Rock Chick 08 Revolution (36 page)

“Cloakroom or handicapped bathroom?” Roxie asked.

Jules knew exactly what we were talking about and answered instantly,
“Cloakroom.”

“Popular choice,” Stella put in.

“In about fifteen minutes, we can get Sadie and Hector’s info. But my
guess, handicapped bathroom since they ran into Ren and me on our way out of
the cloakroom,” I told them.

The women nodded knowingly.

Eddie requested, “Can we stop talking about this?”

“No,” Daisy (in baby blue) stated, dragging Marcus to our group and
stopping. “Or at least not until you tell me what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Cloakroom or handicapped bathroom?” Jet shared at the same time she
asked.

“Oh, sugar,” Daisy waved a hand with silver polish on her long nails
tipped with aquamarine rhinestones in the shapes of hearts, “Me and Marcus got
a room. All access all the time. Comprende?”

I leaned up to Ren and whispered, “We’re doing that next time”

“What?” he asked, looking down his nose at me. “Did you say something?
My ears are bleeding.”

At that, I burst out laughing.

“What’s funny?” Shirleen queried, also in aqua (a Rock Chick wedding
party stretched long, believe you me). “No, don’t tell me. I don’t give a shit.
What I give a shit about is that I’m about to whale on those bitches Ava calls
sisters so someone needs to calm me down. With brandy. Or bourbon. I don’t care
which. I just spent five minutes with those two where they ripped every woman
here’s outfit to shreds along with complainin’—at length—about not bein’ in the
weddin’ party, when every fool knows those two treated their sister like trash
for years. So how do they think they’re gonna get a pretty dress? Don’t answer
that. The answer is, no one here knows how bitches’ minds work.”

She sucked in a huge breath.

Then she admitted, “I was beginning to get scared—
me… Shirleen—
that suddenly their fangs would come out and those
vampires would lay waste to the entire guest list.”

We all looked toward Ava’s sisters, Marilyn and Sofia, who nobody
liked. Even Ava.

They were in a huddle, clearly whispering, lips set in sneers, eyes to
a woman I didn’t know, but I thought she was Luke’s aunt (or something). Which
meant she was in her fifties. And there was nothing wrong with her outfit. She
looked great.

Then again, Marilyn and Sofia could talk trash about anybody. They’d
cut their teeth honing that skill through a lifetime of abuse piled on Ava.

And obviously they hadn’t stopped.

Also, neither of them had a steady man.

That said it all.

“What’s happening?” Sadie asked, pulling Hector into the group.

Jules looked at Hector, whose black eyes were still burning, then at
Sadie, who totally had sex hair (like me), before she wisely stated, “We’ll
tell you later.”

“Okay,” Sadie replied and leaned into her man as he slid his arm around
her shoulders.

Her eyes were bright and happy.

A shrill whistle pierced the air and we all looked in its direction.

When we did, we saw it came from Luke (also in a tux, obviously; black
with black shirt and a long black tie, unlike his groomsmen who all had white
shirts and ties to match the women’s dresses).

He was standing on the dance floor.

He was also crooking his finger at something.

Our heads swung in unison to the direction he was crooking, and we
watched Ava wending her way through tables, her face soft, her eyes locked on
her new husband.

She was wearing an ivory, chiffon column dress with a ruched strapless
bodice and rows of soft, wispy, vertical ruffles falling down the skirt. The
whole thing was covered with a sheen of what looked like glitter. The sides of
her hair were pulled back with teacup ivory roses behind her ears, the back
falling in curls.

Her dewy, peachy makeup was applied by Jet.

Her hair was done by Indy.

She made it to Luke on the dance floor. The minute she did, he grabbed
her hand, turned his head to the DJ and jerked up his chin.

His intent could not be missed.

And none of us missed it.

“Holy crap,” Indy breathed.

“Oh my God,” Jet murmured.

“Holy cow,” Roxie whispered.

“Damn,” Jules sighed.

“Lordy be,” Stella husked.

“Aces,” Sadie mumbled.

“Oowee,” Shirleen chortled.

“Well, all right,” Daisy chimed.

“Righteous,” I muttered.

Luke pulled Ava into his arms.

Ava shoved her face in his neck.

Tom Petty’s “Alright for Now” started playing.

My insides melted.

Luke swayed to the music, his neck bent, cheek pressed to Ava’s hair,
his new wife held close in his arms.

I curled into Ren’s front and both his arms closed around me.

Hank approached and claimed Roxie.

We all watched.

Silently.

The song lasted two minutes.

And those two minutes were two of the best minutes of my life.

Because in a function room in a kickass hotel in Denver, Colorado,
watching two people I loved, two people in love, dancing to a simple beautiful
song, was two minutes of experiencing sheer beauty.

Chapter Nineteen

We’re a Fuckin’ Pair

The morning after Luke and Ava’s wedding, I walked into Ren’s bedroom
carrying a tray.

That morning, for the first time since our first night together, I woke
up before Ren.

And I decided that this time was going to go a whole lot better.

So I walked in seeing Ren still asleep on his stomach, the bedclothes
down to his waist, the smooth olive skin and defined muscles of his back bared
to me.

I smiled at the sight, set the tray aside and put a knee in the bed.
Then I put a hand between his shoulder blades and leaned in to kiss the indent
of his spine at the small of his back.

He shifted and turned.

I lifted and looked toward his face.

“You sleep any longer, Zano, breakfast is gonna get cold,” I said as my
good morning.

The brows over his sleepy eyes went up (hot) before his gaze slid to
the nightstand.

I’d made French toast Roxie’s way. That was to say, with powdered sugar
sweetened cream cheese sandwiched in the middle (we could just say it was good
Ren cooked—he had everything in his kitchen). I’d also fried up some smoky
links and cut up some strawberries with the stem still on so I could fan them
on the plates, two of which, with mugs of steaming coffee, were on the tray.

It looked and smelled awesome.

His eyes came back to me. “You cook?”

I felt my brows knit. “Sure I cook.”

“You’ve never cooked for me.”

This was true. I hadn’t. I’d made toast, but that didn’t count as
cooking.

I smiled, leaned in and whispered, “Lucky boy, you have a plethora of
delights awaiting you.”

His eyes got hot, his arms closed around me and I found myself back to
the bed, Ren on me and his tongue in my mouth.

Nice.

When his lips slid to my neck, I noted, “Baby, this gets any hotter, breakfast
is gonna suck.”

He kissed my neck, lifted up, looked at me and mumbled, “Right.”

Then he touched his lips to mine, rolled off and away. I turned to my
side and got up on an elbow to watch his ass as he went to the dresser and
pulled out a pair of gray drawstring pajama bottoms. He tugged them on (hot)
and I then watched the muscles in his back move as he walked to the bathroom
(also hot).

I was in a new satin nightie the color of lemon chiffon with light blue
lace (which was also hot; Roxie, Tod and Stevie set me
up
) as well panties. I was sitting cross-legged on the bed and had
a coffee mug in my hand when Ren returned.

He joined me, back to the headboard, legs stretched out, ankles
crossed, one of his thighs touching my knee. He grabbed some coffee, sucked it
back then handed me a plate. I stowed my mug snug in the bed beside my hip as
he nabbed his own plate, picked up the fork resting on it and looked at me.

His brown eyes were still slightly sleepy. They were also still totally
hot.

“Breakfast in bed on a Sunday, baby. I like it,” he said quietly before
he commenced eating.

“I’m buttering you up,” I admitted, and that was when his eyes narrowed
on me.

“For what?” he asked.

“Twenty questions,” I answered.

His eyes unnarrowed, he looked back at his plate and forked into the
French toast, saying, “Fire away.”

That was it.
Fire away
.
Nothing to hide. Not with that reaction. He didn’t tense. He didn’t evade. He
just said,
Fire away
.

I liked that.

“Actually, it’s just three questions, not twenty,” I amended, and he
looked at me, chewing.

When I said no more, mouth still full, he prompted, “Yeah?”

“Why do you park in front?”

His head jerked and he swallowed. “What?”

“You have a perfectly fine garage out back. Why do you park in front?”

“Because it’s half a football field away from the house,” he answered
the answer I’d guessed.

I grinned at my plate because I liked being right, and I liked it more
when Ren was witty, then I forked into French toast.

“Do you wanna park in back?” Ren asked, and I looked at him. “Got
remotes for the opener. You should have one anyway, and when you do you can
park where you want.”

“Okay. But I’m fine in the front. I just didn’t know why you didn’t
park there,” I shared.

“And this is important?” he asked.

“No,” I answered.

He stared at me then he grinned. “You always wanted to know.”

I said nothing.

“And badass Ally Nightingale, holdin’ me at arm’s length, wouldn’t let
herself ask.”

I rolled my eyes even though he was right.

“I was
so
totally
in there,” he declared.

“I think we established that, Zano,” I replied.

“Just good to know how in there I was,” he murmured, still grinning
even as he bit off half a sausage link. Bite in his mouth, he asked, “What else
you always wanna know, honey?”

“Do you have a gardener?”

“Yes.”

Ren Zano didn’t mulch.

Why did having that confirmed make me feel melty inside?

I didn’t ponder that.

I kept going.

“You seem to have an aversion to the mall.”

His answer to that was, “Do I have a dick?”

I felt my lips curl up and I replied, “Yes, baby. You have a dick.”

“Then, yeah. I got an aversion to the mall.”

“Okay. Then how do you dress so well?” I asked.

He went back to his plate and answered, “Personal shopper.” He dug into
French toast, lifted it to his mouth, chewed, swallowed and looked at me as I
tried to process this surprising information. “Gotta have clothes. Don’t like
shoppin’ for them. There you go.”

Interesting.

And an excellent solution to every badass’s problem of having to be
clothed and being allergic to the mall.

“And, we gotta talk about this, so might as well do it now,” he
started. I bit off part of my own smoky link and focused on him. “My woman’s
her own woman, so I get that it’s likely gonna be important for you to feel
you’re contributing. I’ll say now I’m good with covering everything until you
get on your feet. I’m also cool with you making a contribution, just as long as
it isn’t you making a statement that overextends what you can actually afford.”

I got what he was saying, so I told him, “I wouldn’t be good with
living here without doing something, honey.”

“Right,” he replied. “Then come up with something you think you can
afford, and we’ll talk about it. Yeah?”

Clearly, we were back to the easy part of this
together
togetherness.

Thank God.

“Yeah, Ren,” I said softly.

He grinned and went back to his plate.

I did the same and kept doing it until I heard him say, “This is
delicious, baby.”

I looked at him. “It’s Roxie’s recipe for the French toast.”

“Your hand that made it.”

Again I felt melty.

God, I was totally becoming a
Rock
Chick
.

Nevertheless, I decided breakfast in bed every Sunday until that day
long in the future when Ren and I were both in a nursing home where we didn’t
have kitchen privileges.