Ripped (Real, #5)(14)
“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 f*cking 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.