Ripped: Chapter 3

“It’s a lot of fucking money,” Melanie says as we ride back home.

“Melanie, I fucking robbed them. I would’ve caved for half. Hell, I’d kiss a hippo’s ass for half!”

What just happened?

I’m still trying to grasp the fact that I just signed my life away. Or more exactly, three weeks, a kiss, and a movie premiere appearance away.

I’m on my way back from the most surreal couple of hours of my life. In the space of ninety minutes, I met Trenton the movie producer, a bunch of lawyers, and a big, fat check.

Now we’re riding in the back of a limo provided for Princess Melanie by none other than her very own Mr. King. The driver is apparently her boyfriend’s driver. I tell you, being with her lately is giving me a fucking complex. Especially after your ex just looked at you the way Mackenna looked at me. Like he wants to murder me, slowly, and then chop off my body parts and hide them in a box. So the legend goes—Pandora in a box, not Pandora’s box.

Melanie raps manicured nails against a crystal glass she’s lifted from the minibar inside the car. The letters on the nails spell G-R-E-Y with a heart on her thumb.

Ridiculous.

Both my friends are in committed relationships with men who’ve proven themselves true by doing the unthinkable—leaving their lives for them. I loathed Melanie’s playboy because I thought he wasn’t right for her, but it turned out he was exactly what she’d dreamed of and more. Hot, protective, dangerous, and alpha to the max, he’d do anything for Melanie. And Brooke? Brooke is already married to her guy—no, he’s not just a guy, he’s like a beast. A tall, lean, muscled, dark-haired, blue-eyed, sexy beast—who looks at her like he lives for her.

I don’t tell Melanie how it hurts when Greyson shows up at the office to steal her away for the day, or how it hurts to see Brooke and her husband instinctively nuzzle each other when they talk. Maybe it’s because I feel uncomfortable letting anyone see that I notice that shit. But I do. I notice it like I’d notice that I’m missing a limb, or like I’d notice slamming into a tree branch and having it stick out of my torso.

Yeah, I notice how Greyson looks at Melanie, and how Remy looks at Brooke. Only a few months ago Brooke and her husband were in town with their baby, and I saw the way he smiled at her across the room. How they each sought out the space in the room where the other was. How, when they were close, he put his hand on her hip, a huge hand, and ducked his head to her, so near that his lips moved against her ear, his lips curled, his eyes twinkling down at her. I noticed Brooke’s smile, almost shy, and the way she turned her body to his and cupped his jaw. You could feel the love in the air, and I almost felt like I was intruding on something intimate and special. Seeing them, I scowled down at my lap, because I couldn’t take it.

And Melanie? She was probably wishing on some stupid star, hoping that one day that would be her. And now, guess what? It is her. Her fucking boyfriend dotes on her. She’s found genuine love. Love that I won’t ever let myself wish for because I will never have that with anyone. I will never duck my head shyly or be the kind of girl who inspires a man to protect her the way my friends’ men protect them. I will never inspire a man to want to change for the better because of me. Because I’m not inspiring. I’m the bitter one nobody likes to hang around with for too long.

All because Mackenna wrecked me.

He fucked my brains out and then he fucked with my heart and what was left of my brains, and I was too young to get over it. Now, after looking into those eyes I absolutely cannot stand, I would rather die than back out on a challenge from him. He doesn’t want to see me? Well then, I’m going to plant myself in front of him so that he has to. I’m going to make his life a living hell, like he did mine. And best of all? I’m getting paid for it. I think I might just be enjoying my first stroke of luck since . . . my birth date.

“Yes, Trillion, it went amazing!” Melanie cries excitedly into the phone, checking her nails to make sure they’re perfect. She calls her boyfriend Trillion sometimes, saying it’s because it was the highest number she could think of. I don’t get it, but she told me not to worry, because he does.

Whatever. Melanie’s just . . . Melanie.

Now she’s dropping her voice even more for him. “Yes, I thought of you . . . I need you more. I’ll tell Ulysses to step on it. No, it won’t be a risk if he steps on it. I need you.” She’s blushing like her boyfriend has just whispered something filthy he plans to do to her. She bites her lower lip like a young girl and cups the receiver and whispers something, then laughs and hangs up.

“You look like a simpering virgin, Melanie,” I say bitterly.

Her eyes twinkle, almost as if her guy just made love to her on the phone. “So what? He makes me feel shy when he describes in detail what he’s going to do to me.”

“Dude, you have his name on your fingers and hearts on your thumbs. Men like your man like challenges. Careful, or he’ll think you’re a sure thing and dump you.”

“I am a sure thing, and he’s my sure thing. We love each other, we’re getting married, you dodo.”

Fuck, I’ll be the only singleton of the three. Even our closest guy friend, Kyle, has a girlfriend now.

Fuck me standing and with my boots on. Ugh.

We fall quiet the rest of the way home. Melanie is now texting, maybe with her guy or maybe with Brooke. Melanie always keeps her up to date.

“Will you tell me how you two met?” she demands, looking up from her phone. I’ve been reluctant to talk about Mackenna for ages.

“Long time ago. In high school, before I switched schools and met you.”

“But you don’t think he was worth mentioning before yesterday? He broke your damn heart and he sings about it on the radio!”

I stare out the window, pulling up my walls tight around me.

“What happened?”

“Stupid girl attracted to bad boy, V card handed over, heart broken, end of story. I’m not even worried about him. Currently, I’m worried about what I’ll say to my mother. I’ll probably just say I have work, and I’ll talk to Susan to see if she’ll let me work from afar the next few weeks. I’ll tell Mother the truth once it’s all over.”

I’ll be lying, but who gives a shit. I’ve lied before. Like when I used to steal out in the middle of the night, my heart racing, to meet Mackenna.

“Let’s talk about the guy, shall we?”

“No, we shall not.”

“Then let’s talk about this—I can’t believe you’re going to be in a fucking movie!”

I snort. “It’s not a real movie. It’s like the Katy Perry and Justin Bieber ones, which is sort of lame.”

“It’s a movie, Pandora. Played in movie theaters. And I loved both Katy and Justin in them! You kept asking how could Brooke just leave town for a guy she loves? Now you’re leaving town for one you hate! That’s a karmic lesson for you. Stop judging people in love for what they do. You’re doing worse shit for someone you don’t even love,” she says with a smirk.

“Judge all you want. I got this big fat check, and what did you get? Not even a picture with them.”

“I have Greyson, duh! He’s all I want. And I finally discovered the name of your asshole ex. Kenna is the hottest of the three and you know it, dude. Tell me what happened. We’re supposed to be friends. Who do you even talk to about this shit? You get sick when you hold it in. You need to let it out.”

“I just let it all out, in the form of tomatoes.” I grin when I remember, and for a moment, I feel happy when Melanie laughs.

“Will that part be in the movie? Please say yes!” she begs, taking my shirt in her hands and shaking me.

I laugh. “I hope so,” I admit, jerking my shirt free. “Hell, I hope I can do it again at Madison Square, just before I kiss him. That’ll show him.”

“Just so he can take off his shirt. God!”

I hit her. “Mel! He wears wigs and grabs his cock when he’s dancing. He’s disgusting.”

“Dude, watching him work it up there got half the people around us pregnant, I swear!” She laughs, but I stare out the window and glare, my anger resurfacing as I remember what it felt like to stare into those odd, eerie silver eyes again.

It did not feel good at all.

It felt uncomfortable, messy, complicated, and definitely not nice.

I remember him squishing tomato into my scalp, and my stomach feels like a hot little pot, bubbling with toxicity.

“Pandora, you both looked a little too murderous with each other. Maybe you should talk to your therapist first? So she can give you some pointers on how to stay cool?”

My pride prickles. “I don’t need tips. I’ve got this. She’s been giving me tips for six years.”

“Fine. Just get back here in one piece and in time to get measured for your bridesmaid dress. Pan, it’s my wedding, so suck it, bitch.”

I groan, and she laughs and slaps my butt as I get out of the car. Mel is always excited. Always upbeat. She’s not like me. And I’m happy for her. I am. But I also hate that I feel mad because she’s so happy. Sometimes I feel like I can’t stand happy people.

I just don’t fucking understand them.

I head into the apartment, trying not to make noise. In case you haven’t guessed it by my name alone, my mother didn’t want me, and she never lets me forget it. The words “So you don’t make the same mistake I did” have been ingrained in my head since I got my first period, and I’ve never quite forgotten that the mistake was me.

I should probably live alone. But my cousin Magnolia saved my mother and me. She lost her mom, my mother’s sister, to leukemia, and came to us as a baby a few years after my dad’s death. She pulled both my mom and me from a deep sadness. If it weren’t for seeing her perceptive little gaze every morning, I’d be on drugs. Or booze. Or both. I don’t know why I’m drawn to drugs or booze or both, but when my dad died and Mackenna left, and my mom slapped me every time I cried and told me to get a grip, be strong . . . I just didn’t feel like life had a lot to offer at the time. Until little Magnolia came to us. My mom focused her efforts on her, and so did I.

I ease into the bathroom we share, turn on the shower, and pull free of my clothes. The water rushes over my head and I see his eyes, glittering silver and angry, and my stomach knots because I thought I’d feel better after hurting him. I felt that little rush at first, when we attacked him during his concert, but then I saw him, and all I know right now is that I don’t feel good.

After my shower, I can’t sleep, so I sit on the living room couch, listening to the patter of soft rain and the whoosh of wind outside. I tiptoe into Magnolia’s room and look at the way she’s twisted on the bed, all innocent, her dark hair fanned out on the pillow. She, like Melanie, really likes the pink streak in my hair.

“PanPan, read this for me,” she said only two nights ago.

She pulled out a princess story, and I cleared my throat and began reading. Magnolia remained quiet and in rapt attention, until I lowered the book. “Mag, look, I don’t think these books give you the right expectations of what a man is really like,” I said. She has no father figure, no brother, no male influence in her life, and it worries me. “You’ll fall in love with this prince and never find him.”

“Eww!” She jumped on the bed, yelling, “I don’t read these for the princes! I read them for the magic!”

“But soon you’ll be lured by a prince—”

“No prince! I want the dragon to eat the prince. Helena says that the boys with crowns in these stories don’t even like girls anymore. They like boys!”

Shit, I laughed my ass off at that.

And then I worried a little.

She has a friend with two dads, and fortunately, Magnolia’s completely not jealous of her friend’s bounty of fathers. “Why would anyone want two dads? I have none and am super all right—right, PanPan?”

She sounded confident when she asked, but I have such fond memories of my dad, I just don’t know. Still, I said she was right, because I didn’t have a dad anymore either. But is she truly all right?

As the sun rises, I write her a short note in case I leave before she wakes, then I go and get my electronic cigarettes from the nightstand. The key to quitting smoking is to always keep ’em fully charged. I’m on a two-month streak, and I’m not going to start smoking again because of a fucking asshole like Mackenna. I shove the e-cigarettes into my bag and, on impulse, go to the shoebox in my closet where I’ve hidden some old stuff. Prized among those things is a stupid rock he gave me. Why did I save it? I don’t know. It’s a real rock, not a bling rock. I tripped on it once, when he walked me home.

“Kick that,” I said angrily, cupping my bleeding elbow.

“If we kick it, it’ll only trip you again next time you come around. The key to never tripping with the same rock is hang on to it,” he said with a smirk. “You can make sure you’ll never trip with the same rock if you grab on to it and know where it is.”

Thank you, Mackenna, for that nugget of wisdom. I’m going to make sure I never trip over you!

There are people who have an effect on your life. And then there are people who become your life.

Like he did.

I was always a solitary, withdrawn girl, my mother a workaholic, my father a workaholic, both of them strict and pretty much expecting me to focus on grades and grades only. They were always wary of me having bad influences, or even friends, really. This, for some reason, and my choice of clothes, made me the cool girls’ favorite attraction—or distraction. I was the only goth in our grade, and they loved to snicker about my all-black clothes and call me a cutter. But there was this one boy, the coolest bad boy, who stopped the teasing one day. He approached me with a purple scarf I had seen one of the girls wearing earlier, and he draped it around my neck, pulling me to him almost intimately close. “I’ll see you after school,” he said and kissed my forehead. The other girls shut up.

Because everyone would have given a limb to get that attention from “Jones”—and he gave it just like that to me.

And that’s how I fell, like a ton of bricks, for Mackenna Jones.

It turns out he did wait for me after school that day. He drove me home and asked his neighbor to sit in the backseat so “Pandora” could sit up front with him. I didn’t even know he knew my name. “Why’d you do that?” I asked when he walked me up the stairs to my building.

“Why’d you let them?” he returned, those eyes of his making me feel vulnerable and naked and strangely pretty. For a goth, this is big.

Really big.

But I also noticed by his frown that he was displeased.

“I don’t stop them because I don’t give a shit,” I said as I hurried up the steps. He followed, grabbed my wrist, and spun me to face him.

“Hey! Go out with me Friday night.”

“Excuse me?” I sputtered.

“You heard me.”

“Why would you want to go out with someone like me? Your line of fans not long enough?”

“Because the girl I want is right here.”

We started going out in secret, finding hiding places where no one would see us. He told me about music, how he wanted to see the world. He worked as a DJ on the weekends. He had hopes and dreams and wishes. I told him I didn’t know what I wanted to be, and I didn’t have hopes and dreams and wishes. I guess you never feel so hopeless as when you’re with someone who’s bursting with ideas and knows he’s going to take on the world. Even so, he was drawn to me. He teased me, made me laugh, later made me forget about my father’s death and the fact that my mother considered it a betrayal if I ever cried at his loss.

He became my life. I began to wait for his eyes, silver like a wolf’s, to turn to see me. I began to quake and shiver in anticipation of him walking past my locker even if he wasn’t supposed to come over. Sometimes I dropped a pencil, a book, my bag, just so that he could hand it over with that smile of his and brush his thumb over mine. I suppose people wondered about us, but we never gave them proof. Maybe I wondered if he only wanted sex from me, but I also wanted it. I fantasized about it. When it would happen, where it would be, how it would feel, if he’d say nice things to me.

It ended up being amazing. Every time with him. Amazing. Addictive.

I only wanted him.

We fooled around for months before finally going all the way, and things got even more serious after that. I spoke about telling my overprotective mother about us, about taking care of my school grades so she had no excuse to tell me I couldn’t have a boyfriend . . . and just when I was about to say something to her . . .

His father got arrested for drug trafficking. That night, when I got home, my mother was being called by the DA’s office. Mackenna’s hopes were shattered, and I had none of my own to pull us through. I tried to tell my mother that Mackenna and I had “something,” to which she responded by immediately forbidding me to contact “the son.” And after Dad died, even as Mackenna and I planned to leave the city, she watched me like a hawk. . . .

In the end, Mackenna did leave. He left me behind.

I went back to being the goth people laughed at, except now I was not sad anymore. I was mad. I punched some of the girls, and my mother sent me to therapy and, later, to a private school, where I ended up meeting the two girls who’ve been my only friends.

Melanie and Brooke.

I never, ever mentioned his name to them.

I’d thought he’d saved me, but it turns out he’d only just started to ruin my life.

At seventeen, I had needed him.

At eighteen, I still missed him.

At nineteen, I still wanted him.

At twenty, I still thought about him.

But by the time I heard him sing about me on the radio, making light music from nights that had held me together when I’d felt lonely—that’s when I wished I’d never laid eyes on him.

♥  ♥  ♥

AT DAWN, I hear my mom moving around.

“Hey,” I say when I join her in the kitchen. She smiles and nudges a cup of coffee in my direction with the back of one finger. I shake my head. “Thanks.”

“You came in late last night,” she says.

“I was with Melanie.”

“Ahh, of course. That explains it all.”

I start buttering some toast for myself so I don’t have to look her in the eye when I lie. Otherwise, she’ll know in an instant. By profession, she’s naturally inclined to immediately detect liars. You have to be really good to fool her—which, I guess, I am. “Mother, I have a business opportunity, and I need to travel out of town for a while.”

“Travel?” she repeats.

She’s a lawyer. She’s used to asking a question and staring you down until you either whimper or cave. I stare back at her and don’t respond, forcing myself not to twitch under her stare.

“Travel implies flying, Pandora.”

The mere word makes my stomach spin as if someone is twirling it with a spoon. “I just flew with Melanie and did all right with the meds I took. By the time I woke up, we’d landed. I’ll take those and try to do some stretches by land,” I lie. I have no clue how the rock band works, or if they travel by land, air, or heck, even sea. Still, I open my hand and show her the pillbox I just retrieved, three pills resting inside.

She stares directly at me, ignoring the pills. “So what kind of opportunity is this?”

“It’s a good one—great one,” I amend as I frantically set my mind free to imagine a sufficient lie. “I sent in the proposal for several apartments—dark fabrics, you know. What I like. They’re for a big, um, family, and I was hired on the spot. They said nobody can do this but me—it has to be me. And I’ve been decorating long enough to know it’s the kind of opportunity I might never see again. Ever.”

“All right, so when are you home?”

“I think three weeks.”

“Very well.”

We continue our breakfast in silence. I try to exhale slowly so my breath doesn’t shake on its exit.

“PanPan!” A cannonball lands on my lap, and I laugh as all the warmth that is Magnolia envelops me.

“Hey, Magnificent!” I say, tweaking her nose. I call Magnolia anything with a Mag. She gets a toothy grin when I ask her what she’s up to.

“Nuttin’,” she says, pulling free and jamming a hand in the cereal box on the counter.

“Magazine, I’m going to be away for a bit, are you going to stay out of trouble?”

“Nope. Trouble’s my middle name.”

“We agreed it was mine.” I go to the cabinet and pull out a bowl and a spoon. “What’ll you do if you miss me?”

She blinks.

“You’ll make a list of the things you wanted to do with me when I was away and we’ll do them all when I get back,” I tell her.

She nods and carries her cereal to the table. I’m a big believer in lists. You write your wants down on paper, and it’s like putting them out there to the Universe: Bitch, you gotta make this happen for me. I got it from my mother, who’s married to her lists, and I think I will probably marry mine . . . when I finally get around to writing one.

“Okay, I will,” Magnolia says, starting to eat her cereal. I feel my phone buzz and notice Kyle’s car out in the street.

“Kyle’s here, I better go.” Putting away my phone, I squeeze Magnolia to me. When I stand, my mother nods. I grab my duffel bag, and for a moment, I’m uncertain whether to hug her or not. Since she stands there with her coffee in her hand and makes no move toward me, I nod back and leave. She’s just not very tactile, but neither am I. We’re more comfortable remaining in our little bubbles—little bubbles only Magnolia seems to penetrate. Well, Melanie sometimes gets into mine too.

I spot Kyle behind the wheel and slide into his nerdy automobile.

“What’s all this about?” he asks, confused by the duffel I toss into the backseat. “I’m driving you to some hotel parking lot? Did you become a cartel worker overnight?”

“I’m . . . uh, stage setting with Crack Bikini. So . . .”

“For real? You shitting me?”

He looks amazed, which only makes me want to groan.

He doesn’t know I know Mackenna. None of my friends know who “the asshole who made me hate men” was—their words, not mine. I only told Melanie last night because the bitch wanted to pass on the concert and stay home—to probably let her very healthy male bang her brains out—so I had to fess up to why it was so important that we go.

Because I just spent a fucking fortune on two tickets, and because he’s the fucking asshole who broke my heart and made me heartless and bitter.

Who? The one who sold you the tickets?

No! Mackenna suck-a-dick Jones!

“For real, you’re working with Crack Bikini?” Kyle asks.

“No, Kyle. I just like bullshitting you for rides to random hotels.”

“When are you coming back?” he presses.

“Less than a month.”

We head to where I was told to meet everyone, and as we spot about a thousand custom coach buses at the hotel parking lot, I’m so nervous I’m crackling.

Kyle parks in awed silence, then grabs my duffel and helps me carry it as we head toward a group of band members. Before we reach them, he stops and gives me a brotherly peck on the cheek, and—isn’t this just perfect?—there’s Mackenna, watching it from the door of a nearby coach. I push on my tiptoes and shove my tongue down Kyle’s throat, and before he can figure out why the fuck I’m swapping saliva with him, I pull back with a little moan.

“Be good,” I say in a lame seductive voice.

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 start 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.