Ripped

  He’s not looking at me anymore. He’s looking at Mackenna.

  Mackenna, who’s somehow leapt off the coach, is now approaching, all gorgeous rockstar with that sexy buzz cut, the dark sunglasses, the mocking smile.

  “Ahh, our guest of honor!” Lionel beams as he starts forward in my direction, but he gets sidetracked by a roadie.

  Mackenna has no such welcome. Those arms I dreamed would hold me until my last day cross over his broad chest, and I notice his eyebrows furrow as he plucks off his sunglasses, hooks them in his shirt, and fixes his silver wolf eyes on Kyle. He takes a very brief moment to survey me, then he sure as fuck takes a longer one to survey Kyle. Cool steel slides along my nerves. The fact that he’s a rockstar and heart-poundingly sexy does not—and will not—exempt him from my hell.

  “Pandora!” someone shouts, and a camera aims in my direction.

  At the mention of my name, Mackenna’s head swivels toward me—and I’m not prepared for what I see in his deep, dreamy eyes, dark and waiting, or for the deep, intense flare of heat they cause inside my belly. One second it’s there, the next, he turns to the cameraman and stretches out one arm, using his palm to tip the camera so that it points elsewhere. Then he comes over and rakes Kyle up and down with an icy stare.

  “Mackenna Jones,” he says, stretching his arm out.

  Kyle sizes him up, but with the warmth of a volcano. “Kyle Ingram. Dude, I’m a huge fan!”

  “Good to know,” Mackenna says, nodding.

  Why does my friend have to fawn all over the man I hate? Huh? I groan and lift my bag, Mackenna watching me struggle with it with that same mocking smile, his eyes now mocking me harder. Does he offer help? Does he do even the remotest gentlemanly thing? The thing even my friend did? Hell no. Do I want him to so much as touch my duffel? Hell no.

  Fuck him.

  I sway my hips and make sure my boots make extra crunching noises on the asphalt as we head over to Lionel. The Viking twins stop me. They both come at me with unexpected delight. Their expressions are curious as they glance at Mackenna, and the impossible happens. They look even more delighted.

  “Pandora,” one says.

  “Pandora,” says the other.

  “That’s right, guys, that’s my name, don’t wear it out,” I say.

  “All right, get your shit together. You two”—Lionel points at Mackenna and me—“ride on that coach. It’s the one with the most built-in cameras.”

  “I can’t fucking believe this,” Mackenna growls, shaking his head.

  I gather my girl-balls and march toward the coach. He’s going to complain about it all the time? Fine. I’m being paid to give them a couple of shots. Hell, maybe one of them can be of my boot in his nuts. He’s right to be fearful.

  “Thanks, Lionel,” I say with a suddenly warm smile.

  Mackenna stares, dumbstruck, like he didn’t remember I could smile. “Yeah, thanks, dude. My life is made,” Mackenna suddenly says, and he charges over to the coach too. He stands by the door and sweeps an arm out. There’s no missing the flex of muscles under his bronzed skin, and I hate that my body actually tightens. “Ladies first,” he declares with a grin.

  It suits him, that smirk, and it’s ruining my panties, which I don’t like. “Ladies first? Then maybe you should go,” I reply, pointing to the interior of the coach.

  That smirk still holds, but now it’s challenging, telling me, If you’re playing, I’m game, and I’m winning.

  “Charming, beautiful girl,” he says; interpretation: hateful bitch of a witch. “How old are you, darling? Eight?”

  “You’re so hilarious. Ready for your own comedy show, aren’t you?”

  I swing up into the coach and greet the driver then, a little faint when I see the way these guys travel. Luxury on wheels. This shit is bigger than my bedroom and living room combined. The living room area has a small kitchen nearby, and at the far end, through the open door, I can see a big bed.

  “Think we can get along for”—Mackenna looks at his phone—“six hours without any bloodshed?”

  I drop down on a sofa. “I’ll be right here, filing and polishing my nails, just in case.”

  “Claws, you mean,” he corrects.

  I stretch out my boots and admire how long the heel is, how sleek and classy.

  “Why polish your claws, though? Forgot your broom and your cauldron?”

  “Forgot your balls?” I shoot back, lifting my head and noticing he’s still standing, arms crossed over that broad chest. “Are you threatened because they want me here on your special movie tour? Or because your balls aren’t that big?”

  He chuckles, soft and low and unfairly sexy as he scans the bus, his gaze settling on a spot on the ceiling.

  As the bus starts moving, I signal to the door. “Last chance. If you’re looking for an escape, there’s the door.”

  He doesn’t smile like I expected him to. “The girls on tour can be vicious, Pandora,” he gruffly warns, still scanning the bus interior, “I’m not your enemy—I’m the only guy who’s got your back here. Remember that when they try hazing you one of these days. You don’t belong here right now. It shouldn’t have been like this.”

  He looks over my shoulder, narrow-eyed. “There have to be six cameras total here, at least,” he murmurs.

  “And you want to disable them so there’s no evidence of you murdering me?”

  “Nothing wrong with making sure they see only what we want them to see.”

  “Who cares? This is all a big show so you can keep filling your pockets with dough.”

  “Speaking of, whose pockets are full today?” He chews a stick of gum briefly before taking it out of his mouth, lifting his long, lean arms, and covering one of the camera eyes with a little piece. “How much did he give you?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “What was your price?”

  “Who cares? The point is I was completely sellable. That’s what you’re getting at, isn’t it?”

  “We all have a price.” He swaggers back to me—the kind of swagger that lets a girl know the dude’s cock is leading him forward—and sits by me, sits really close. “Why are you doing this?” he asks, surveying my expression.

  He’s somber and serious, and it makes me nervous. His sunglasses are tucked into his T-shirt—and those gray eyes are on me like . . . something palpable. He’s wearing no wig over the buzz cut I find so terribly sexy. A little kohl remains under his eyes, which only makes the shade of his eyes seem even more silver. Two thick leather bracelets cover his wrists. I’m suddenly feeling not as badass as I want.

  “Because,” I finally answer.

  “Because what?” He reaches up and tugs the pink strand of my hair, his lips curling in amusement.

  “They met my price. I’m saving this money,” I admit, pulling my hair free from his grasp.

  “Hmm.” He leans back on the seat and continues scrutinizing me. Somehow I want him to say something mean, so I can say something mean back.

  Why the fuck doesn’t he? God, this man pisses me off.

  “What? No mean comeback?” I demand.

  “Actually, no. I’m giving Lionel what he wants because I want something in return—and I’m damn well getting it, so long as I put up with you. Don’t ruin it for me.”

  “Me?! I’m not the one who covered the camera!”

  “You’re right, you just threw the contents of your kitchen cabinets at me.”

  I open my mouth to cuss, and he stops me.

  “Didn’t you get the memo? I like oranges best.”

  “You’re starting to irritate me.”

  He leans over and whispers in my ear. “Next time you give me a tomato bath, I’m going to make you give me a tongue bath and clean up your mess.” He strokes the pink in my hair. “Fair warning.”

  Something is crackling in the air so hard, I can’t speak or breathe. My nipples, my sex, even my skin feel hypersensitive. I wait for him to say something. A strange heat makes my jaw s
tart chattering. Really. I haven’t seen Mackenna look at me this close in . . . years.

  He puts his arm around my waist, and suddenly he starts pressing closer to me.

  “Don’t touch me,” I growl.

  He reaches his arm around me, and the touch of his fingers spreads warmth and pain in me. “You know you’re the only girl I’ve ever met who actually growls? Like a mean old bear,” he whispers huskily in my ear.

  I especially disapprove of the tender way his thumb grazes my skin, causing delicious little ripples. And I wholeheartedly disapprove of the way he looks at me with a slight curve to one side of his lips because he knows that I do disapprove. I refuse to answer, so his scrutiny continues.

  “What happened to you?” he asks me, his expression intent, his eyes concerned.

  God, the gall. The way he moves his thumb . . .

  “You happened!” When he’s close enough, I swing, but he grabs my wrist midair. I swing out again with my other arm but he grabs that too, setting them both over my head. The way he surveys me, like he’s dissecting me, makes me fight harder. “Let go!”

  “So you can pull out a couple more tomatoes?” he asks, his eyes carving into me.

  “What can I say? They looked great with your fucking Peter Pan tights!”

  I struggle, but it only makes the current between our bodies crackle more, so I force myself to fall deathly still—every inch of my body aware of his hands on my wrists.

  “Did you want my attention, Pandora? The rest of the band thinks you do,” he says. His low, unexpectedly soft voice rolls through me, inside my body, and I can’t think straight. My eyes blur from the force of his effect on me. I drag in a deep breath to calm down, but his hand sliding down the inside of my arm fucks up my thoughts. “Babe . . . if that’s what you want,” he finally whispers, a warning, “I can oblige.”

  “I don’t want your attention, I don’t want anything from you!” I breathe.

  “You do want something. Is it me? Am I what you want?”

  “Fuck, no!” I growl in outrage, swinging out my suddenly free arm.

  Again he catches my wrist midair. I remember wanting his head on a platter. I remember vowing to myself that one day I’d make him tell me he loves me, and I’d laugh and leave, like he did. And I whisper, “My god, it’s really gone to your head, hasn’t it? You think you can get anything you want and always have it your way? I have news for you, asshole. I’m here to make your life a living hell, and it will all be on film. Your complete humiliation. Just watch me!”

  He looks at me and says nothing. My entire body is aware of where he grips me, not hard, but . . . firm and hot. “No, baby,” he says, his teeth gritted. “You won’t ruin this for me. You got it? We give them what they want, and you won’t fucking ruin this for me.”

  I clamp my jaw. “If you don’t want me to ruin this, then when we get to Madison Square Garden, you’ll say on that stage that your fucking song is a lie.”

  “That’s our number one song.”

  “If I do like you say . . . you tell all your fandom that it’s a lie.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I hate it, I hate hearing it. If they see me kiss you, they’ll think I’m Pandora, and you paint me as . . . you paint me as . . . a whore, a liar, and a . . .”

  Mistake. Something dirty. Hidden. Something you regret.

  Just remembering infuriates me all over again, but Mackenna keeps those silver eyes leveled on me, as though truly considering what to do.

  “I can’t take that song back,” he says at last, dropping down on the seat and crossing his arms behind his head and his feet at the ankles. “But if you want to write a song about me, we’d be happy to add some music to it and play it.”

  “I’m not a lyricist. Hello?”

  “We’ll take it slow. You tell me what you think of me, and I’ll help you.”

  “Asshole. Dog. Liar. Cheat. Scum. If you regret our time together, I regret it tenfold.”

  His eyes flash dangerously, but he remains in that deceptively calm posture. “Go on,” he warns.

  “Why? Your pride hurting?”

  A smoldering look settles in his eyes as he trails them purposely down my body. “Enough to want you to change your mind, maybe.”

  I grit my teeth, knowing that once there was a girl inside me who believed that one day she’d marry him. But the only girl left now is the angry one, the one he hurt, and she grits out, “You’ll never have me again.”

  “Your lips say one thing but the rest of you screams the opposite.”

  We stare for another moment, and I hate that I’m breathing hard, and somehow do feel flustered, flushed, my breasts aching, something throbbing between my legs, before I strain out, “Who cares?”

  “You do,” he says. “And I do.” He stands again, comes over, and leans forward. “You hate it, but right now—knowing how much you fucking hate the way you want me—it’s making me high.”

  He surveys my chin, lips, cheekbones, forehead, as if thirsty to see something in my face he fails to see. Then he whispers, “You make me hard too, but that’s about the only thing you do for me,” and loosens his hold.

  “Fuck you.”

  He flashes me a smile. “Oh, it’s such a pleasurable experience, I will.”

  I feel strangely bereft of all fight as he puts some distance between us and settles back in the seat, lips still curled as he watches me in silence.

  My insides tremble with a combination of anger and lust that I don’t want. God, he’s a narcissistic pig. So in love with himself he probably even smiles like that for his own sake in the mirror. His smile is one of the things everybody in the world can’t stop talking about. It’s one of those manly smiles that makes him look even sexier. It softens the silver in his eyes, at the same time melting your insides. Now the fact that he has a beautiful smile makes my insides boil while still attracting me.

  GOD!

  I want to say something painful that will hurt him. But no. He wants to punish me because I ruined his concert? I’m going to ruin. His fucking. Life.

  FOUR

  WHEN LIFE WAS GOOD

  Pandora

  A little over six years ago

  “First we will get a small apartment. A loft!”

  “That’s right,” a low voice answers over the top of my head.

  “And all we’d need is a bed in it,” I add.

  “And you,” the husky voice murmurs, and I turn into the arms holding me. Silver eyes meet mine—silver like a wolf’s, heavy-lidded, both tender and eerily sharp. His lips are curled into this adorable smile, and I know right then and there that my boyfriend loves that I suggested a bed, of course.

  “We can even get a dog,” I add cheekily.

  “And a fish.”

  He lifts one arm to point at the desiccated swordfish on the wall of the yacht we’ve stolen into. It’s not ours, but this is one of our hiding places. One of the many places where we meet and spend as much time together as we can.

  It’s almost dawn now, and though we haven’t slept and could easily stay here forever, he grudgingly gets up and shoves his long, muscular legs into his jeans.

  “Gorgeous,” he calls as he shoves a hand into his jeans pocket.

  I turn from where I’m slipping into my sweatshirt.

  “There’s been something I’ve been wanting you to have . . .” He steps over and holds something small and shiny to the thin streaks of light that steal through the round yacht windows. A sliver of excitement runs through my body when I realize what it is.

  “Is this a promise ring?”

  When my lashes raise, I find him watching me with somber intensity.

  With the intensity of a boy who loves you.

  Just like you love him.

  “It’s beautiful,” I whisper, reverently reaching out for it.

  “It was my mother’s.” His voice is textured with emotion, his beautiful face harsh with it as he watches me slip it onto my finger.

&nbs
p; “What are you promising me?” I taunt, lifting my face to his.

  I will never forget the cocky lift to the corner of his lips when he said, “Me.”

  Oh, god, I love him. I love him like a storm loves a sky and a smile needs a face. Mackenna is the best of me, the rock that holds me, the only one who understands me. He’s all that is left of my life that is tender and happy. I throw myself at him and he catches me, squeezes me, hugs me tighter than anyone else hugs me. “I’ll say yes and take all of you, so don’t joke about this,” I warn.

  “No joke,” he promises, lifting my hand so he can see. “Looks pretty on you.”

  I squeeze his fingers with mine as my heart squeezes at the very same time. “But my mother and your father . . . they both need us right now.”

  Our lives are so imperfect. Cluttered with obstacles between him and me.

  After my father died, my mother turned even more strict and bitter.

  After Mackenna’s mother died, his father turned to drugs. Dealing drugs.

  And now, my mother is the DA in charge of convicting Mackenna’s father, and the case is destroying our every chance at happiness.

  I can’t wait to get away.

  We need to get away.

  He strokes my face with his long, guitar-playing fingers. “I know they need us, but they won’t need us forever. The hearing isn’t until a couple of months. Whatever happens with my father, whatever the judge decides . . . we’ll meet at the park that night, and we’ll run away. Get married. I can get a couple of gigs at a few local bars, I can support you through college.”

  “Will you really help me pay my college tuition, Kenna? Are you sure you can do it?” I ask hopefully.

  “Hell, I’d do anything for you.” He’s deadly serious as he speaks the words, giving my shoulders a squeeze. “I’m tired of hiding, you know.”

  “I’m tired too.”

  “I want to be with you. Out in the open. I’m sick of being your secret. I want to be your guy. I want people to know you’re mine.”

  “But I am.” I lift my hand to his line of vision again, wiggling my beautifully adorned finger. “I am yours. And our plan’s still on, whatever happens. I’ll meet you at the park after the trial.”