Rock Chick Revolution(66)

And now they were married and she was pregnant.

Much the same thing happened with Roxie, Jules, Ava, Stella and Sadie.

And when I said “much the same thing” I meant near on exactly.

Holy crap.

I wasn’t a Rock Chick.

I was a Rock Chick!

That meant…

That meant…

That meant Ren and I were getting married!

Holy crap!

I fought hyperventilating and did it by sucking back champagne.

This was a stupid move because, once done, I started choking.

“Ally? Baby?” Ren called, and I saw him move and then he was leaned into me, hand rubbing my back. “You okay?”

I sucked in oxygen, twisted my neck to look at him, and declared, “We’re getting married.”

His chin jerked back and his brows shot up. “Now?”

“Not now!” I cried, falling back in my chair. He straightened to standing, but I tipped my head back so I could keep my eyes glued to him. “During her thing, Indy and Lee moved in together. The same with Jet and Eddie. Roxie and Hank. Jules and Vance. You get my drift. Now all of them are married. Ava and Luke are getting hitched on the weekend. And three weeks ago, Sadie strolled into a Girls Night Out with a diamond on her finger.” I stretched my torso up to him and announced, “Ren, we’re screwed.”

At that, his brows knit.

“You don’t want to get married?”

“No,” I answered, and completely ignored his expression shutting down in order to continue to have my nervous breakdown. “For the next five years I want to engage in copious amounts of hanky-panky until my biological clock starts ticking so loud I can’t ignore it anymore. Then I want to engage in copious amounts of hanky-panky in order to get pregnant. Prior to part two, I want to get married.”

He sat down but didn’t take his eyes from me as he stated, “This doesn’t sound like a bad plan.”

“It’s not. It’s a righteous plan.”

“Then why are you freaked?” he asked.

“Because no way am I falling into the pattern of meatloaf, Letterman and missionary, and with practice, that’s a possibility.”

His head jerked before he asked, “Ally, what?”

“I like meatloaf but it’s boring,” I explained. “I like chicken parmesan way better. Letterman rocks but I’d prefer to do other things when he’s on. And missionary is my fifth most favorite position behind lotus, cowgirl, scissor and doggie.”

It was Ren’s turn to blink.

Then he again burst out laughing.

When he was done laughing, but he was still chuckling, he calmly picked up his fork and speared some sesame chicken before he said to his plate, “So you’re movin’ in.”

Shit.

“Yeah,” I answered, spearing another shrimp.

“Baby?” he called, and I looked at him.

Oh God.

The look on his face was a new look. It corresponded with the tone of his voice earlier that day. And it was so beautiful, my heart skipped a beat and I lost the ability to think.

And speak (mostly).

“We’re never gonna have meatloaf, Letterman and missionary,” he said softly.

“’Kay,” I replied breathily.

“And if you can pare down that five year f*ck-a-thon to two or three, I’d appreciate it,” he went on.

“’Kay,” I repeated.

“Though, during that two year f*ck-a-thon, you may have one, then two of my rings on your finger.”

Oh shit.

Even me, Ally, Rock Chick, that didn’t make me warm inside.

It made me melty.

“’Kay,” I breathed, and his eyes warmed.

“Just to give you something to look forward to, we’ll stop the f*ck-a-thon when we have to, but we’ll resume soon’s we can after you give me healthy babies.”

Oh God.

I felt my eyes get hot.

Ren and I were getting married.

Not now.

But eventually.

Oh.

God.

“You really love me,” I whispered.

“Do not ever doubt it,” he whispered back.

“How did that happen?” I kept whispering.

“You accepted my devotion to the Bears only dishin’ out minimal shit.”

He was such a liar.

But what he said said it all.

And it meant everything.

He started falling when I did.

I closed my eyes.

I opened them when I felt the backs of his fingers sweep my jaw.

“It doesn’t take much with you, does it?” I asked, trying to be funny.

I didn’t get a smile.

I got heated eyes and the look.

“Yes it does. It takes a f*ckuva lot.”

That said it all, too.

Jeez. He needed to stop.

Before I could tell him to do that, he did it.

And he did it by saying, “And most of that f*ckuva lot has to do with the fact that you’re a woman who placed cowgirl at two and doggie at four.”

I got over being a big, starry-eyed, head-over-heels-in-love-with-a-hot-guy girl, started laughing and asked through it, “So you approve of my rankings?”

He turned his attention back to his plate, saying, “Cowgirl one. Doggie two. Missionary three. Lotus four, but you’re close enough.”