Addicted: A Secret Baby Romance (Rebel Saints MC)

by Zoey Parker

  “Um, when was the reception again?” Hannah asks, flopping on the bench beside me.

  “In 30 minutes!” Maria Fernanda declares, looking at her watch with a gasp.

  We throw our shoes back on and race back to the limo, while Rhonda clatters behind in her wedges, straining to take pictures at the same time as running without tripping.

  Then we pile into the limo, Rhonda and Lila head for their own cars, and we’re off.

  A few minutes out of Casa Loma, my belly starts growling, and I get an idea.

  “How many minutes 'til the reception now?” I ask.

  “25,” says Maria Fernanda, “And I think we’ll be there in another 5.”

  “So… we’d have time for a quick stop then,” I say, smiling at Gabe.

  “What are you thinking?” he asks, patting my head.

  “McDonald’s,” I say.

  He smiles.

  Leaning over and sliding open the partition, he asks the driver, “Could we make a quick stop at McDonald’s?”

  The driver’s grey head turns, grins.

  “Sure. Drive-through?”

  Gabe looks to me, and I shake my head.

  “I’ve always wanted to go inside in a wedding dress. Just once.”

  Jaws and Pulse laugh, the driver says, “Ok,” and Gabe slides the partition closed again.

  “You crazy kids really are meant to be together,” Jaws says with a chuckle.

  “But we’re all coming,” Hannah says.

  “I want the yogurt parfait, yeah,” Pulse says, licking his lips.

  The car goes silent, then we burst into excited laughter. This is going to be one crazy McDonald’s trip.

  When the limo pulls up to the familiar golden arches, Gabe grabs my hand, and we’re off. The others let us walk first, so we get to see the restaurant-goers gaping first-hand.

  There’s strangely no line-up, so Gabe and I stride right up to the counter. There, I gape at the menu dully. This whole idea had been a whim, done for the hell of it; I hadn’t thought about the actual practical what to order part.

  “Would you be able to do us a favor?” Gabe asks the passive-faced boy behind the counter.

  He responds with a noncommittal shrug.

  “Could you throw three large fries onto a plate and write just married on it?” Gabe asks.

  The boy responds with another noncommittal shrug, then jams some keys on his machine.

  “That’ll be $6.17,” his monotone voice drawls.

  Gabe hands over the money and the boy shoves back Receipt 267. Gabe and I head over to the side to wait for our order and let the others give theirs.

  Hannah and Maria Fernanda are soon to join us, with matching Oreo McFlurries in hand. Pip is next with a hilariously tiny packet of apples, then Jaws with a receipt of his own.

  When “267” is called by a cheery-looking girl who looks to be all of twelve, we pick up our plate of large fries to find, in large lettering, it marked, “JUST MARRED”.

  Such a horrible mistake we can only laugh at and toast fries over.

  “To the love of my life,” he says.

  “To the man I just married,” I say.

  Then Pulse joins us, his strangely topping-less yogurt in hand, and we return to the limo.

  Once there, we have five minutes to inhale our food, which is a lot easier than it sounds, considering everyone helps out with the fries, notably Pulse, who basically drank his yogurt in three gross gulps.

  By the time the limo pulls up to the National Event Venue for the reception, we’re ready.

  Gabe and I clamber out with two minutes to spare, have just thrown off our coats and bags in the Bridal Party room, when Oma and Opa come bursting through the doors, right at 6 pm.

  “Toni, you’re beautiful,” Oma declares, “The service was beautiful, Gabe is beautiful, this venue is beautiful.”

  She pauses to take a look around the room to confirm that it is indeed beautiful. Her gaze settling on a beautiful vase of flowers in the corner, she declares again, this time more forcefully, “This venue is beautiful!”

  “Thank you, Oma,” I say, trapped in her bony hug, while Opa pats me supportively.

  “You picked a good one in that Gabe boy,” he says.

  The other guests are thankfully not as quick to arrive as Oma and Opa, so Gabe and I have time to enjoy some of the mini lobster tacos, bite-sized empanadas, and the avocado mousse barquettes on the hors d’oeuvre platters of circling servers.

  It’s only half an hour, however, until the room is packed, so full of people who want to talk Gabe’s and my ears off, hug us until we’re sore and congratulate us about everything under the sun that finally, I’m forced to escape to the bathroom.

  After I’ve stared at my reflection for a minute and taken several deep breaths, I sneak back to the bathroom and peer out.

  It’s quite a sight to see.

  There they are, Gabe’s boys, the tough motorcycle crew, all dressed up in tuxes and slicked back locks, toting equally sleek women, laughing uproariously and toasting drinks already. And then, there’s my people, the Piccolos, all dark flowing hair, chic outfits, well-timed comments and polite sips of wine. You couldn’t find two groups of people more different if you tried. And yet, there they are: laughing together, chatting amiably.

  If you told me this was possible a few months ago, I would’ve laughed in your face. And yet, here we are, there they are: the Piccolos and nearly every member of the Rebel Saints, getting along. All because of Gabe and me.

  I take one last fond look at the happy crowd before I return to the mirror, to my reflection.

  It even looks different, happier somehow. Maybe that’s because these last few months so much has happened. Gabe has gotten involved in the stock market, has been making a killing. We bought a huge palace of a house, outfitted every room to Gabe’s and my hearts’ desires. We’ve taken weekend getaways to New York City, Cancun, Los Angeles. We’re really lucky.

  I stare into the mirror, at the happy woman who is me, and I whisper, “Thank you.”

  She whispers it back, and I smile, not sure who it’s directed to - me or Gabe or both of us or the universe itself. Either way, it’s my cue to go. It is my wedding, after all.

  As I stride out, I notice Antonio and Roger coming in.

  I stop in front of them.

  “What are you doing here?” I demand.

  Roger is the only one who makes an insolent attempt to smile.

  “We wanted to congratulate you on your wedding, Toni.”

  He holds out his hand, and I step back.

  “You should go. If you don’t go, I’ll have you escorted out.”

  Roger’s ironic smile falls.

  “C’mon Toni, you don’t have to be like that. We’re all friends here. No need to make a scene.”

  He rubs at his cheek with the back of his hand, showing an angry red circle on his palm. The angry red circle from the bullet I shot.

  “I mean it,” I snap, and he scowls.

  “Bitch,” he mutters under his breath before turning and leaving through the door they came in.

  I exhale in relief, but the tightness in my chest is still there.

  They’re gone, but what if they come back? Should I tell Gabriel?

  I grab a passing lobster taco, pop it in my mouth.

  No, they won't be back. And if they do come back, then I’ll get Gabe to deal with it. This place is basically packed with mafia and gang members after all; Roger and Antonio would have to be idiots to try anything.

  When I turn around the room is half-empty and Patricia is bounding toward me.

  I look around for some nearby hors d’oeuvres, some person, anything to use as an excuse to escape our psychotic wedding planner.

  But by the time I see Gabe in the far corner talking with another Rebel Saint, it’s too late.

  “Toni, we have to get all the bridegrooms and bridesmaids together ASAP, your entrance is in less than 15 minutes!”

  I t
ear my eyes away from her neon orange nails and nod, trying to make myself look half as concerned as Patricia so clearly is.

  When I glance back at her, Patricia’s mouth is still a beet red sulk that indicates nothing less than my immediate departure to search for bridal party members will be accepted.

  So, I make the rounds.

  Maria Fernanda and Hannah are the first I find, sitting at the bridal party table, chatting amiably. Jaws and Pip are fairly easy to find and collect too, I just take their shot glasses and they’re forced to follow me to the entrance, where we’re all waiting for our cue.

  Pulse, however, is nowhere to be found.

  I do another lap of the dining area, hit up both bars and, finally, when Patricia starts breathing down my neck with periodic mentions of “Five minutes left, everyone better be here,” I enlist Gabriel’s help.

  “Can you call him, check the bathroom, find him?” I ask, and he sweeps away.

  He returns with no Pulse and a somber expression.

  “He’s vomiting in the bathroom.”

  Patricia makes a face like she’s going to vomit, too.

  “You’ll have to just not announce him,” I say, “Jaws can come in with Hannah instead.”

  Patricia makes another face like I’ve suggested she salt, pepper, then eat her own foot, before she gives a terse nod and storms off.

  Next thing I know she’s back with a microphone, declaring, “It’s go time, get in line!”

  As we shuffle into our assigned order, her voice booms out over the loudspeaker, “Ok everyone! Almost time to eat but first we have to introduce those ladies and gents in the bridal party. Are you ready for this?”

  The crowd inside whoops.

  “Ok, first we have Maria Fernanda and Pip!”

  The crowd roars and, arm in arm, they stride into the dining room.

  After another minute, she says, “Next we have Hannah and Pulse!”

  The crowd roars, and Jaws doesn’t move.

  “My name is Jaws,” he tells her, and she throws up her orange-taloned hands.

  “Jaws, Pulse, how can anyone keep track with all these freaky names – you have to go, it’s your cue.”

  She flings out one orange nail in a point while Jaws stares her down. Finally, Hannah walks into the dining room alone.

  “You’re ruining the wedding!” Patricia shrills.

  To which Jaws grabs the microphone out of her hand and yells into it, “And next we have… JAWS!”

  He tosses it behind him as he runs out, the crowd roaring its approval.

  Gabriel, who thankfully caught the microphone, hands it back to Patricia with a warning glare, as if daring her to complain.

  Instead, however, into the mic she shrills, “And now for the beautiful bride and groom – Toni and Gabriel!!”

  Gabe and I pause, grin at each other, then go. We stride into the dining room to applause so loud I can barely hear, and lights so bright I can barely see.

  Somehow, we make it to our table, where we can finally sit down in peace.

  Moments after we’re seated, servers flock over, hands laden with meat-heaped plates.

  And so, the feasting begins. First comes the steak, then it’s the salmon, then the chicken. I eat and eat until the pastry dish comes out. Then I pause, take a moment to absorb the scene before me.

  Jaws, Gabe and I are at our own table, overlooking the gorgeous scene before us. The whole wedding planning was such a last-minute harried mess that I never really considered how the venue would look like in the end

  And now, faced with it, in it, I can only smile in gratitude.

  It’s beautiful. The whole room has been cast in a purple glow, while the most beautiful chandeliers I’ve ever seen in my life hang from the ceiling. They’re a collection of crystals that are in constant twirling motion, reflecting and being reflected off each other. And then there’s the flower arrangement on each table: the purple and blue perfection of roses. And yet it’s the people that are the most impressive of all, the mismatched, funnily-dressed people who, mid-meal, are talking, smiling, laughing. Happy.

  I grasp Gabe’s hand, squeeze it.

  This wedding is a success. We are a success.

  When Gabe lifts a tiger brownie to my lips, I oblige, eat it in one gulp. Suddenly, I’m hungry again. Which is good, considering the impressive array of desserts before us: rice krispies, double chocolate brownies, butter tarts, apple tarts, donuts.

  I’m halfway through my second tart, when Gabe places a cautioning hand on mine.

  “Still need room for the cake, babe.”

  I respond by taking another tart and declaring, “There’s always room for cake.”

  He takes my hand, squeezes it.

  “I love you, but be careful.”

  “I’m always careful,” I say, and, when I turn to smile at him, a bullet whizzes between us.

  It embeds itself into the edge of his seat. I twist back around to the dining hall entrance, where Roger and Antonio are standing, guns raised, pointed at us.

  Most incredible of all is that the wedding guests are still chatting, notice nothing. Even Jaws is lost in his cream puff.

  Gabriel and I dive to the floor, and more shots explode.

  Now the room goes silent.

  “Do you have your gun?” I hiss to Gabriel.

  He shakes his head.

  “Left it in the bridal party room, you?”

  I shake my head, curse myself.

  That’s where mine is too.

  How could I have been so stupid?

  The room is eerily quiet now, except for the clear tap-tap of footsteps on the floor. Nearing us.

  I reach up and snatch a knife off the table. Waiting at the edge of the table, knife raised and ready, I listen to the footsteps grow closer, then closer, then stop.

  “Hey, did you guys save me a meal?” Pulse asks, and looking up and seeing his tattooed face, I practically faint with relief.

  “Pulse get over here,” I hiss, gesturing to him frantically, “Carlos’ men are shooting at us!”

  “Huh,” he says, his only movement a rubbing of his temple, “Right. Were those the goofs I just took out now?”

  I leap up and hug him, then race over to the entrance, where Roger and Antonio’s still forms are slumped, bullets in their heads.

  At this very inopportune time, who comes racing over but Patricia, her mascara-caked eyes standing out of her head, her voice a nauseating shrill, “What happened! The wedding is ruined! People can’t be killed at a wedding – the wedding is ruined! Ruined!”

  “Shut-up,” I say smoothly, “Clearly you don’t know my family. You grab this guy’s legs and I’ll grab his arms.”

  She gawks at me, and, gesturing to Roger’s body, I snap, “Do it.”

  So, the two of us carry Roger to the bridal party room, while Gabriel and Pulse do the same to Antonio.

  As we leave the bridal party room, I get face to face with Patricia.

  “You wait until the wedding is over before you report this to the police. Or else.”

  She responds with a quivering “Okay,” before she flees to the bathroom.

  As we walk back into the dining room, Gabe pats Pulse on the back.

  “Really saved the day man.”

  Pulse shrugs.

  “Right, I’m still pissed about that yogurt though. Shit gave me food poisoning.”

  Outside the entrance, Gabriel grabs the microphone.

  “Sorry about that folks. Had some problems with the entertainers, was supposed to be a murder mystery, but ended up being a murder mix-up, so just continue enjoying your meals as Toni and I cut the cake.

  As we stride toward the corner where our goliath of a cake stands, I squeeze Gabriel’s hand.

  “You really know how to give a convincing speech.”

  We pause, listen as the murmur in the dining room slowly builds to conversation.

  He shrugs, smiles.

  “I’ve had a bit of practice.”
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br />   Now at the 10-layer pink and white frosted cake, Gabriel cuts me an insanely big piece.

  He dismisses my protests with the explanation that, “It’s for both of us.”