Ripped: Chapter 16

The lack of paparazzi means that we enjoy our motel stay so much that we book another one in Dallas. Nobody would expect a member of Crack Bikini to stay in such a place—which works for us. When I wake up, the room is bursting with evidence. Evidence of us. There’s a headset on a table, a guitar, an electric keyboard, and the remains of a bottle of wine and shared pizza.

And there’s him too.

I don’t even know what to call this feeling, but it’s a mix of both pain and pleasure every time I look at him. He smiles when I approach, but he keeps humming, stroking the keyboard with his fingers. The tone is soft, almost like a ballad. “There’s this song in my head,” he says.

Of course. There’s a reason why they’ve won three Grammy Awards so far and are considered by many to be the modern gods of rock and roll. And as I watch Mackenna—the way he makes music with his eyes closed, murmuring to himself before jotting down words—I feel the walls around me melt. For him. For how easy it is to lose yourself in the limelight. The custom coaches for touring, with their big, flashy lights. Not to mention those blue interior lights that almost make them feel like a damn whorehouse. Hiding your face half the time just to have some privacy. I couldn’t ever live with this. Not even for him. But he’s coped rather well. He’s just like he used to be, except even bolder, and more confident.

And his confidence—his boldness—is sexy.

Quietly, I watch him, for the first time accepting maybe this is how things were meant to be. Maybe this trip won’t give me revenge. Maybe it will give me peace.

I study his ears and how they look adorable, just slightly too small for his rounded skull, admiring that he’s writing his own material. By the way he hums, I’m now positive it’s a ballad.

I remember one article in Rolling Stone magazine. He and the twins had been asked about the paparazzi, and they’d said something like, “Half of it is pure lies. Pictures start popping up, and what’s worse is you don’t remember who took those pictures, when, or even how.”

“And the other half?” the interviewer had asked.

They had laughed, and it had been Mackenna who’d said, “True. Every fucking word of it.”

They’d talked of how they recorded, taking days to rehearse and do sound checks, singing for hours on end until they got the sounds exactly right. There was talk of eighteen-hour stints at the studio, and topping the Billboard charts. The interview wound down with the guys discussing their relaxed approach to coming up with new material—meeting up to write, scribble, hum. They talked of all that.

But now, it’s just him, with a red guitar in his arms that’s as scuffed and as badass as the rocker holding it.

He hums the start, then calls me forward with a lift of his jaw.

I didn’t cry when he left me. If I’d started, I never would have stopped. But when he sets the guitar aside, pats his knee, and I drop down, he whispers five words of the song in my ear, and the prickling sensation behind my eyes surprises me.

I haven’t had to deal with listening to his voice in my ear until this month. I wasn’t prepared for how it would shake me every time. How it would hurt so deeply.

“Haven’t been able to write in a while,” he whispers, an adorable little smile crossing his lips. “Thank you for this song, Pandora.”

I nod silently. I can’t believe that, in a matter of weeks, I will spend the rest of my days seeing him on TV. Watching from afar.

“I am good for inspiration, then,” I say, searching his face, delighting in how young it looks in the morning sunlight. “Are you writing about my rotting teeth? And the frogs I eat?”

“Ahh, that’s you. How’s your song going, by the way?”

“It’s going,” I lie.

At first, I stop my hand from reaching out to touch his hair, then I go ahead and let it touch anyway. “Morning, Mackenna.”

He returns my look, a silver color the likes of which I’ve never seen in his eyes. “Good morning, Pandora.”

We’re both smiling like idiots when we hear his cell buzz. Lifting a finger, he tells me, “One second, Pink,” and lifts the phone to his ear. I get up for the room service menu when I hear him greet someone I assume to be one of the twins.

“No, I’m not shitting you,” he says in a tone that says, I’m shitting all over you. “The motor just up and died. Gotta get a new car, and they’re out of muscle cars. I’m not riding in a pansy car. Hell, Pink won’t ride in anything but a muscle car now. So, I’ll just get a bike or some shit.”

Ohmigod! Seriously? I wheel around, and he gives me a thumbs-up.

I scowl and plant my hands on my hips.

“Yeah, she wanted another Lambo or a Ferrari, but they can’t get them here on time, so I improvised.”

Shaking my head, I go take a quick shower. It doesn’t take long, and I’m pulling out a change of fresh clothes, when, phone still pressed to his ear, he leaps from the sofa and takes them from me, setting them aside.

Ooooh. He doesn’t want me to dress?

He’s listening to the other end, saying, “Hmm, yes,” and nodding as he peels the towel off me, then turns me to face the window. At first I don’t understand—then I spot it. In our parking space. Where the Lamborghini used to be.

A red motorcycle—brand new, as if he’s just bought it—is parked outside, two helmets hanging from the handlebars. He hangs up. “I just bought us a couple of more hours away from practice.”

“To do what?”

“You.”

I glance over my shoulder and into his masculine face as he cups my breast from behind, his hand strong and eager as it pinches and plays with my nipple.

He grins, his diamond earring glinting as he leans over and presses a butterfly kiss to my shoulder. “I had the car towed,” he confesses.

“But it was working just fine.”

He nibbles my skin, sending a ripple of warmth through me. “Listen, Pink. You don’t get to be where I am by not stretching the truth now and again.”

He turns me around, and I feel his erection poking deliciously into my stomach. “Mackenna,” I protest.

“Exactly what I hoped you’d say, but not the right tone,” he murmurs. “Let’s remedy that, Pink. I want you moaning it.”

He brushes my lips with his. I hold my breath as a rush of hot lightning bolts hit me. He brushes my lips again, and when I mewl, he chuckles at the victory.

“Mackenna,” I say, groaning as I grasp the back of his head.

He stops chuckling and slides his open hands around my waist to my ass, settling his lips on mine like he wants to taste every fiber of me. My head falls back and he cups my skull in one hand, scouring every corner of my mouth with his silken, hot, delicious tongue. That makes me moan. He groans in return and pulls me up against the wall.

And there, he fucks me.

♥  ♥  ♥

I’M EXCITED ABOUT riding that bike. Bad boy. Bike. I might have fantasized about it once . . . or twice. But I scowl so he doesn’t know it. “A helmet? Really? In all my dreams of bike riding, I never once wore a helmet.”

“We’re taking this down to New Orleans after the concert. Hate to break it to you, gorgeous, but you’re hardheaded, not immortal, and I want that pretty head intact so I can keep messing with it.”

“Oh, well, when you put it that way.”

I want to stop the flocks of nervous butterflies inside me. To remind myself that he hurt me, and he will do it again. But apart from Magnolia, he has always been the only one to make me truly happy. To bring out the less grumpy side of me.

“Put it on,” he says, strapping the helmet on my head. He peers into my eyes, smacks a kiss on my lips, then climbs onto the bike. Swinging my leg over, I follow, my whole body aware of where my breasts press his back, where my parted legs rest along his thighs. I tuck my cheek to his back and feel the rumble of the Ducati as he ignites it, all the while telling myself, over and over, that none of this is real.

“You going to hang tight, gorgeous?” he says, reaching behind me and squeezing my butt, pressing me closer.

“I’m fucking tight, Kenna. It’s not like I’m going to let go, drop, and die!” I say, my laughter fogging my visor.

“Jesus, that mouth,” he says, shaking his helmet. He turns, and under the blue tinted visor, I can feel his eyes take me in as he pulls my arms tighter around his waist. Then he grabs the handle, flicks up the kickstand, and with another delicious rumble, we’re off.

I laugh out loud, and I think he hears me, because, through the wind, he turns slightly. Most of his face is hidden, but I can tell his grin is huge. “You like that?” he says, and his voice carries over the noise of the bike.

“Yeah.”

“How do you feel?”

Happy, I think to myself.

“I feel great,” I call out. “Just please don’t crash.”

♥  ♥  ♥

IN DALLAS, THE stage lights crackle as the dancers perform, and as the orchestra blares, Kenna, Jax, and Lex take the stage by storm. Later, when he sings one of their slower songs, Kenna joins the orchestra on the piano while his public waves thousands of lighters in the dark. “Pandora’s Kiss” is the last song, and when it starts, the drums kick in with extra vigor, each drumbeat coinciding with the lift of Mackenna’s fist.

I watch from below. Lionel told me to observe the female dancers because the producers really want me up there for Madison Square Garden. It’s hard, because although I try to keep my eyes on them as they dance all around Kenna—and I really do try—my eyes can’t help straying to him. The lights caressing his skin, shining on his purple rock wig, making even his thumb ring glint as he dances in a way only he can. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m beginning to understand why some of the fans cry at the mere mention of Crack Bikini.