was gone, I didn't even have legs left to stand on.” I take a deep breath as Lola lets fat tears drip down her face and I smile softly. I'm sure Turner's going to make fun of me for this for years, but fuck 'im. There are things that need to be said, so … I'm gonna say 'em. Even if I sound like a total douche.

  My soon to be wife stands there in her short little dress, her tattoos bright with the pale white satin and lace of her gown juxtaposed next to them, her short round plump little body on its way to being plumper, fuller, round with my child. I've never seen a woman pregnant with my baby before, and the fact that Lola's going to be the first one … it makes me even more determined to do this right.

  For a split second there, I think of Travis and how he never got to be a dad, how he never even got the chance to try. I think of his son, wonder how he's turned out, what'll happen to him when or if this nightmare ever ends.

  I want him. I know it's a long shot, but fuck, neither of those fucked-up families has the right to raise Tyler Rutledge Gaborone. They just don't.

  “That loss nearly broke me. Lola Rubi Saints, you put me back together again. You proved to me that there really is such a thing as a second chance. And it's not a do over and you're not a replacement. I love you, doll face. You're the one I was waiting for before I even knew I was waiting. I can't wait to meet our baby, and I can't wait to fall in love you with a little more everyday.”

  “Damn it, Ronnie, you're going to make the rest of us look bad,” Turner says, tossing a crumpled ball of paper at my back. I ignore him and reach up to brush a tear away from Lola's round cheek.

  “Would you like to add anything?” Kurt asks Lola, but her mouth is squeezed tight in a pout and she's smearing lipstick all over her teeth. She shakes her head, tears dripping down her face, bits of dark hair escaping her bun. I can't wait to get her naked so I can lick the leopard tattoo on her shoulder, work my way down past the belly that's full with my seed and find the hot slickness of her opening with my mouth. “Sweet. You guys can, like, exchange rings or whatever.”

  I raise an eyebrow and reach into my pocket, pulling out both my wedding band and Lola's. Hers is made to slip right up next to the engagement ring with its diamond drumsticks, a small kit dotted with tiny sapphires. It slides underneath the white sticks and sits there in glittering glory, so that Lola's finger will always be tapping out some sort of beat.

  Since I sprung this whole thing on her—on myself, too, really—I had to get my own wedding band, a thick silver ring with a pair of drumsticks etched into its gleaming surface. I just wanted us to match—another thing Turner will probably slay me for—but I need the world to know that we belong together, identify us both as drummers. We're people who make our own noise, set our own beats. We say when to jump, when to stand still, when to shout. Worshipped but forgotten, but that's okay if we're both standing in the shadows together.

  “Cool.” Kurt smokes his cigarette and gestures loosely in our direction. “You all, like, take the other to be your spouse, right?”

  “I do,” I say as Lola smirks and swipes her arm under her nose.

  “I do,” she whispers.

  “Then by the power vested in me by the State of Nevada and the God of Rock 'n' Roll himself, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Go ahead and start tonguing each other.”

  And then Lola and I kiss to a terrible acoustic rendition of Nirvana's Come as You Are.

  Life only gives so many perfect moments, this scattered handful that falls in clusters and spurts, that seem to appear and reappear like ghosts, but are as real as the flesh and blood that surrounds our souls.

  This second, this instant with Lola Saints, this is one of them.

  In fact, it's the most perfect one of them all.

  “Did you not see how I filled out that form?” I tell Turner as I sit in his lap in the middle seat of the van and try not to smile too much. It feels silly to smile when there's a very good chance I could get my head blown off at any moment. But I can't help it. I'm not all about being a wife or belonging to a man or anything like that, but … being in love and seeing that person's face light up at the sight of a ring or a dress or a vow exchanged in front of some weirdo that thinks he's a dead rockstar, that's priceless. “Naomi Knox. You can be Turner Knox, but I am not going for Naomi Campbell. That's the name of a famous model, Turner.”

  “Told ya,” Sydney says with a smirk, Dax's arms wrapped around her, squeezing tight. I imagine we might have a few more foursomes in the future, and I don't know where they'll go, but not tonight. Hell, not anytime soon. Turner is … well, fuck, he's mine.

  “Whatever. Give me my fantasy, okay? Let me call you Mrs. Turner Campbell for a little bit and I swear on God's balls that I'll do whatever you want later.”

  I sigh, but he's so goddamn charming—especially when he's tapping his cigarette ashes onto the officiant's shoes, smirking and saying, 'yeah, I so fucking do'. I can't believe I stood up on that dais across from a man who thinks a bit of eyeliner is part of a formal suit and tie getup, who swaggers when he walks, who looks like the cat that swallowed the canary when he glances at the design tattooed on my ring finger.

  Our relationship was born in ink. Now it's cemented in ink.


  Ink to born, ink to thrive, ink to live.

  “You can do it for like a day,” I tell him and his grin turns my dirty dead heart into mush. I cup the side of his face, stare into those brown eyes, and try not to get too worked up. I've let myself get excited before and life fucked me so hard I could barely pick myself up off the filthy floor of reality.

  But … things can get real ugly, real quick, so it's best not to get bent out of shape and weep about your string of tough luck or your bad day or wonder why you were born wrong, but instead it's time to get dead serious, hold your doll face close, and pray you don't end up heart broke before you get hitched.

  That's all we were doing here, taking advantage of a moment, making the best of things.

  At least I know that no matter what happens, Turner will be there for me. This time, this scenario, I've got him. He's fucking mine.

  “You in this goddamn dress,” he starts, wrapping a strong muscular arm around my waist, “is making me so fucking hard.” He pulls me close, his suit jacket and tie tossed onto the floor, wearing nothing but the white button-up he donned for the ceremony. I kiss each one of his lip rings and then press our mouths together, reveling in the feel of his tongue ring, the way it glides across my own, clicks against my teeth, reminds me that there's this thread of steel in this swaggering, smirking asshole of a man.

  In … my husband.

  I groan and push back, falling onto the seat next to him and leaning my head back.

  “I can't believe you're my husband now,” I choke out, but the words only make him grin bigger, press closer, his mouth pressing against the side of my neck, my clavicle, across the tops of my breasts. He wraps his arms around me again and holds me with a tenderness that's at odds with the smirk on his face. Touching me, wanting me, caressing me gently, but putting up his usual rockstar cockiness.