Get Hitched (Hard Rock Roots Book 9)

by C. M. Stunich

  Albin Washington. Make it spectacular.

  “What the fuck does that mean?” I ask, but I think I already know.

  The Hammergrens want me to kill Paulette's husband.

  “How do I even find this guy?” I ask, but Jacket Guy just stares at my foot on his cock and I remove my boot, keeping my gun trained on his face. If I have to, I really will pull that trigger.

  “There's a club in Charlotte called the Violet Slender. He'll be there. And he likes blondes.” Jacket Guy smiles, but the effect is lost when he struggles to stand up from the toilet and buttons his jeans with shaking fingers.

  As soon as he looks up at me, I lean over and flick up the lid to the trash, dropping the gun inside with used condoms and a few bloody tampons. I smile.

  “Have fun getting that out,” I say as I turn and unlock the door to the stall, heading out and through the bathroom only to run into Turner at the door.

  And he is pissed.

  There's not a lot of talking when we get back to the bus. There are a lot of things to talk about but no way to do it with the stupid cameras everywhere. For a second, I just stand there in the living room and close my eyes, reigning in my emotions. When I open them, Turner's looking at me like I've kicked his puppy. When he walks up to me and leans in, putting his mouth to my ear, I shiver.

  “You worry me,” is all he says and then he's turning and heading back for the bunks.

  I let him go and decide to sit at the table with Kash and Wren instead, putting my elbows on the smooth surface and my head in my hands.

  “You alright?” Wren asks, holding out a joint that I don't take. I wave him away and then lean back against the black velvet fabric of the cushion, looking at my bandmates and wondering what they think of all this. As far as I can tell, nothing spectacular has happened to either of them. Whether it's because they just haven't told me about it or because Stephen and America died before they got to finish their game, I'm not sure.

  “I don't know,” I say honestly as they exchange a look and then glance back at me. “Ask me in the morning.”

  My natural response is to want to curl up on the couch with a bottle of beer in my hand and let Turner seethe in the back. But I can't do that anymore. Whatever happens, we're in this together.

  I stand back up and follow after him, flicking back the curtain to my bunk and finding it empty. The shower's running, so I just assume it's Turner and step inside quickly, closing and locking it behind me.

  It's steamy and hard to see, but the clothes he was wearing earlier are on the floor. I strip quietly and manage to slip into the shower before he realizes that I'm there.

  “Jesus fuck,” he curses when he turns and finds me standing naked behind him. This stupid stall is just barely big enough for the two of us to stand in it. I have so many memories of scrubbing Hayden down in here; I'd rather replace them with something else.

  “I'm sorry,” I say before he can get a single word out, my eyes focused on the healed bullet wound in his thigh and not on his face. He took a damn bullet for me, trying to protect me from my foster brother, Eric. I covered his body to protect him from a tornado. We're both idiots. “But it's been me, me, me since forever, Turner. I've had to take care of myself; that's all I'm trying to do now.”

  “I know,” he says, voice uncharacteristically soft, his wet hands cupping my face and drawing my attention back to his. “I get, I do. And fuck, that's at least partially my fault. So I understand if I'm like, the last frigging person you feel you can trust. I want to change that, Naomi. I'll do whatever it takes.”

  Closing my eyes, I reach up and lay one of my hands over his. Since I was sixteen, all I've ever wanted was this. Him. Even after he fucked me over, I never stopped loving him. Never.

  “So what's the name of the chapel?” I ask as his hands slide from my face and take up much less gentle, much more intimate positions on my hips.

  “Which chapel?” he asks, his voice dropping into a low growl.

  “The one in Vegas,” I say, trying not to freak the fuck out. I open my eyes and look at him. “The one we're getting married in.”

  “This is so stupid,” I growl as I lean against a dirty stone wall and smoke a cigarette, Lola standing in front of me, Sydney next to me and a cadre of bodyguards dotting the immediate area. “Why do I even need a dress anyway? Is there a law against getting married in jeans?”

  “You let him talk you into it, didn't you?” Sydney says, gazing across the street and up toward a precarious looking tower of scaffolding set against an old building. The sounds of construction workers at work wars with the annoying hum of nonstop traffic and the almost deafening press of people on top of people on top of people.

  Los Angeles was bad enough. New York is … Well, let's just say that I grew up in Oklahoma.

  I almost miss it right now.

  “I basically had to agree after last night,” I say, wishing I'd brought my knife so I could stab the camera crew with it. After that break where they missed Ronnie's proposal to Lola, they've been fucking awful and I'm starting to lose my shit. Not only do I have to buy a dress—a white one—but I have to do it under the watchful eye of a lens. “It was my peace offering. At least he's not here right now. He wanted to come and pick it out himself.”

  “Well, thank God for small miracles,” Sydney says, smiling, a pair of shades covering her blue eyes as she looks back at me. “I think dress shopping with Turner might classify as one of the lower levels of hell. He's too opinionated for his own good.”

  “How did you stand that? Growing up with Trey and Turner around?” I ask as we all try to get up the nerve to go into this stupid boutique that only caters to celebrities. Well, poo-poo. How fucking ridiculous. What a bunch of classist nonsense. I'd rather go to the thrift store and buy a white shift, but this morning, I woke up to that new guy—our supposed manager—knocking on the bus door and telling me that Paulette had set up this fitting for us.

  So she knows about our wedding plans. Of course she does.

  I wish the note had told me to kill her instead. I'd probably smile as I slid the blade across her plastic surgery enhanced throat. America was so … she had that same perfect shell, but a tumultuous inside. Paulette is like a Stepford wife, but the power bitch model. She's robotic and terrible and cold. I can only imagine what her husband is like. A guy who owns everything and yet exploits young prostitutes. I'm sure he's a real peach.

  “It wasn't easy,” she admits as she studies the towering building at my back, “but they both have good hearts, even if they're douchebags. Somehow that makes it easier to forgive their many, many flaws.” She drops her attention back to me again and pushes up the shades, the city of New York sparkling in towers of steel and glass behind her in the sunshine. “I just hope Trey finds someone he loves as much as Turner loves you.”

  I smile back at her.

  “Yeah, well, if he really loved me, would he have encouraged me to come here?”

  I point up at the building as Lola chuckles, her engagement ring glittering as she adjusts her own sunglasses.

  “Oh, come on, you bloody bush pigs, don't we deserve an afternoon out? Can you really complain about having a bunch of snooty assholes wait on you hand and foot while you try on dresses?”

  “So says the woman on her way to a shotgun wedding,” I joke and Lola grins, flipping me off and moving past us toward the glass front doors. As if he's been expecting us, the doorman doesn't even ask who the three women in slutty clothes are, letting us in and directing us to the elevator. The elevator attendant—like rich people can't push a fucking button by themselves—takes us straight up to the boutique and deposits us in a posh waiting room that vaguely reminds me of Turner's hideous mansion. Marble floors, plush couches in gold and white and cream, oil paintings on the walls, vases as tall as I am with palm fronds or some other green shit in them.

  “Welcome, ladies,” a woman says, approaching with a tray of tiny champagne flutes. I take one and toss it back, rep
lacing it with a smirk and finally lifting my own shades off my face. The employee never stops smiling at me, not even when I take out a cigarette and light up.

  “Is it okay if I smoke in here?” I ask.

  “Of course,” the woman says as Lola waves away the champagne glass. “We have an advanced air filtration system, the same kind the biggest Las Vegas casinos use to keep the air fresh. It's not a problem at all. And Miss Saints, don't worry—we've prepared sparkling apple cider for you.”

  She passes the glass over to a very confused looking Lola and whisks the tray back by her side before leading us through the foyer and into the main part of the building.

  The three of us exchange glances.

  “This is going to suck,” I say as Lola's blue eyes sparkle.

  “This is fan-fucking-tastic,” she whispers and then she's moving quickly, her tall purple heels clacking across the floor as Sydney sips her champagne with a contemplative look on her face. Only Lola and I are here to pick out dresses. As far as I know, she and Dax don't have any plans to get hitched anytime soon.

  “You'll try some on with me?” I ask and she gives me a look.

  “Play dress up with twenty thousand dollar designer dresses and not have to clean up after myself? Of course. Come on, cupcake, and we'll find you the perfect white lie to drape over that skanky little body of yours.”

  “I can't believe I let you touch my fiancé's dick,” I say as she wraps her fingers around my wrist and pulls me after Lola. It's in that moment that I really miss Blair. She was one of the first true female friends I ever had. And I know she's not dead, but she's not here and she's not waking up either. The worst part is: I have no idea if her coma is real or orchestrated like mine was.

  “Oh, come on. Like you never wondered what Dax was like in bed?”

  She smirks at me as we listen to the woman discuss options, designers, blah, blah, none of us give two small fucks. At least more champagne is provided, and in my back pocket I feel comfortable knowing there's a teener of coke in case I want it.

  Based on the women in cream colored suits helping us browse the racks, I very well may.

  “What do you think of the Vegas thing?” I ask Lola as she fingers some cream colored lace and gets a little misty eyed. I'm not sure if it's the pregnancy hormones, the loss of her sister, or something else, but I feel like she needs a distraction. “You don't feel cheated or anything? Like, did you ever have fantasies of a certain kind of wedding?”

  “At this point, I'm grateful just to be here, to be given a second chance.” She puts her hand over the pale orange tank she's wearing that says Calm Ya Tits on it, right over her belly. “We could get married in a cardboard box for all I give a shit anymore. I still think Sydney should do it with us though.”

  Sydney just laughs and starts grabbing dresses, tossing them at the attendants without apology. I wonder if they've seen her Tin Dolls cover, read the article, if they know she used to be a stripper or if they'd be this nice if they had.

  I light up another cigarette.

  “A triple wedding, huh?” she asks, pulling out a dress and wrinkling her nose before shoving it back. The next one she grabs, she tosses my way. “I don't know. And anyway, I haven't officially asked Dax to marry me yet.” She winks and points at the white fluff in my hands. “That'll look great on you, honey.”

  “One white dress is much the same as the next to me,” I admit as the woman who first brought us the champagne cringes. “But I'll try it on,” I add with a small sigh, passing it over to her. I'm enjoying Lola's and Sydney's company, even if I don't have a special magic connection to the dresses themselves.

  Inside though, I fucking refuse to admit that I'm a little giddy over the idea of marrying Turner Campbell.

  He's such a dick and a slut and an asshole, but fuck, I love him.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  Subconsciously, I find myself rubbing at the musical notes tattooed onto my forearm. Not one but two drunk tattoos with the same guy. Guess we were made to do stupid things together.

  “Thatta girl,” Sydney says when she sees my expression, handing me a second dress. “You know, you don't have to be so cool all the time. If you want to drop the rockstar persona and squeal and giggle and act like a total girl, I won't tell anyone.”

  “I don't want you to think I'm just a callous bitch,” I start, but Sydney cuts me off again, shaking her head.

  “I don't think that at all. Trust me, I get it. You've been hurt and fucked around and played with for too long not to develop a thick shell. But you know what? You didn't just survive, you conquered. You deserve this. Let yourself be happy, Naomi.”

  “You really are the stripper with a heart of gold, aren't you?” I ask with a small smile.

  “Funny. Real funny,” she says, smacking me in the ass. “Now hurry up and start grabbing dresses. We're not leaving here until you've both got something to wear. If I'm going to marry off two of my boys, I need to make sure their brides look in-fucking-credible.”

  “You made me look a tool,” I tell Ronnie as I lean back and smoke a cigarette, watching him as he texts his parents for updates on his daughter, Lydia. “Ordering that custom ring like that. Now I can't get a custom ring because it'll just look like I'm copying you. And if I get some normal ring, it'll just pale in comparison. You've really backed me into a corner.”

  I point at him with my smoke, but he ignores me, a smile taking over his mouth as Treyjan rolls his eyes at the two of us. I'm back on Indecency's bus, but only because the girls don't want us to see their dresses or some weird supernatural shit or something. Guess it's like bad luck to see the dress before the wedding?

  “You guys are so boring now,” Trey says as he looks up at Jesse for help. “Come on, help me out here, man.”

  “I think it's kind of cute or whatever,” Jesse says as he digs into a tub of ice cream and leans against the counter in the kitchen. “I hope one day I meet a guy that—”

  I chuckle and he stops talking, giving me a mean look.

  “Go ahead. Do it. Make the gay joke.”

  “I don't have a gay joke,” I say as I grab the cup of coffee from the table and sip it slowly. Cigarettes and coffee. One of life's easy pleasures. “I just think it's funny that I've been getting more action from dudes lately than you have.”

  “One kiss with Dax doesn't count as action,” he says with an exaggerated eye roll. “And anyway, how would you know what kind of action I've been getting? You've been on the wrong bus this whole time.”

  “Feels right when I'm buried in my fiancée's tight pussy,” I say with a smirk for Milo's benefit when he ascends the steps onto the bus.

  “Boys,” he says, acknowledging us, looking edgy as hell. These last few months have taken a massive toll on the poor guy. When we get back to LA, I'm hiring him two more assistants and then kicking his out of the country on some tropical vacay or something. I know I always say I'm going to fire his ass, but really, there's no fucking way. “Staying out of trouble, I hope.”

  “We're practically married men now,” I say as Trey sighs dramatically and lays flat on the bench seat, putting his boots up on the cushion next to me, “we're done with trouble. Right, Ronnie?”

  “So …” Milo says, pinching the bridge of his nose, his pale blonde hair falling across his forehead. “The viral video of you and Ms. Knox … um, swinging with Mr. McCann and Ms. Charell is just a fluke?”

  “Swinging?” I ask with a laugh. “That's a good one. I like that. Swinging.”

  “Not to mention the gossip about Mr. McGuire and Ms. Saints … making love against the side of the bus? And then, of course, there's the fact that one of the security guards today was speaking with Torn and Toxic's manager about some bondage game in an alleyway?”

  “Please don't talk about that,” Trey says with a groan. “I will seriously finish what that sniper started and blow my brains out if I have to hear about my sister getting fucked by Turner's boyfriend.”

  “He's
not my goddamn boyfriend,” I say, putting my cigarette out on the bottom of Trey's boot and pausing as the door opens and the man in question shows up dressed in some loose tank with a skeleton on it and a pair of black skinny jeans. “Hey, we were just talking about you.”

  “Do I want to know?” Dax asks as he pauses and looks annoyed as Trey sits up and glares daggers at him. He stares right back and the two of them both end up scowling. “So do you want to do this or what?” he asks as Josh comes out of the bathroom carrying a stupid book that's twice as thick and fat as any book has a right to be. It's probably about unicorns or some shit. That seems to be his thing.

  “Do what?” I ask as Dax slips his hands in his pockets and closes his eyes like he's annoyed with me. Fuck 'im. He can deal. I finish my coffee and start up another cigarette.

  “Shop for … the rings.”

  “Rings?!” Trey asks, rising to his feet so quickly that he shakes the table and sloshes Ronnie's coffee everywhere.

  “Treyjan,” Ronnie says with a warning note in his voice.

  “Dude, hell no. I don't want this guy marrying my sister.” Trey points at him and then looks helplessly down at me. I've been kind of a sucker for him since he got out of the hospital and didn't, like, die or whatever, but I gotta side with the emo douche on this one.

  I slap my palms on the table.

  “Did you see that cover?” I ask and Trey closes his eyes like he's in pain.

  “I saw it. It was fucking gross.”

  “Oh, please,” I tell him, grabbing him by the earlobe, “stop being such a whiner bitch and get your ass ready. I want you to come and help me pick out a ring for my woman.” I flash a grin at him as he bats my hands away and growls at me. “Maybe you can help pick one out for your sister, too?”

  “I'm gonna kick your ass,” he says, pointing at me as I laugh and stretch my arms over my head.

  “Yeah, sure, whatever. You can go ahead and try, but then you're coming with us. Jesse, you want to come, too? I've heard fags are good at like, picking out clothing and stuff. They're supposed to have style.”