Addicted: A Secret Baby Romance (Rebel Saints MC)

by Zoey Parker

  Gabriel stands beside me, his body pressing against me, watching the sunrise like me, saying nothing.

  He understands. For this, there are no words.

  Chapter 37

  Toni – Six Months Later

  When I get the text from him, I feel a shiver of anticipation.

  “Tonight, at Donatello restaurant.”

  The whole week, Gabe has been acting weird and won’t tell me what’s up.

  The last time I saw him was three days ago. That’s the longest since six months ago, after the Piccolo house showdown and we started seeing each other regularly.

  Still, my only response to this eagerly-awaited text is, “Ok.”

  I’ll grill him when we’re in person, but I to see him first.

  It’s only 1 pm, but it’s not like I have anything to distract me. I stepped down as head of the Piccolos a few months ago, after I’d built up our wind turbine empire against all odds. The position went to one of my cousins: Ricardo – a good man who promised to continue my work.

  I’m still trying to figure out what I want to do now.

  So, the rest of the afternoon is eaten up by that text too – just one long, scary preparation for tonight. Pretty much every dress in my closet gets tried on, from the very obviously inappropriate neon pink maxi to my very obviously equally inappropriate see-through black bodycon dress.

  And yet, no dress seems quite right: too short, too long, too conservative, too slutty – not good enough, in a word. Every new gown fills me with the same dread.

  When I finally do choose a dress (a black and blue sequined one, chosen out of exhaustion more than anything), it’s my makeup that gives me grief.

  Out of the swathes of shadows I smear on, none seem to work – the black is too dark, the blue too light. The navy eyeliner is too thick, while the charcoal one is barely there.

  As I glare at the twelfth makeup incarnation of myself, I realize I’m literally staring the truth in the face: The problem isn’t the dresses or the makeup. It’s me.

  I’m too nervous to make a decision, too nervous to hardly think.

  Until I find out what’s going on tonight, I’m not going to be good for much.

  When I finally leave, it’s an hour early so I can get out of the house.

  A few steps out of the door and I already regret my smoky eye, but don’t turn back.

  Now that I’m out there’s no going back. The fresh air is good, refreshing, just what I need.

  The neighborhood is nice too, full of shops and apartment buildings and people that look reasonably happy. As I shuffle by, they smile at me uncomprehendingly. I don’t blame them. The sun is shining, the sky is blue, why am I terrified out of my mind?

  The answer comes in a flash of memory: Sobeys, Jaws with a ham in hand, with a red face after he blurts out the words, “Guess you know Anya’s in town,” the spiky-haired back of his head as he fled.

  Clearly, Gabriel told Jaws that he told me about Anya, his ex, months ago.

  My encounter with Jaws was yesterday, and today I’m going to find out just what’s going on.

  I inhale the fresh air, savor it, then, finally, exhale.

  There’s no way Gabe could be cheating on me, is there? After six months of non-stop seeing each other, dates galore, and now, after all this, he’s tired of me?

  On a bench outside of Dairy Queen, there’s a little girl clutching a Dilly Bar, staring at me with accusing eyes.

  I shake my head at her, murmur “No” to myself.

  Gabe loves me. He’s never given me any reason to doubt him. Until now, that is.

  The next hour passes as one nerve-racking walk, one blur of buildings that are not Donatello, of people remarkable only in that they are not him. My Gabriel.

  By the time I reach Donatello’s grey slate exterior, I feel neither better nor worse.

  Relief is what washes over me as I walk through the dark wooden doors.

  Now, finally, I’m going to find out what’s going on.

  The maître d’s thin mustache bends as he smiles.

  I smile shyly back.

  “Hi, I’m…”

  “Toni,” he says with a thick Italian accent, “Of course, come with me.”

  His glossy shoes pass from one lush red carpet to another. This new room is beautiful: with somber lighting that makes the dark redwood tables and gold-tipped wine glasses gleam, while the pyramids of napkins point me onward. It’s only as I get to the back room and, in it, see Gabriel in a dazzling suit, that I realize the whole restaurant is empty.

  He rises and pulls a chair back, gestures for me to sit down. I do.

  The maître d’ whisks away just as I turn to him.

  I direct my questioning gaze to Gabriel, but he just sits down across from me, takes my hand and smiles.

  “It’s been hard not seeing you these past few days.”

  I open my mouth to yell at him, to ask him, to beg him, but he just lays a finger across my lips, says, “Shhhh.”

  Our gazes meet, then his breaks away, shifts to the picture behind me.

  It’s of a woman, her golden body morphing into the golden background, her whole head a sunburst. Her back is to the viewer. That’s how I feel, how I’ve felt these past few days: though it’s Gabriel’s broad back I’m behind and, no matter how I tap his shoulder, he won’t turn around.

  Even now he’s avoiding my gaze.

  A clink on the table reveals that the maître d’ is back, has put two wine glasses on the table, into which, with a rhythmic swaying of his hand, he’s pouring wine.

  When I turn to thank him, he’s already halfway out the door, gone as quickly and quietly as he came.

  When I turn back, Gabriel’s lifting his drink in a toast, declaring, “To the most beautiful woman alive.”

  When we clink glasses, his gaze has already shifted, back to the woman in the painting.

  It’s silly, sad, being jealous of a painted figure, a woman who’s not even real. And yet, this is what I’ve come to.

  I put my glass down without drinking.

  This ends now; I’m going to ask him.

  “Gabriel,” I say, “What’s going on?”

  Still he won’t look at me. His face is expressionless; all his emotion is in his strangled voice, “Can’t we just… enjoy this?”

  He takes my hand, and I rip it away.

  “No, no I can’t enjoy this, I can’t enjoy anything. Not when something’s wrong and you won’t tell me what.”

  His hand still in the gesture it was clasping mine with, Gabriel is silent for a moment.

  Then he says, “I can't tell you. Not now.”

  His face – hell, his whole body is in on it too. Is neither relaxed nor tense, calm nor worried – reveals nothing.

  This silence is waiting, him waiting for what I’ll do, me waiting for the same.

  I don’t know until I’m halfway up, until I’ve swept across the room to the door.

  Before I can stride through it, Gabriel has grabbed my arm. I wrench myself away, but his grip holds.

  I don’t turn to him. I speak to the empty luxuriant room before me.

  “Let me go Gabriel. Let me go. I’m going.”

  “Be reasonable, Toni.”

  I twist around to say my words to his face, “I am being reasonable. I’m not stupid. I know something’s going on. I know your old girlfriend is in town. I know, ok?”

  Gabriel stares at me evenly for a minute. Amusement flickers over his face, and, with my free hand, I slap him.

  Shocked, we both gape at each other. Then Gabe frowns, rubs his cheek.

  “What was that for?”

  “For not taking me seriously,” I say huffily.

  Now he lays his hand on my cheek, but gently, only his fingertips grazing my skin.

  “Oh Toni,” he says wistfully, “If only you knew.”

  I twist my head away.

  “You’re not making any sense.”

  He puts his hand on my shoulder.
<
br />   “So, you love me then?”

  I shrug him off, whirl around, glare into his eyes.

  “Of course, I love you. Why are you saying these things? Why aren’t you making any sense?”

  Gabriel shakes his head dumbly, his eyes locked on mine, searching mine, as if testing for the truth of my words.

  Finally, he sighs, says, “Alright Toni, you win.”

  He takes my hand, leads me back to my chair, pulls it out.

  I stare at it, don’t sit, say, “So you’ll tell me now? Tell me everything?”

  He nods, and I sit down. He sits down across from me.

  Then he claps his hands.

  A few seconds, the maître d’ is back.

  “Yes monsieur?”

  “The book please.”

  He nods then leaves.

  I stand up.

  “Toni, what are you doing?” he asks.

  “Gabriel, I don’t want any more games. I want the truth.”

  Gabriel doesn’t move.

  “Toni,” he says, “That’s exactly what I’m getting you, if you’ll wait one second.”

  I pause.

  The maître d’ passes me and hands Gabriel the book.

  He turns to me.

  “Does Madame need anything?”

  “No, she was just going to look at the book. Thank you,” Gabriel says.

  He gets up, walks in front of me, hands me the book. His body barring the way, he says, “Please Toni. Just open it. Open it and everything will be explained.”

  I throw a suspicious gaze at Gabe, then return my attention to the book. It’s has a beautiful red and gold binding, with gold-tipped pages. I open it.

  Inside it’s hollow, and, on a red pillow, there’s a gorgeous gold ring.

  I gasp.

  “Toni,” Gabe says.

  He’s down on one knee, taking the ring in his palm. Finally, he is looking at me, speaking the words the expression on his face is already saying, “Toni, my love, my light, my darling angel. As soon we met, I knew there was something different about you. Something remarkable. I’ve met many women and known many people, but none of them have come even close to moving me how you do. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. You’re funny, irreverent, passionate, outspoken, beautiful, and I love every part of you. Every time I see you it’s never enough. I miss you even when you’re here, even when you’ve gone to the bathroom or are talking to a friend. It’s ridiculous and I can’t help it. I love you more than words can express. You are my best friend and my sexy lover and my favorite person in the world. I’ve never been anywhere near this happy, and there’s only one way you can make me even happier.”

  He raises his hand with the ring.

  “Toni, will you do me the incredible honor of being my wife?”

  I gape at Gabe, at the tear-filled eyes of the man I’ve never seen cry, at the trembling hand of the courageous fighter I’ve never seen afraid.

  I gaze at the ring, the stunning, ornate, vintage-looking waves of rose gold with little flowers embedded in it, the gleaming cylinder of diamond.

  I take his other hand, and a hysterical laugh escapes out of my lips, along with the words, “Yes! Oh God, of course yes Gabe!”

  He seizes me and spins me around, spins me round and round and round, as we both cry out laughter.

  Then we grasp hands and race through the restaurant, past the goggle-eyed maître d’, past the empty tables (that now suddenly make sense), back into our room.

  When he finally puts me down, both of us out of breath, I lower my hand and spread my fingers.

  Gabriel slips on the ring slowly.

  Or maybe everything is happening slow-motion because I want it to, because I want to savor this moment, this beautiful sweet moment as the beaming man I love slips this symbol of his love on my shaking finger.

  When it’s on, he looks up at me, rises, takes my face in his hands and kisses me.

  We kiss and all of me fuses into him. We kiss and I relax into it, into this man who is mine. Who is here for me and always will be.

  Chapter 38

  Rehearsal Dinner: Gabriel

  Crazy how time flies.

  Seems just yesterday that Il was slipping the ring on Toni’s lithe finger, turning all her fear into joy. Seems just yesterday that we were sitting down with our domineering wedding planner, arguing about venues and dates, about how I want to have a best man but Toni doesn’t want a maid of honor.

  But it has been six months now, and our wedding is tomorrow. Tonight is the rehearsal dinner.

  As our limo takes us to the church, I repeat the words to myself in my head, unable to quite believe them: My wedding is tomorrow. Tonight is the rehearsal dinner.

  Toni squeezes my hand.

  “I love you,” she says.

  The limo has a mirror ceiling revealing a secret view of the cleavage of my wife-to-be, a cup-holder for roses for my wife-to-be, and the woman herself.

  God, is she beautiful.

  Even in her “lazy” satin tracksuit, red top and bottom, I can’t help but kiss her.

  Seems a second later that the limo door is opening and we have to separate and leave.

  Her hand in mine is a nice consolation as we walk through the church doors.

  Still, I glide into the church seeing nothing but her, her red-lipped smile, her mocha eyes. Once inside the church, however, my sight returns.

  Pip was right to recommend Saint Xavier Francis College Church.

  Magnificent. That’s the first word that comes to mind when gazing upon the masterpiece before me. The rest is only feelings, sights: the sky-high domed ceiling - awe, the host of column-supported arches along the sides – wonder, the dance of colors on the stained-glass windows - gratitude. Everywhere I look is another exquisite detail, another expertly rendered gargoyle, another stained-glass window so vibrantly incredible that I force myself to look away.

  A hand on my back. Toni, smiling.

  “It’s amazing, isn’t it?”

  I nod, still not tearing my gaze away from an expertly-carved angel near the altar.

  “The pictures didn’t do it justice.”

  She pats my back, says softly, “The priest wants to begin, Gabe.”

  I glance at her, then turn around to find our entire wedding party waiting.

  For a minute, I gape at them, my gaze sliding from Hannah’s glowing rosy face, to Carlos’ surly one, to Maria Fernanda’s shy smile, Pulse’s skeletal smirk and Jaws’ ear-to-ear grin.

  I hadn’t even realized that they were there.

  “Pip told us to shut it,” Jaws says by way of explanation.

  Everyone laughs, and a man in a Hawaiian t-shirt and sandals walks up to us.

  “Great, so everybody’s here. Let’s begin.”

  I eye him uncomprehendingly, and, with a patient smile, he explains, “I’m Father O’Mally. We spoke on the phone.”

  “Oh,” I find myself saying.

  I shoot a glance at Toni, who’s clearly as unaware as I am that this quirky man is the priest.

  Father O’Mally scratches his beard, scans the lot of us.

  “Not too many bridesmaids or bridegrooms,” he says, then grins, raising his eyebrows.

  “Good, this’ll be nice and easy.”

  He walks to the end of the room, hands behind his back in a gesture of repose. Returning to us in the same pose, he spread his arms, says, “First things first, no freestyling it out there tomorrow. That’s what the rehearsal dinner is for….”

  As he talks I find my attention wandering, to Pip and Pulse who look hilariously absorbed with every word coming out of Father O’Mally’s long moustache, but finally to Carlos.

  He looks as surly as ever, with a gaze flicking around the room, searching for something.

  I knew we shouldn’t have let him be in the wedding party, even come to the wedding at all, but Toni wouldn’t budge.

  Toni squeezes my hand. I squeeze it back.

  Really, what is one evil basta
rd of a brother when I’m marrying the woman of my dreams?