Ripped (Real, #5)(15)

“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 f*ck 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 f*cking 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 f*cks 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, *. 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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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.”