Addicted: A Secret Baby Romance (Rebel Saints MC)

by Zoey Parker

When I wake up, I take my time getting ready. I try on every skirt I have before I decide on the chiffon one, watching myself twirl with a little tremor of excitement. Choosing the top is an equally painstaking process: should I go for see-through or shiny? Crop or ruffle? Sleeveless or spaghetti strap? Each one I can imagine him taking me with, ripping off of me, peeling off of me, keeping on me, taking off and throwing back on and fucking me, over and over again.

  I need to concentrate.

  Why am I suddenly so concerned about what I wear? It never bothered me before.

  Even doing my makeup is something of a battle. I throw on and scrub off about ten different variants of red lipstick before deciding that the one I choose had too strange a scent to actually wear. So, I settle on a red lip gloss that neither looks nor smells how I’d like, but that I’m resigned to nonetheless.

  By the time I get to the eye makeup, I only have enough time to smear on a cat eye that turns out disastrously.

  So, I remove it and try again, cursing myself as I go. I’ve never been this late before, what ever will he do to me? The possibility both frightens and excites me.

  Even as I cab there, chat with the taxi cab driver about inanities, check my hair for the fifth time, the question repeats itself, a tantalizing refrain:

  What is Gabriel going to do to me tonight?

  Then, once we finally arrive, after I’ve paid the cab driver and strode out to the motel, up the steps, over to Room 29, and clasped the cool door handle, the question returns once more as a thrill through my whole body: What is Gabriel going to do to me tonight?

  Chapter 21

  Gabriel

  Last time I was late, and this time I’m early.

  I’m starting to have a weird feeling about Tony. Something like fear.

  Why won’t she go out for dinner with me? Why won’t she tell me more about herself and, most of all, why do I care?

  I spread myself out on the bed. The bed in Room 29. Our place.

  I already have a strange fondness for this ugly little motel room, with its scratchy brown door mat and God-awful sunset painting.

  I want to know this ugly little room inside-out, just like her.

  I open the drawer of a bedside table, but there’s only a Bible without a cover. Same goes for the dresser: there’s nothing inside but packets of salt and pepper that look like they’re from the eighties. Under the bed, there’s some weird circular white machine thing.

  I pull it out, plug it into a socket by the bed. Faint colors slide over the ceiling and walls, while a smile lights up my face. A light projector. In this grungy old motel of all places.

  The door knob jiggles, and I shove the light projector under the bed. It’ll make a nice surprise.

  Tony comes in, a bustle of chiffon skirt and a bag that gets caught in the door as it swings shut.

  She swears, and I go to help her, opening the door so she can extract her purse, which looks like it’s taken a few door mashings in its time.

  “You okay?” I say, putting my hand on her shoulder.

  She looks at me like a wounded animal, nods, then kisses me.

  I laugh, push her back.

  “Close your eyes,” I say.

  She does.

  I take off her purse, then her coat.

  There’s no gun there this time, which disappoints me a little. I wanted to tease her a bit.

  “Wait there,” I say.

  I turn off the lights, take out the light projector and plug it in.

  “Don’t move,” I say.

  Then, grasping her hand, I say, “Open your eyes.”

  She opens them, gasps.

  Seeing the colorful play of lights on the dark ceiling, I almost want to gasp myself.

  The aurora borealis of Room 29, right here for us to experience for ourselves: blues and greens and purples twining amongst themselves, swirling and swooping around at a preternatural pace, to a song we can’t hear, the red a vibrant dash sliding in and out of them.

  And Tony’s hand in mine. And this, this is-

  “Perfect,” she murmurs.

  Then, turning to me, in my ear, “Close your eyes.”

  I do. I’m being led forward, shoved onto the bed.

  “Wait here. Don’t open them until I say.”

  I do.

  Slight sounds that may be nothing, and yet, why would she have me wait if she wasn’t doing something?

  “Open,” she says, and when I do, I understand.

  The lights are dancing across her bare limbs: her wide hips, upturned breasts just more space for the colors to claim, more canvas for them to paint their beauty upon. And oh, what a sight it is.

  She’s swaying her hips along, along to colors’ unhurried, sensual song, along to the beat that I can only regard with a strange longing sort of want.

  “Come here,” I growl.

  She doesn’t move, doesn’t even pause. Her torso and chest gyrate round and round, while the colors try to decide where to stop, both in and out of time, complementary and yet singular.

  “Come here,” she rasps back, and I do.

  I get up and go to the swaying Northern Lighted woman. I take her in my arms, sway along with her, let the song and the rhythm and her undulating, unhurried naked body guide the way.

  And then we’re moving together and all is natural. Our kisses are in time, our tongues just part of the dance. My hands slide and grasp and fight with the colors for just whose woman this is. The colors submit to me soon enough, slide from her to me and back again.

  My pants dropping to the floor is just more of the song. Same goes for my shirt, a colorful slide.

  Everything is rubbing, sliding and gliding, her hand on my member, mine on her full cheeks the blue and green strands are delighting on, the soft enclave of her belly, the wide swells of her hips, down, down between her legs, and her hands are so soft and smooth on me, on me, and my hand sliding between her legs the colors revel in, seem to swirl around faster or maybe it’s just me, my fingers sliding in and out just part of the rhythm, the dance our bodies are locked in, the beginning we have to end, and my members inching closer and her legs are gaping wider, and her tongue is sweeping across the roof of my mouth and her lips are soft and wet, both of them, and I slip inside.

  Now the colors don’t know who to fall on: her hips or mine because they don’t understand – it’s both of us now, we are one, our bodies swaying together, moving as one, one single joined locked thrust, one want, one sensation, one heaving, one in and out, so slowly we’re shuddering with it. The colors shudder with what’s to come, building oh so slowly, her fingers swooping along the muscles of my back, then scratching, then raking, all part of the dance.

  Me on her, and her on me, so moist and fits so perfectly, and the dance is picking up speed, me in her, her urging me, and I’m in then out and again and the slams are just part of the dance and even the colors are picking up speed – see we’re the ones setting the pace now, and I’m slamming into her, our bodies fused, our hands sliding all over each other, both of us on the brink, not able to stop, yet not wanting to continue, wanting to prolong it, this feeling, this union, this fusion.

  God, this feeling— but our grasps are becoming violent, our limbs restless, we can’t take much more of this and it’s time so I do: I pick her up and shove myself into her as hard as I can, give her the grand finalé she’s been waiting for, swoop my cock in and out of this perfect fit. We’re perfectly in synch, the mash of our hips, her lips, fingers gliding – the colors explode and we do too and yes, yes, yes - we collapse to the ground, and she pushes me back and lays herself flat so I can spread my own color across her bare form, paint her body, just another one of the movements now.

  And when we are done, we don’t turn off the colors and we don’t turn on the lights. We take a giggled silence of a bath, bubbles from somewhere and that vanilla body cream that got me so hard last time.

  And then it’s to the bed. For more or less, I’m not sure.

  As
soon as body hits sheet, we both know. That was fantastic and more than enough. Being with each other, here, now is enough.

  I glance over and realize I know nothing of her. She looks sad.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, but she only shakes her head.

  Murmurs, “Family trouble.”

  “Tell me about it,” I say, running my hands over her shoulders, massaging them.

  She doesn’t move, doesn’t even glance over. She really is beautiful, like a sort of Mexican princess: jet black hair and that olive back… I feel like telling her, like taking her in my arms and covering her with it, my adoration, this feeling I still can’t quite place, that I still don’t exactly have a word for.

  But right now, her back is turned to me as if she’s somewhere else, and I can see my words would fall just as flat as my question had. I sit up and turn, look past her into the mirror at myself, who’s no different than her. I’m just as closed off. I want her to share things, go places I’m not even willing to go myself.

  What am I doing?

  I slide under the covers and she does the same. Almost looks happy.

  We watch the light show in silence, the restless strands of color swirling on the uneven walls.

  “Where did you get that thing?” her half-smile asks.

  “It was under the bed,” my grin answers.

  She nods, snuggles under the covers deeper, then turns to me with a look I’ve never seen in her eyes.

  God, if I’m not careful this woman could be the death of me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, “I’m just not used to this. Usually I don’t see the same person this much. I’m with you – this casual thing works, I’m just not… used to it.”

  She nods, closes her eyes, burrows herself into me, murmurs, “Ever think this is casual not because of our work, but because of our fear?” As soon as she realizes what she’s said she starts back, turns away so that her back’s facing me again.

  I move closer. “Yes,” I tell her back, kissing it, “Maybe.”

  And then I see the tense muscles of her back relax and more words spill out of my mouth, “I had something like this once. Something passionate, intimate, different - a woman I worked with. It ended horribly, went horribly – she took over everything. And, once she was gone… there was nothing left.”

  Tony turns to face me, my words on her face, she nods.

  “I’m so afraid,” she says, and I take her in my arms, and rock her.

  I want to tell her that she need never be afraid, that I’m here for her, that I’ll always be here for her.

  But I look at her oblivious sad face and I know. I can’t lie to her and a lie is all that such a statement would be.

  No, Tony can’t know me, can’t love me, can’t be with me – it would only put her in danger.

  No, I must remain alone, those passing intimate nights my only pleasure.

  Now more than ever, the fight with the Piccolos is coming to a head. I can’t afford this.

  “Tell me more,” she says.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  She says nothing because we both know that I know exactly what she means.

  I stop rocking her.

  There’s only one thing to tell her. One more thing I can. The most important thing.

  “I have a sister. Hannah. A beautiful, funny, loving saint of a sister. She’s everything I’m not. She’s the greatest person I have in my life. She’s in university, lives in an apartment on the other side of Toronto, but we still tell each other everything. She’s…”

  My voice dies away. I can’t tell her.

  My jaw clenches with the words, the revelation I can’t say. All the lies that have been coiling around me, until, trapped in their cage, now I’m speechless.

  “She’s what?” Tony asks, straining to look up at me.

  “Never mind,” I say, avoiding her gaze, “What about you?”

  Now it’s her turn to avoid mine.

  Her face falling, she says, “I have a brother. A half-brother. But he’s nothing like that. He parties, drinks, wishes I wasn’t around, gets in my way whenever he can. We agree on practically nothing these days. He’s my half-brother but he’s as good as a stranger. We used to be close. I would miss him if I didn’t hate him so much.”

  Now her body is all clenched muscles and tension.

  I start massaging her again.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  She shakes her head, arches her back, stretches out further.

  “Don’t be. We’re here, now. This. This is enough.”

  She closes her eyes, and I kiss her smile, and close my eyes.

  ###

  When I wake up and see that ruby half-smile, I know. There’s no choice in what I’ll do today. There’ll only be a “must.”

  I dress quietly, turn off the light projector, check my phone.

  It’s 9:29 am and I have five new messages, none of which I check.

  I have a beautiful woman in my bed; the world can wait.

  I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth – 100 for Momma and a 100 more since I missed last night. I call a taxi, whisper the address.

  And then, I wake my sleeping princess. She looks pleasantly surprised at where she is, at seeing me, at having me clothe her, put her stuff in her bag, pull her to the door.

  “You’re not a morning person, are you?” I ask.

  Her only response is a sleepy nod.

  “I called you a taxi,” I tell her. Then I press her to the wall in a kiss, breathe in her ear, “Oh, I’m not finished with you yet.”

  The taxi is right on a time, and my raven princess is a sunny smile.

  “Close your eyes. I want this to be a surprise,” my kiss informs her ear.

  She obliges smilingly.

  For the whole ride, even when we get there, I make her keep her eyes closed.

  It’s only when she’s standing in the exact same spot as before that I let her open them.

  She looks up and then up and up, sees the familiar tower, and her face falls.

  “Gabriel.”

  I squeeze her hand, but she pulls hers free.

  “I thought we agreed.”

  I grab her hand again.

  “Come on now. It’s not dinner, it’s breakfast. Revolving breakfast at the restaurant 360.”

  She shakes her head.

  “Gabriel, I can’t do this. I’m not having breakfast or revolving breakfast on the CN Tower with you. I’m going home now.”

  “Tony,” I say.

  She takes a step away.

  “Tony, please.”

  She takes another step, pauses. When she turns to me, her eyes are full of tears.

  “I’m sorry Gabe.”

  And then she walks away, my morning plans, the one woman I’m starting to think will be the death of me. This is the first time she called me Gabe, and the first time she’s walked away from me.

  Chapter 22

  Toni

  As soon as I’m down the block and around the corner, the tears come.

  I wipe them away angrily.

  God, why do I have to be such a fool?

  That look in Gabriel’s eyes, I know that look. It’s the one I’m feeling too.

  That I don’t want to spend just breakfast with him. I want to spend the whole day with him and the day after that too. I want weeks by his side.

  The thought terrifies me, as do the possibilities of its opposite. What if he knows? What if he’s just toying with me, trying to use me for all I’m worth, trying to mess with the Piccolos through me, trying to ruin all of us? What if he knows?

  My phone rings. It’s him. Gabriel.

  I don’t answer.

  If he doesn’t know, then it’s not me he cares for, anyway. It’s the woman he met in that bar – the devil-may-care seductress who doesn’t have family baggage dating back three generations, who isn’t in charge of his competitor’s business. Who hasn’t been lying to him for weeks.

  I turn off my phone.


  I can’t do this. Not now, maybe not ever.

  By the time I get to a bus stop, the man with the low-brimmed hat has been walking behind me for four blocks.

  When he stops a few feet away from me, I hail a taxi.