Addicted: A Secret Baby Romance (Rebel Saints MC)

by Zoey Parker

  I wake up a hundred times, and fall back asleep a hundred more. Each time, hovering in half-wakefulness, I see her. Raven hair draped over me like a blanket, crimson lips curled in a secret half-smile. My last night. The woman whose name I still don’t know.

  Each time, I drift back off.

  Until one time I extend my arm into nothingness.

  Cold. The spot on the mattress where she lay is cold. She’s gone.

  I stretch, sit up, listen. For the sound of the faucet, footsteps, anything. But the motel room is as silent as a tomb.

  The bathroom door is closed. No light is coming out the bottom.

  I get up and open it, stare into the dingy, untouched-looking box. There’s no sign of her. Not a trace. It’s as if she never existed at all.

  Back in the room, everything else is similarly untouched: the leaning hulk of the cabinet, the somber sunset painting that looks more like an ode to pollution than anything. Even the front door mat is parallel to the door, not askew in the slightest.

  No, there’s no denying it. She’s gone, and I may never see her again.

  I fling open the door and storm outside.

  A woman further down the balcony takes another drag of her cigarette, while her open robe trembles in the breeze.

  Shit, I love my life, but sometimes….

  I get out my phone and remember. I can’t text Hannah.

  She’s not going to be answering me anytime soon.

  Still, my fingers dial her number before my brain can think better of it.

  The hopeless rings echo down the balcony hallway.

  It’s just been a week. A week since that horrible omen of a text and no sign of her.

  I jam my phone to silent, shove it in my back pocket. I can’t take any more of it, any more of those mocking rings.

  Leaning on the balcony railing, I stare out into the highway wasteland before me, everything in a gray, molasses-like motion. A waft of smoke from the woman further down the balcony throws a tempting finger in my face.

  I shake my head to get rid of the smell.

  No. No way. I quit smoking a year ago for Hannah, and I’m not about to start up again now.

  I go back inside.

  On the bed, staring at the wall, I inhale, then exhale. There.

  I’m fine now. I won’t go back there, to my twenties, all of it a haze of girls, money and drugs. After Mom died, I almost went over the edge.

  No, there’s no going back.

  I get out my phone, then put it away again.

  Hannah was the one who got me out of those dark days, the only reason I’m still here today.

  I see her at the edge of the bed now, her eyes wide with the solemnity of her words, “You can’t keep doing this, Gabe. You’ll die and I don’t know what I’ll do without you.”

  “I don’t know what to do without you, Hannah,” I murmur to myself.

  I get out my phone again, call Pip.

  “Hey Boss,” he says in that strange high-pitched shrill I can never believe belongs to the bulky beast of a man.

  Most people look at me like I’m on crack when I tell them he’s the tech guy and Jaws is the hit guy.

  “Hey Pip. Can you run another scan on Hannah’s phone?”

  “Sure thing,” he says, “Just a sec.”

  His “sec” is actually a few minutes of heart-pounding waiting before he says, “Sorry.”

  While the last of my hope works its way out of me, burrowing out my toes into the orange shag I’m standing on, Pip continues, “Same as before, Boss. Her phone’s still off. I can’t get any sort of trace on it.”

  “Yeah, yeah, it’s fine,” I say, my hand lifting the phone away from my ear, my thumb reaching to the screen, ready to hang up.

  But I don’t and neither does he.

  For some reason, I can’t bear the thought of hanging up and facing this dismal room and this Hannah-less world alone.

  “Hey Boss?” Pip says after a minute.

  “Yeah?”

  “What about her friends, her boyfriend, her neighbors?”

  I stare into the gloom. I don’t want to admit it. That I’ve avoided asking around, checking in. Because then it means the crisis is real.

  “I can help,” Pip continues, “But today you have a meeting with Jaws.”

  “Right, thanks Pip. I almost forgot. Tell him I’ll be at the usual place in thirty minutes.”

  “Ok,” he says, and I hang up.

  It doesn’t take long for me to pack up my things. Coming in last night, I barely had time to put my bag down, let alone put my stuff anywhere.

  I brush my teeth, sweeping the vibrating bristles over my top teeth for 100 seconds, then my bottom for 100 more. Just like Momma taught me.

  Momma.

  My reflection in the mirror sags.

  It’s been almost four years and still, most times it returns to me as a hit to the gut.

  Now it’s even worse.

  “Always take care of your sister, Gabe my boy. Protect her.” Those were her last words to me. Not “I love you,” because I knew that already, not even “Be careful” because she knew me too well. No, my mom used her last words for what was most important: family.

  What would she say now that Hannah is all but confirmed missing?

  When I lean over the bedside table to pick up my wallet I see it. Tucked behind my wallet. A note. A phone number.

  416-747-1111.

  My hand grasps it, and a smile slinks onto my face.

  No fucking way.

  But there’s no other explanation. It has to be hers.

  I tuck both in my back pocket. Maybe it’s just me, but the room looks a little lighter now.

  ###

  As soon as I walk in, I see him. Jaws, waiting in our usual spot with his usual mountain of Rainbow Sherbet.

  While I head for the end of the long cash line, Jaws gives me a glinting grin.

  In the line ahead of me, two ponytailed girls’ stares slide from my incongruous friend to equally incongruous me.

  I smirk.

  Being an albino, I got used to people’s stares around the age of five. But as far as Jaws is concerned, I always forget how striking a figure the crazy bastard is. Especially in a pinky family-friendly establishment like Baskin Robbins of all places.

  Toothpick-skinny with glued-on looking muscles, Jaws is basically a cross between an action figure and a crack addict.

  The forest of gelled spikes on his head probably doesn’t help. All this, with sea green eyes, virtually no lips and a mouthful of braces, makes for an interesting time with any potential clients.

  I throw another look back at Jaws, who’s now entirely immersed in ice cream ecstasy. From here, the bulk of the gun in his jean pocket is still visible.

  Yeah, he may look like a Dragon Ball Z character, but Jaws is the best there is.

  By the time I make it back there with my cone of Very Berry Strawberry, Jaws is all finished his Rainbow Sherbet and ready to talk business.

  “So,” he says, smoothing out his rainbow-smeared napkin on the table, “the Piccolos.”

  I nod, and through a strawberry spoonful, repeat, “The Piccolos.”

  He picks up the napkin and speaks to it, “So they stole another shipment, right up under our noses. Turns out they bought out Kyle a few months back.”

  I take an extra big bite, glaring at the napkin myself.

  “That bastard.”

  Jaws shrugs, throws the napkin into a sweeping gesture of dismissal.

  “That’ll be water under the bridge when you hear what I’ve got planned.”

  I lean in.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah, we want to completely put them down, right?”

  I shrug, avoid his eager gaze. His excitement is contagious. And dangerous.

  “I don’t know man. I think we should just hit the Piccolos back harder. Steal their next shipment. Maybe take out a few of them while we’re at it. So they get that we’re not ones to be trifled
with. So they back off.”

  I shake my head, continue, “I’m not sure I want a full-out war. Not yet.”

  Jaws nods, then shakes his head.

  “I don’t know, Boss. You remember how they responded to trying to talk it out.”

  He self-consciously scratches at his neck, at the angry gash from the last of those talks.

  I stab my spoon into the soft body of strawberry with an added vigor.

  Ah yes, I remember all too well.

  How we’d finally gotten them to agree to a sit-down. How we were going to divvy up areas, girls, stop the feud, figure out a win-win solution. How they tricked us, decided they’d use all of us as target practice instead.

  They’d apparently changed their minds last minute, decided they’d rather use Jaws and his men as target practice instead.

  I inhale, then exhale.

  Letting my temper get the best of me could be fatal. An all-out war would be bloody, and I don’t want to put my family and friends in any more danger than I have to.

  Jaws folds his napkin slowly, studiously. Once it’s as small as it can get, he says, “Just hear me out, ok?”

  I nod, and he continues, “So I’m thinking – I’m thinking we won’t get many chances when they’re caught unawares, surprised. I’m thinking we throw them for a complete loop, you got me?”

  I nod, and he continues, “Problem is the whole clan sticks to that big old house like it’s their jail. Not to mention we don’t even know what kind of fish we’re dealing with as far as Toni Piccolo goes.”

  I frown.

  “Still no word on who he is?”

  Jaws shakes his head.

  “Nope. He’s as good as a ghost, and our sources can’t get shit on him.”

  I shrug, and he continues, “So we need a time when they’re separated – when we can hit them where it hurts. So hard that they won’t be able to get back up again, yeah?”

  I take a big spoonful to hide my smile. I like where this is going, but I’m not about to change my mind.

  “So, I’m thinking – big old Papa Piccolo’s getting pretty long in the tooth. There’s been more doctors in and out of there than girls in your bed.”

  I punch his arm.

  “I’ve been slowing down, you know.”

  Jaws gives another glinty grin and waves the napkin again.

  “Be that as it may, main thing is – the evil old bastard is dying. It’s only a matter of time before he croaks entirely.”

  “So?” I say, “And then Toni Piccolo steps up as the official head of the family. Toni Piccolo – the guy who could be anyone for as much as we know about how he looks. How does the old guy dying help us?”

  Jaws is unfolding the napkin.

  “So, I’m thinking, when the whole sad Piccolo family is at the very sad funeral boohooing over Papa Piccolo, that’s when we do it. That’s when we strike.”

  I grin, but Jaws is focused on the napkin, unfolding parts and refolding others.

  “We blow up their house. Then we wait nearby and shoot a few coming home in the chaos. Maybe even take out Toni Piccolo himself if we’re lucky.”

  Jaws lifts the napkin, which he has somehow folded into the shape of a person. His gaze flicking to mine, his smirk spreading over his face, in one rapid motion he rips it in half.

  As the severed halves fall to the table, I punch Jaws on the arm again.

  “Fuck you’re good.”

  His brace grin still wide, Jaws rises.

  “This calls for another Rainbow Sherbet.”

  He goes to the now lineless front counter, and returns a minute later with what looks like four scoops.

  “I’m hungry,” he tells my stupefied look.

  Then, taking a big bite, he adds, “You know they have Baskin Robbins PJ shorts for chicks now, yeah?”

  I take a final bite of my own, shake my head.

  “No way.”

  He nods.

  “Yeah way, they have ones for Cherries Jubilee, Orange Cheesecake. I’m gonna get Tinsley to wear the Rainbow Sherbet ones for my birthday.”

  “Jesus Jaws,” I say, laughing.

  I’m not sure if I’m amused or weirded out by the image of his Rosie O’Donnell-esque girlfriend decked out in Rainbow Sherbet boxers.

  After a particularly big bite, Jaws shoots me a significant sidelong look.

  I shake my head.

  “I don’t know man. I’m still not sold on this plan of yours. I want to send the Piccolos a message they won’t soon forget, but I feel like that might be going too far. They have allies of their own too.”

  But Jaws can see the excitement in my face even as I deny him.

  He grins orangey pink teeth back then, not missing a beat, adds, “Well Boss, you still have some time to decide. I give the old man three weeks, tops. Three weeks and, if we go with the plan, we’re gonna have a monopoly on the trafficking business. Three weeks and we’re gonna be as good as Gods.”

  Chapter 6

  Toni

  Everyone knows the moment I’m home. No sooner have I closed the front door then out comes Jane racing and Carlos stumbling.

  As I pet Jane’s sleek gray head, I glare at Carlos.

  Figures the one morning I’m late getting home, he’s actually awake, although as hungover as ever if his red-rimmed eyes are any indication.

  He lingers on the top of the staircase. Then he totters down a few steps before righting himself with a palm to one of the golden roses on our walls.

  “You never came home.”

  His voice contains all his irritation at not knowing something, not being head of the family, and being my half-brother at all.

  I slip off a shoe, and address the other one.

  If I take in his disheveled self-righteousness I’m not going to be able to hold my temper.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  Carlos stumbles down another few steps, sending Jane into a flurry of barks.

  I pull her back by the leash.

  “Jane,” I scold her, though I’m secretly pleased.

  She’s the only one who hates Carlos more than I do. She can probably smell the corruption on him.

  “Dumb dog,” Carlos mutters.

  I take off the other shoe and, as I’m striding to the kitchen, Jane trotting alongside me, he says, “You never answered the question.”

  I stop, consider continuing walking. But Carlos and his insolent question will just follow me to the kitchen, follow me out of the house even.

  He’ll use any excuse he can to cause conflict. Ever since the words, “Toni’s taking over the family business until I’m better” came out of our father’s mouth I’ve seen the hunger in his eyes. The hunger for power.

  I turn to face him, while Carlos stumbles down the rest of the steps and strides up to me. He stops an inch away, glaring into my eyes insolently.

  There’s a cut on his lip and suddenly, I’m filled with a strange sort of pity for him, this incompetent try-hard who’s my brother.

  I almost feel like telling him, explaining it to him. That I don’t want this any more than he does, that I’m just trying to honor our father’s wish.

  But the longer I stare into those cold, unfeeling coals of eyes, the clearer it is. There’s no understanding there, no mercy. Carlos wouldn’t understand.

  No, in his snarled lower lip there is only resentment.

  He would take my admission, my weakness – and use it to rip me apart. No, I can’t give him an inch.

  I turn my back on him, head to the kitchen and, over my shoulder, say, “Have you forgotten who’s in charge here?”

  My question hangs in the silence.

  “Madame left her scarf,” a familiar voice says.

  I turn around.

  It’s our nanny, Maria Fernanda, standing in front of Carlos, her hand extended. Out of it snakes a sheen of green.

  My eyes meet Carlos’ in immediate understanding.

  He rips the scarf out of her hand.

  “You dumb b
itch, I told you not to say anything!”