Get Hitched (Hard Rock Roots Book 9)

by C. M. Stunich

  “And there it is,” Jesse says as he lifts an arm in my direction. “I knew it was coming. Gee, how could I say no after you were so beautifully offensive and derogatory?”

  “Sweet, thanks bro. Sorry Josh, I'd invite you, but we're not really friends.”

  “Wow, thanks, Turner. That's awfully nice of you,” he says sarcastically, curling up on the couch with his book and cracking it open with one hand.

  “Did you arrange this trip with Brayden Ryker?” Milo asks nervously, adjusting his pale blue tie and looking like he'd rather we didn't go at all. At this point, we're just about as likely to get killed on the bus, in the venue, or at a jewelry store in NYC so it doesn't much matter to me.

  “Actually, yeah,” Dax says as Trey scowls in his direction and crosses his arms over his pink Beauty in Lies t-shirt. I still have no clue who the fuck that band is, but their name is stupid as hell and their lead singer looks like a tool, so fuck 'em. “The girls kicked me off of the other bus, so I figure now's as good a time as any.”

  “Let's do this shit then,” I say as I run my tongue over my lower lip and try not to get too fucking excited about picking out a ring. But hell, even if I do, maybe I can just spin in a circle and let my rigid cock point me in the direction of the right one?

  The question is: what is the right ring for the Goddess of Rock 'n' Roll?

  I think I underestimated how boring jewelry stores really are.

  “Can we just skip this part and have a bachelor party?” Trey asks, like he's about to keel over from boredom. Thing is, whenever he thinks I'm not looking, he starts staring at the rings, really fucking staring at them. He tries to hide it from me, but I know that deep down, he's a romantic little shit.

  “My whole life has been a bachelor party. I am over that crap.”

  “You can't be serious?!” he asks, gawping as I wander over to Dax, the light piano music in the background giving me a headache. If it's not rock 'n' roll, I'm not particularly interested. “Turner, you cannot freaking skip the bachelor party. That's the only part of this whole thing that I'm even excited about.”

  “Trey, shut the fuck up,” I say as the employees stare at us like we're, well, gods.

  I wander over and pause next to Dax. This is our sixth store of the day—the other five were complete busts. On a whim, Dax ended up looking up antique jewelry on his phone and found this weird hole-in-the-wall in Greenwich Village. It's dusty and small, but it's a hell of a lot better than the stuffy Fifth Avenue places we went to first.

  “The fuck is that hideous thing?” I ask as I see what he's holding in his palm.

  Dax gives me a mean look.

  “These are French angelfish,” he tells me which doesn't mean shit. He has a pair of rings in his hands with black and yellow striped fish on them. They are ugly as fuck.

  “The black is hematite and the stripes are yellow tourmaline, placed on a white gold setting. These have actually been dated back to the 18th century. They were passed down by the same family in the New York City area for generations,” the woman behind the counter says, way too excited about her job selling old jewelry.

  “Why would you want to get rings with fish on them?” I ask as Dax sighs and closes his fingers around the rings.

  “French angelfish mate for life,” he says and I raise my eyebrows.

  “So?”

  “And Sydney has a tattoo of them, one on either ankle.”

  A tattoo.

  As soon as he says the word, I know.

  I know what kind of ring I need to get Naomi Knox.

  Our show that night is better than I expected. I've heard that NYC crowds can be a little … lukewarm, like they're too spoiled by all the city has to offer to get really excited about anything. But that's not the case, not for us anyway.

  As I flick sweaty hair off my forehead and snarl and growl my way through our set, I have to fight the urge to invite Naomi on with me. It's what everybody wants to see. They've got signs in their hands with our names written inside hearts, and every night our fans blow up our social media accounts begging for another duet, another impromptu mix-up of the two bands.

  But I'm saving it for our grand finale. Man, I haven't just got a Vegas wedding planned.

  I am Turner Motherfucking Campbell, and I've got so much more. So, so, so much more.

  After the set, I grab Naomi by the arm and pull her aside.

  “We need to get some space to talk about this whole shoot-to-kill bit,” I whisper in her ear, loving the smell of her sweat, the way her loose red tank clings to her body. “I convinced that Irish ginger fuck to send us out in the van for a date.”

  “Oh, is that what this is about? It has nothing to do with actually wanting to get me to go out on a date with you. It's all business.”

  She slides her palm through the air and smiles as she does it, teasing me. Naomi's always in her best moods after a show, that's for fuckin' sure.

  “All business,” I swear, crossing my chest and grinning, “cross my heart and hope to give us both the little death later on tonight.”

  “Aw, how clever. I think I just wet my panties.”

  “Come on, Mrs. Campbell, let's GTFO.”

  I grab her hands and walk backward until we hit the door, moving outside and into the dirty wild briskness of a New York City night. The camera crew is here, of course, trailing us out to Brayden's van and filming us until the door slides closed and cuts us off from their view. As soon as they realize we're not going back to the bus, all hell's going to break loose, but Ryker doesn't let any camera folks onto his vans and doesn't seem particularly inclined to keep them informed as to our whereabouts either.

  I lean into Naomi, curling my fingers around her thigh and pressing my mouth to her ear.

  “Are you sure we shouldn't tell him about the note?” I ask and she gives me a look, like I'm the last person that would be on that stupid fucker's side.

  See, the thing is, I'm terrified. For one of the first times in my life, I'm actually nervous about the outcome to a situation. That's not to say I wasn't scared as a kid when my mama came at me with fists flying, when I had to get the broken compact mirror from her bathroom and hold it up to her lips so I could see her breath fog against it, so that I'd know she was still alive. I was scared then, when my stepdaddies tried to get me and I hid in the bathroom, when the police came and left the trailer without doing a damn thing. But back then, I didn't care enough about myself to be truly worried about what might happen. I could get hurt; I could die; I could get raped.

  Doesn't compare to how I feel about Naomi. Not even close.

  So, I might not like Brayden Ryker—like, at all—but I'll involve his ass if I have to. Anything to keep this woman in front of me safe.

  “I don't know,” is her response, the only one she's been giving me since that night. I don't think she's lying or planning anything behind my back, but I think she's just as scared, as nervous as I am. Though she'd probably die before admitting to it. “Turner.”

  Naomi pauses a moment and studies the men in the front seat. The Amazon woman is behind us, Raelia or whatever her name is, but I don't think they can hear us. She turns back to me and cuddles close. I don't have to wonder if she's just trying to give us privacy or if she really wants to touch me. I know she does. It's there in her eyes, in the shape of her full mouth, the way her heart beats fiercely against my chest as we embrace.

  “Paulette is going to kill me, Turner. And we don't know when or if Brayden Ryker is going to step in.” She sighs and her breath stirs my hair, my hand tracing slow circles on her lower back. “It's not like I'm not aware of the risks, but I killed her sister. Whatever she has planned for me, it's not puppies and kittens cute, Turner.”

  Naomi sits back and we spend several quiet moments just staring at each other.

  I reach up and brush some loose tangled strands of blonde behind her ear.

  This is the kind of moment I've never had with any other girl, this quiet companionship, this
reading of one another's facial expressions. Actually, it's pretty fucking awesome.

  The van drops us off at this shitty little hole-in-the-wall that sells the most random shit: gourmet pizza and cupcakes. It's all colorful and artsy and the sort of place that only survives in a city as big as New York, feeding on a customer niche that might be small in percentage but is big in terms of actual people.

  The tiny one room restaurant is packed.

  But … I just told you: I'm Turner Campbell.

  I can get a table anywhere.

  Pizza and cupcakes. Sounds like the sort of place with a counter and a chalkboard, but this is a real sit-down kind of a joint.

  “Grease and Sugar?” Naomi asks, wrinkling up her nose but smiling.

  “Bonus track,” I tell her, pointing next door at the bustling corner bar, “there's a watering hole within walking distance.”

  “I have the distinct expression you're trying to butter me up for something. I did already agree to marry you, you know. You can start acting like a dick again.”

  “Me?” I ask with faux shock and another grin. “Like I'm ever an asshole to you.”

  I hold the door open and we squeeze inside, pausing at the hostess station as I drum my fingers on the wood surface and smile as a woman in a red and white gingham dress pauses in front of us, her hair slicked back, shiny black oval earrings dangling from either ear.

  I don't have to say a fucking word before her face is lighting up like the Christmas bulbs my mama kept up around the trailer year round, until they burnt out one by one and never lit up again. What kind of fucked-up metaphor do you think that is?

  “Oh my God, you're—”

  “On a date,” I supply with a smile, standing up and putting my arm around Naomi's waist. She doesn't fight me when I go to touch her now. Well, I mean, not as often anyway. She is still Naomi Isabelle Knox, right? “Hey, baby cakes, do you think you could get us a table?”

  Naomi roll her eyes at me, fully dressed in rockstar chic with her black leather pants, loose red tank, and red heels. I know that pretty much every guy in here is either looking at her or is gayer than Jesse Decker. Because no red-blooded man could resist this woman.

  “Um, yeah, absolutely,” the hostess gushes and then she's rushing off and clearing the dishes from a small round table in the corner.

  “Is this going to turn out like that Denny's trip?” Naomi asks as she glances over at me. “Are we going to have to run for our lives down the city streets? Because if so, remind me to remove my heels first. These fucking stilettos get caught in every sidewalk crack, every storm drain grate. Even if there's a good chance I'll catch a disease from touching the pavement with my bare feet, I'll take the risk.”

  “Hey, everything's going to work out fine tonight. We're going to have pizza and fucking cupcakes, grab a drink at the bar, and then you'll see what I've really got planned for you, baby.”

  “I don't trust you as far as I can throw you,” she says, but when I lean in to kiss her, her lips are receptive and warm and her hands come up, fingers curling under the waistband of my jeans. My body reacts to the touch, muscles tightening, shaft thickening until I seriously debate ending the night right here just so we can get back in the van and fuck.

  “Table's ready,” the hostess says with a smile, guiding us over to the black and white checkered bistro table and dropping a pair of menus in the center. “Your waitress will be right with you.”

  As she leaves, I pull out Naomi's chair for her and scoot her in.

  “So you're being gentlemanly tonight, are you?” she asks, leaning an elbow on the table and smiling coyly at me. “I think I see where this is going.”

  “Guess and I'll give you an hour long VJ without complaining.”

  I smirk and Naomi raises her brows at me.

  “Make it two hours of full tongue cunnilingus and you've got yourself a deal.”

  “But if you're wrong, two hours worth of no complaint BJs, spread out over as many sessions as it takes to hit the full one hundred and twenty minutes.”

  “You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Campbell,” Naomi says as she drags her menu close and grins at me. “Fine. Is this about a ring?”

  I swear to god, my jaw drops.

  “How the fuck did you know that?” I ask, startling our waitress as she pauses next to our table.

  “Can we two get cokes?” Naomi asks, biting her lip as the woman nods and moves away. My fiancée's gaze swings back in my direction, her grin devolving into a mischievous smirk. “I knew it,” she says as she sits back and crosses her arms behind her head, just as much cocky swagger in that movement as I have in my own when I slouch and cross my arms over my chest.

  “Who told you?” I ask as I gesture at her with my chin. “Was it the Little Drummer Boy? Just because he bought ugly rings with fish on them and is probably having some seriously rough buyer's remorse doesn't mean he has to rain on our parade.”

  “Dax bought rings with fish on them?” Naomi asks, cute as hell when she wrinkles up her nose. “Why the fuck would he do that?”

  “I don't know, some tale about aquamarine monogamy or some shit.” I wave my hand dismissively and shrug my shoulders. “Doesn't matter. Point is: did that little fucker tell you?”

  “He didn't tell me shit,” Naomi says, smirking again. It looks like this whole date bit is working. For the first time in days, she looks almost relaxed, black metal bracelets sliding along her arm as she drops her hands to the table and fiddles with the menu. “I just … I knew you wouldn't ask me to marry you without a ring. You're too … I don't know, stupidly romantic.”

  “Stupidly romantic, huh?” I ask, putting a cigarette between my lips but not lighting up. If I do, there's either a chance that they'll let me get away with it because, you know, I'm a goddamn rockstar, or they'll ask me to put it out and I'll have to make a scene. Either way draws attention to us, and all I want right now is to order a sausage and pepperoni pizza, a pair of chocolate cupcakes, and sit in a bustling New York restaurant with my girl. “Seems to me it must be working since, you know, you did agree to marry me and all that.” I tap my knuckles on the table. “Tell me about the dress.”

  “Not a chance in hell,” she says, still smirking. “Show me the ring.”

  “Well,” I start as the waitress pops by with our drinks, takes our order and then retreats with this feral gleam in her eye that says news of our arrival will soon be spreading, “I don't exactly have a ring per se.”

  Naomi raises her blonde brows.

  “We're picking one out together?” she asks, but I just shake my head.

  “Patience, Knox, patience,” I purr as I run my foot up the smooth line of her leather bound calf. “Let's eat, grab some drinks and then I'll tell you my plan. I have a feeling you might need to be a little lubed up for it to fit.”

  I wink at her and she rolls her eyes again.

  “Funny, Turner,” she says with a soft smile, “real funny.”

  I reach out and take her hand in my tattooed one, sliding my fingers to the pulse in her wrist and resting them there until I can feel the steady thump of her heart.

  It's racing.

  “That's for you,” she tells me honestly, no bullshit, no sarcasm, “just for you.”

  Our eyes meet across the table and I feel my own pulse pick up, thumping just as fast, racing just as wildly. When we lean forward and kiss, I swear I can hear the gods playing a soft, easy rock ballad just for us.

  And I will goddamn kill you if you tell anyone I had that fucking gay ass thought.

  After we eat, Naomi and I slip out of the crowded restaurant before a mob descends on us. We already had to put up with a few stray fans stopping to ask for autographs and pictures, but once we get to the dark hazy bar next door, it feels like a cloak of anonymity is slipping over our shoulders.

  Low grungy rock plays in the background as I open up a tab and start us off with beers, carrying the bottles over to a square table covered in old band flyers. They're
stuck to the surface like someone's either glued them there or they've just adhered to the sticky table over time, stale beer and gum and sweat causing the pages to cling like they've been pasted there.

  “I want to know about my ring,” Naomi says as she finishes off her first beer and scoots her chair closer to me, draping her legs over my lap and staring into my face in that way of hers. God, when she looks at me like that, I can't seem to resist giving her whatever she wants.

  I fucking try though, I do.

  I want this shit to be a surprise.

  “Have a few drinks and you'll find out,” I promise, but god, after I get us another couple rounds, her mouth is all over my ear, sucking at the black plugs in my lobes and I cannot even fucking think clearly. The alcohol in my system is just buzzy enough that my head feels light and my tongue loose, but it's not enough to obscure or cloud the moment. I won't let it, not this time, not on this night.

  “Come with me and maybe I can convince you to spill the beans,” she says, dragging me from my chair and over to the bathroom.

  “What's with you and me and bathrooms?” I growl as she shoves the door open and pulls me inside, locking the deadbolt behind us. I know what we're in here for, but I'm not about to tell her that no matter what she does to me right now, I'm not spilling our secret.

  I check my phone real quick and see that we have just enough time for a nasty little quickie before our appointment at the tattoo shop.

  It's just a few doors down from here. The owner and I have been texting since I came up with this idea at the antique jewelry place. She drew up some designs and I tweaked 'em until they were just right. I only hope Naomi agrees to this whole thing or I'm going to look like a serious fucking tool.

  She goes for my jeans, but I stop her, pushing her body back to the tiny square of counter and sink, lifting her up onto the edge. This night is for her, not me. Although maybe I am a little crazy for turning down a blow job.

  Those orange-brown eyes watch me carefully as I unbutton her pants, leaning in to kiss her, this hot heaviness settling between us as I sliiiiide the zipper down and then peel the leather over her ass.