Ripped: Chapter 14

We’re in a tangle. No cameras. Nothing. Nothing but me and her. She’s sweaty and smells like sex, and that’s just the way I want her to smell.

I want her to smell like me.

Hell, this here—her hair with that pink streak spread out on the pillow and her limbs around me—this is so fucking perfect, I don’t want to even go take a piss.

I want so much more, I’m a greedy fucking man. Greedy as fuck when it comes to her. I growl softly and nip at her shoulder, murmuring, “I need to go talk to Leo.”

She sighs, stretches. “About what?”

I look at her; she’s a pistol and a half, and I love having my hands full with her. “I’ll tell you later, woman. Cover up so I at least get my mind out of your luscious curves.”

“I’m hot and sweaty. I don’t want to cover up.”

She groans, and I bury my own groan in her neck. “And I don’t want to leave this bed.” Now I nip at the soft, tender tendon of her throat. “But the sooner I talk to him, the sooner I can come back here.”

“Mackenna,” she laughs, her arms tight around my neck, “are you seriously going now?”

I smack her ass playfully. “Yeah. I’ve got big plans for your future.”

“Come on! Stay here. Tonight I wanted . . .” She looks at me with those pitch-black eyes, then frowns as if she doesn’t like what she was about to say. They’re heavy-lidded, her eyes. “I want us to be friends,” she says at last.

“Friends?” I repeat.

“Yeah. I want . . .” She sits up warily, tugs her hair. “I want to try to move on, Mackenna.”

“You want to move on from me?”

Fuck me, but that’s just not what I wanted to hear. Still, I sound casual. She’d never guess the size of the blade I feel sticking out of my gut right now.

“No. From the past,” she says.

“Really,” I say, without inflection.

But I can’t let go. I can’t let go of the past. How can you let go when all you want is to turn back time and make a different choice? And yet she looks so fucking hopeful, as if this right here is the moment where she can finally live a happier life.

I don’t want to tell her that that’s not what I want.

“Your hair is fucking crazy.” I tug on the cotton candy streak.

She flashes a brief but rare smile. “Tell me about your crazy wigs.”

“My wigs are cool, babe. You better watch what you say about them.”

“Do you like wearing your wigs, or is it something they make you do?”

“The wigs?”

“No! Idiot! Leo—your contract.”

“Nah, I do it myself. Makes it easier. Like stepping into a persona. I dig it.”

“Because you’re fun. You always did like to have fun. Oooh. And like the technique of pretending no one out there is me. Your jinx.”

“You’re not a jinx.”

“All that pot smoke your bandmates blow out is messing with your head. You don’t make any sense. Explain.”

“You’re not a jinx. It helps when you’re the only one I’d want to make proud of me.”

An intense but secret expression flickers in her eyes.

My lips curl, an empty smile.

“That’s news to you?” I laugh. “You’re the only one I’ve never been good enough for.” I’m putting it all out there. “Knowing it’s not you out there relieves some of the performance pressure.”

“I . . .” She blinks, her face losing some of its color.

“Cat got your tongue?” I lean in and tongue her mouth.

She tongues me back, and I sigh and pull her closer. She sighs back, relaxing into the present. No more past. Fuckups. Mistakes. All those years. All that pain. All that impotence. The frustration. Gone.

She closes her eyes when my fingertips reach her scalp, and her tits rise and fall against my chest, awakening my cock to come play again. But I can’t yet. There’s something I must do first.

I kiss the top of her head. “Go to sleep.”

“Why? For your information, meathead, I wasn’t planning on kicking you out tonight.”

“Gotta talk to Leo.”

♥  ♥  ♥

NO SURPRISE TO find out Lionel has company when I knock on his door. He ushers me into the living room while Tit wraps herself with a bathrobe and pouts from the bed.

Lionel shuts the door between the bedroom and sitting area, blocking her from us. “What happened at that rodeo bar was unacceptable, Leo,” I warn.

“Just trying to get a couple good scenes, something organic and natural. Damn, you love jumping into fights.”

“Yeah—but not when she’s in it,” I growl, pacing around like a caged tiger, watched, taunted, pricked. “I need to get her out of here, Leo,” I finally tell him, spinning around to face him.

“You don’t need to do anything except work her out of your system, Jones.”

“I want to drive separately.”

His eyes nearly bug out. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Pandora and I are heading to New Orleans and Dallas on our own. I want her away from the cameras, the fans, the girls. Everything.”

“You can’t just up and leave. We have a movie to film, and the producer wants her on the stage of Madison Square Garden. She needs to practice. Plus, your job is to give us some meaty shit for film—that is, if you still want what you asked for?”

“You let me drive separately with her, I’ll help her with her dance routine. Hell, I’ll practice the kiss until it’s perfect. I’ll even give you a new song. God knows, it’s in my head all the time. Look, she doesn’t like flying, and the cameras are driving me nuts.”

“You want it all, dude, you want me to give you what you want—”

“Look,” I interrupt, narrowing my eyes as I aim my index finger his way, “you’re gonna get the kiss and I’ll also give you a song. One last song before you release me from my contract. That’s more than fair.”

Leo looks constipated, but I don’t fucking care. With his eyes narrowed on me as he seems to let everything sink in, I let him watch me call a rental service and get a car for Pandora and me.

As soon as the call ends, Lionel is on me with a furious glare, tightening the sash of the bathrobe that just so happens to match the one Tit was wearing. “You fucking her? Heard on camera there was fucking. We want to see some fucking action, Kenna.”

“You’re not going to see shit.”

“I’ll give you what you want,” he relents, “but only if you make this movie worth remembering.”

“Leo, we had a deal,” I remind him. “You said you’d release me if I went along with this bullshit. You wanted the kiss, and all you’re getting is that kiss.” Kissing Pink in front of thousands of fans, her lips on mine—hell, I know she’ll be angry. But she gets her chance to let the world know my song is bullshit. Not that I care all that much. Every complaint in that song is because I’ve been in love with her for years.

“Fine. Go drive her around in a car, I don’t care. But I get that kiss and that song or you get nothing, you hear?”

I head for the door. “I hear.”

“Make her want it, Kenna!” he calls.

“Oh, she wants it.” I slam the door shut after me.

Just not as much as I fucking do.

My father has a second chance, and I realize now that so do I. Difference is, I’m not screwing mine.

When I slip back into her room, she’s lying in bed and quickly rises up onto her arms when I arrive. You could never fall asleep when you knew I was coming, could you, baby?

“Hey,” I say, struggling with the sensation of carrying a grenade inside my chest. Grenade about to go boom!

Holy shit, I feel powerful things for her.

I feel everything for her. Anger and protectiveness. Possessiveness and pain. I feel fucking good with her. I feel . . .

“Come back to bed,” she whispers, lifting the sheets.

God, I’m not fucking it up this time.