Ripped: Chapter 9

I wake up early, and the choreographer waits for me in the hotel ballroom, along with eleven other dancers. Letitta is also there, watching with a smirk as I come in. I’m coffee-less, humorless, and sleepless. I don’t even smirk back.

I got no sleep last night. I kept expecting you-know-who to come to my bed. No, not expecting. Almost . . . anticipating. Sad, but true. I kept remembering when we were seventeen, and he used to slip up the trellis into my room, and I’d be waiting—pretending I wasn’t waiting—my heart leaping when he tapped lightly on the window. I’d let him in in a hurry, and he’d take off his shirt, his shoes, slipping into bed with me with just his jeans on, and I’d smell him and press close, wanting to say that since my dad died he’d been the only one able to make me forget the pain. Wanting to tell him that it hurt to know my mom was, day and night, preparing her case to take his dad away from him too . . .

“It’s all right, he did it to himself,” he whispered when I told him I was sorry, again. But he sounded sad. How could he not be sad?

And then I’d fall asleep, even as I fought not to, too comfortable with his smell, and warmth, and the way he stroked his hand long and lazy down my back. Then I’d wake alone, seeing the dent in his pillow and the slightly open window where he’d slipped out, just in time before my mother came to wake me for school.

“Close the window, it’s chilly!” she’d scold.

“You’re like a grandma already,” I’d grumble.

“That is so disrespectful, Pandora.”

“I’m sorry,” I’d mumble and disappear into the shower, letting the water run over my body, already loathing the day ahead. I knew what would happen, because the same had happened yesterday, and the day before that too.

I’d see Mackenna from afar. He’d look at me too. We’d pretend we hadn’t just held hands, or slept with my body twined like a pretzel around his long, ever-growing one. I’d hang out with my tiny circle of friends, feeling him guarding me like a wolf from the table crowded with wannabes, but after the hearing, only the real rebels with troubled families hung out with him. They all waited for his dad’s trial and sentence—but Kenna?

Kenna had already been “tried” by everyone in school. Everyone but me. We’d pass each other in the hall, both of us straining to bump shoulders.

We’d go late to class, our methods different every time. Sometimes he’d tie his shoelaces at a tortoise’s pace as the halls emptied. Other times, I’d drop my books at the exact moment he passed so he could drop to his haunches close to me and slip my books into my backpack. It was stupid, really, but the day was torture if I didn’t exchange at least one word. One word, with him. “Hey,” he’d say softly, only one side of his mouth smiling.

“Hey. Thanks,” I’d say, when really I meant, I want to be with you.

And his silver eyes would say in quiet frustration, “Why can’t I fucking be with you?”

Every couple walking down the halls holding hands killed me. I’d never miss the clench of his jaw, the coiled energy as I knew he wondered why we couldn’t have that. “My mother,” I’d explain. She wouldn’t understand. She’d been watching me like a hawk since she’d seen him walk me home. My mother would ruin it all.

“Yeah, I know, I’m just frustrated,” he’d whisper in my ear, his breath like a soft wind as he hung my backpack over my shoulder and rubbed his thumb on the skin where my T-shirt pulled, stealing that touch . . . and my heart with it. “Come to me tonight,” I blurted out.

“Always,” he said.

Always . . .

Six years—a little more, actually—and I still remember that Always. How, when he became aroused, his eyes—sometimes without warning: over a look, a smile, a brush, a pair of shorts I wore—looked like dirty silver, and I could never again look at dirty silver without a pang in my chest. Mackenna isn’t that boy anymore. And I’m not that girl, waiting in my bed, eagerly watching my window. But last night, I felt very much like her.

I felt exactly like her. Eager, hopeful, scared to be hopeful. Vulnerable.

He’s been the most powerful source of pain in my life, and my survival instinct rears up stronger than ever when he’s near. Every part of him is a threat—his voice, his kiss, our past, my own heart. I was so sure I’d gotten rid of my heart, but he makes me so aware that it’s still here, inside me somewhere. It’s alive when he’s near, and it screams, “Danger . . .”

Now I’m grumpy because he didn’t seek me out, like I—even if I hate myself for wishing it—still wished he would.

He’s managed to make me restless, to the point where I considered taking my clonazepam at midnight. But I only have two more pills, and what if we need to fly again? I’d die of cardiac arrest, if the stupid plane didn’t fall on its own.

Groggily I pour a steaming cup of coffee from a small buffet table on the side, sipping it as I study the two girls at the front of the room. One dark-haired, and one blonde.

Tit and Olivia.

Oh, yes. They’re like ringleaders, those two. I can recognize them instantly.

Tit is the blonde, not natural blonde like Melanie is, but a salon blonde with dark eyebrows. Olivia is dark-haired, almost like me, but her face is rounder and her expression, I guess . . . softer. But the look in her eyes? Nothing soft about that.

I meet her gaze square on, because you can’t ever look away from bullies. I practiced this to perfection when my father died and my mother intimidated me, and at school, where I was laughed at until Mackenna made sure I wasn’t laughed at again.

Now a dozen twenty-year-olds look at me like I’m bound to be their entertainment for the day. The choreographer claps her hands to pull every dancer’s eye from me over to her.

“My name is Yolanda,” she tells me. “And I’m in charge of getting you to move that body as if you’ve trained professionally your whole life. Not an easy task, so I warn you, your baths? Should be ice cold after this. You will never in your life be as stiff as a two-by-four and as awkward as a newborn giraffe. You will stretch with us now, and watch, and learn!” She snaps her fingers, and the other dancers start to stretch. Olivia seems impressed I’m even trying to stretch. Can I touch my toes? No. I’m as unbending as a stick, and I almost grunt as I keep trying.

“Gently! Or you pull and break the muscle and it’s no use to us!” Yolanda chides.

She’s Latin-blooded—I can tell by the passion in her voice and her thick accent. Her body is beautiful, with perfect curves in all the right places. The other dancers’ clothes cling to their beautiful bodies. Unlike mine. I’m a bit too flat-chested, and my ass could use a little meat too. I don’t have many curves. I do have big nipples that poke out too much, calling way too much attention to themselves, which is why I’m actually glad my boobs are small.

The outfit I’m wearing, sent to my room on behalf of Lionel, doesn’t really help my small boobs and small ass.

Trying not to watch myself in the mirror too much—and therefore avoiding a reminder of just how flat-chested I am—I make my way to the center. Yolanda calls me over.

“You. You and Olivia are both choreographed differently than the others. Pretend I’m Jones. Now you walk up to me, your moves sensual. Hypnotic. Sexy. Make contact with your inner mermaids . . .”

I feel stupid. Ridiculous. But I try to walk with a little sway of my hips. I hear snorts all around and I stop and scowl, swinging my scowl across the room so every woman here gets the full blast of my displeasure.

“Ignore . . . girls!” she chides, clapping, then to me, “Now . . . sensual. Not so stiff. Like making love. You will make love to Jones with your clothes on, onstage. Everybody wants Jones. Imagine his body, moving sinuously against yours. Mackenna Jones has the best moves—Magic Mike has nothing on him. Are you prepared?” She reaches around me and grabs the small of my back, undulating her body against mine.

Our tits are pressing. She’s pretending to be Mackenna and looking at me with an expression I believe she believes is Mackenna’s. Just thinking about being like this, in front of an audience, makes me want to gag. “I can’t—”

“CAN’T! That word does not exist here. We are all doers here. Now circle your hips. Hands on waist. Side to side, front, back, side to side. Just loosen it up!” She goes to turn on the music while all the other dancers stretch and I’m humping the air like a ridiculous little shit. “Good!” she praises. “Very good! Now add your arms . . . circle them to the side . . . up above . . . loosen that stiff little body of yours.”

We’re dancing to the group’s song, and the music starts reverberating in me. The girls swing their heads, and I pull my hair loose and follow suit, going up to Yolanda and rubbing my hands up her sides.

I am suddenly skating, my feet in charge under me, and Mackenna’s hands are on my waist, and I know he’ll catch me. If I fall, it’s not embarrassing but an excuse to get him to touch me and hear his low, rumbling laugh. I like when he laughs. I like his chuckle, how he picks me up, dusts my ass with his gloves, kisses me on the cheek in case anybody recognizes us, and whispers, “Enough?”

And I say, “Never!”

And he spins me like a top with another, deeper laugh, and pulls me down the rink, skating close to him. Suddenly dancing is not that different. I’m swept by the music, following the lead of the girl in front of me, letting my legs repeat the steps I’m shown, my hands moving and tracing my imaginary man. Yolanda silences her instructions as I start rocking, losing myself, picturing the way Mackenna had been up on stage with the two women. Now the one right in front of him will be me.

Reminding him what we had.

This is what you want, remember? Make him lose it. Remind him of the girl he used to skate with. The one he used to twirl around like a top. Remind him that she’s gone to him. Gone because . . . HE left HER.

She loved him and he LEFT her.

Make him regret walking. Without a word, or a goodbye, or an “I’m sorry,” or a reason . . .

The thought only invigorates me, and I’m still shaking my little ass seconds after the song stops.

“Good job, girls!” Yolanda calls with another clap.

The dancers seem quite composed, while I, on the other hand, am gasping for breath as I follow them to the towel stack and wipe my neck. Yolanda comes over to me, approval shining in her eyes as she pats her cleavage dry. “You have something to prove. I like that.” She tips my head up with her free hand and dissects me with her eyes. “You in love with him?”

“Pfft!” I spit accidentally. “Sorry!” I laugh my evil witch laugh. “No way.”

She smiles a strangely expressionless smile. “Pandora. Hmm.” She walks away.

As if she knows something nobody else does.

♥  ♥  ♥

THE REST OF the day, I watch the band’s rehearsal from backstage, my eyes trained on you-know-who. He laughs out loud. A lot. He curses a lot too. The twins pick on him and he picks back, exchanging endearments such as “fucking jackass,” “get to work, douche,” and—my favorite—“suck my dick, asshole.” At one point, I’m pretty sure they talk about me.

“You get it on with your box of chocolates last night?”

“If I did,” says Mackenna smoothly, almost cockily, “that would be none of your goddamn business.”

Me? Box of chocolates?

“We’re being filmed, asshat. What we do from now until Madison Square Garden is everybody’s business,” Jax tells him. Is it Jax? I don’t know, I mix those two up so much. It helps when they’re bare-chested because Jax has a snake tattoo. Lex seems more talkative and is, in fact, grinning at me as I hide between the stage curtains.

I sink a little deeper into the shadows and wait for Mackenna to say more, but he doesn’t. Instead he rubs the back of his neck and rolls his shoulders, his body sweaty and moving in complete rhythm to the beat as they start up again.

The twins strike their guitars, the orchestra takes up with a frenzy, and Mackenna adds the vocals while a dozen male dancers dance in perfect synchrony behind him.

Yolanda’s right. No man should be so masculine, so muscular, and still be able to dance like that. A thrust of his hips, a swing of his body, and then he’s up on his arms, then back on his feet, singing in low tones while Bach and their rock music play in alternate tempos. It’s a perfect duet.

Up on the stage, he’s a rock god, but I can still remember when he used to give me wildflowers. I remember being so nervous that my mother would find out about us that sometimes I threw them away before I got home. What a coward I was.

He was the one. It’s the truest thing I know about me. That he was the one.

“I want to be someone one day, you know? Make a difference . . .”

“I don’t know who I want to be yet,” I said.

“I have an idea.” Kiss. “Be you.”

Relaxed as I listen to him now, I lean against the wall and close my eyes, letting his voice soothe me.

“Making friends already,” Lionel says from behind me. I spin around, and he smiles approvingly.

“Heard you did great at rehearsal.”

“I made a fool of myself, but at least some of your other dancers had a good time,” I say. I find myself smiling when he laughs, a booming laugh.

“Yolanda said you’re quite the natural. That you really brought it with you today.”

“Huh,” I say, disbelieving the compliment.

But it feels really good, actually. I’d forgotten how good. To get praised for something.

When Mackenna walks offstage, Lionel waves at him and proceeds to inform him of the same. “Your girlfriend’s apparently a natural dancer,” he says.

Mackenna is sweaty and breathing hard, eyebrows rising at the news. “Of course she is. Who’d you think you were dealing with?”

I’m blushing so hard, I can feel my toes grow red.

“She’s a great skater too,” Mackenna says softly.

When our eyes meet, my heart grows wings. Do you remember, Kenna? How you spun me, caught me, held me?

A long moment passes, and I feel like Lionel gets too uncomfortable with our silence, for he quickly excuses himself.

“So.” I tug on the strand Melanie dared me to paint, suddenly feeling shy. “You had a good rehearsal too.”

A deep, unexpected laugh leaves him, and we start heading into the back of the stage. “I think I missed you, Pink,” he says softly, shaking his head as if that’s stunning news. “All this time.” He reaches out, and his silver ring rubs over my chin in a soft caress.

Briefly.

One second it’s there, the next, gone.

My smile falters as the ghost of his touch lingers on my skin. “I think you’re deluded.”

“Yeah, I missed you,” he says, nodding to himself, his smile sincere. “Such a brave, angry little raven . . . hiding the sweetest, warmest little chick inside.”

I roll my eyes, struggling with how genuine he sounds. “Whatever, Kenna,” I say. Like I’ll ever forget he wrote a song basically telling me how much I suck!

“Hey, Kenna!” One of the backstage roadies passes him a red cup of what I assume is water. He grabs it and starts downing it while the twins come toward us with their guitars slung behind their backs. We watch them head for water too.

“How do you guys do it?” I wonder out loud as Mackenna and I watch the Vikings grin at us. “Perform before all those people.” I gesture toward the stage and all the empty seats surrounding it.

He shrugs. “Lex throws up before going up, every time. Jax gets stoned. And me?” He shrugs. “I have a special trick I do.”

“Like what?”

“I tell myself no one out there is you.”

“Really? That’s your trick? So, I’m your jinx, and you’re just relieved I’m not watching.”

He laughs as he heads to his dressing room.

“Hey! Where are you going? We’re having a talk here!” I protest.

“I need to shower, Pink. Look me up later, though, and I’ll be happy to explain,” he says, but something about his gaze tells me he’d like to do more than explain.

For the next hour, movements of all kinds wreak havoc in my stomach.

I tell myself he wanted to get the best of me, or bait me like he baits the Vikings. He’s a pirate luring me into his lair, but I won’t fall into his trap. Who cares what he meant?

But later at the hotel, I’m wandering out in the hall, unsure of which room he’s in, when the delightful Tit and Liv walk by. “You looking for Kenna?” they ask, wearing identical ear-to-ear grins.

Fuck.

“No.”

“Oh. Really?” Liv hooks her arm around mine and spins around, taking me in another direction. “Then want to come to our room? We’re going to watch a movie.”

“I’m a little sore.” I try to pull free.

“Oh, no worries! I’ve got stuff to help with that.”

Since I am sore from this morning’s dance lesson, I bite back my retort and let her lead me into their shared bedroom. The “stuff” she has is an ice pack, and I squirm as she presses it against the muscle above my knee. “Oh, don’t groan and be a boy about it,” she shushes. “The guys are the only ones that complain.”

I go still and frown.

“We sometimes let the boys borrow our packs when they overdo their workouts. Gym every three days. They dead lift and do all kinds of other things.”

“How long have you been dancing for them?” I ask, genuinely curious. They all seem to be friends, but clearly the girls sleep with the men too.

“Me, four years. Tit, two. We love it here.”

“I bet.” I study them. I’m searching for any traces of guilt in Olivia’s eyes, but I can’t quite decipher it. I’m so used to the transparency of Melanie and Brooke. The honesty of real friends. But then again, I’m used to my mother. Closed off. These girls are just like her, and there’s only one way to deal with this sort of people—from a distance. Failing that, you have to be up front. “Why are you being nice to me right now?”

They laugh in unison, exchanging glances. “Oh, don’t be silly. We don’t want you as an enemy. We want to be sure you’re not messing with Kenna.”

“You think you’re protecting him from me? That’s absurd.”

“Is it?”

“Yes!”

“Oh, we don’t know.” Now it’s Tit talking, tapping one manicured nail to her lips—painted in the exact same shade as Liv’s. “Since you arrived, Kenna’s done nothing but stare at you, walk next to you, sit next to you, and sniff around you like some dog with a new bone.”

“He’ll go find another bone soon.”

“Will he?” It’s Olivia again. “Because, can I just say, we’ve talked to the other girls, ones who’ve been with the band even longer, and he doesn’t do that. Women come to Kenna. He doesn’t go to anyone, he’s got like legions. So yeah, we’re concerned. What’s the deal with you two?”

I shrug. “He’s my ex. We have a past. A past which means I hate him—as you’re supposed to hate an ex.”

“But you were dancing with Yola like you wanted to make out. You were imagining she was Kenna.” The words weren’t a question so much as an accusation.

“I . . .” Since there’s really no point in denying the way I got lost in that stupid dance, I shut my mouth.

“One of the camera guys said you two shared a room the other night. That true?” Tit presses.

“Wow, is this high school?”

There’s a camera positioned on a stand in the corner of the room, almost like a live predator, waiting to trap my answer. For a fraction of a second, I want to leave, but I want the information I can garner from these girls too.

“We slept together,” I whisper, really low, “but . . .”

“You guys did it! We knew you had. Those smoldering looks he gives you must be multiplied times five in the bedroom, huh!”

“Oh, no.” I glance back at the stupid camera, suddenly a little too vulnerable. Admit that he didn’t have his way with me? That he didn’t touch me like that? I suddenly don’t want them to know if he did or didn’t. Mackenna is my secret again and I don’t want to share anything about him with anyone.

I get to my feet.

“Good night, girls. Next time let’s get together in my room. I’ve got a little thing that you don’t—it’s called privacy.”

“Hey, Dora,” Liv says as she stops me.

“Pandora. Please. Here’s your ice pack back. My guess is, it’s about the same temp as you two.”

“Tomorrow. Your room. After the concert. We’ll bring the skinny martinis. Deal?”

I look at them, and I realize I don’t know what to make of these two. Maybe they hate me, but I still need somebody to talk to, or I’ll go running back into Mackenna’s arms like I was just about to only minutes ago. He’s the one—not these girls—who can hurt me. Whatever these girls want to do has nothing on what Mackenna can do to me.

It won’t do any harm to remain cautious, though.

I head back to my room and wonder what he’ll do when he realizes I’m not showing up. Will he attempt to seduce me tonight in my room? Is he feeling this same strange anticipation I feel? Wondering what his next step will be? What he’s going to do?

But by midnight I hear his laughter in the hall. The sound is accompanied by that of women laughing too, and I realize the sudden wave of hate I feel is not even for him.

It’s for me.