Ripped (Real, #5)(18)
Then I notice that a dancer, Letitta, keeps eyeing me maliciously. She cranes her neck out like a mean bird as she comes to me. I’m disappointed to see the cameraman follow.
She hovers by my side and signals in the direction of my gaze.
“He’s such a good f*ck.” Her greedy, beady little eyes slither over Mackenna, and, wow, her smile is just like I imagined Cruella De Vil’s right before she skins the f*cking puppies.
An evil feeling crawls through me when I realize she, of course, has f*cked that body in far more ways than I ever, in my stupid innocence, could have. I force a smile onto my face and twirl my pink strand of hair as I say, “I know, I broke him in.” I start to leave, but her voice stops me.
“You think you look cool and badass, but you don’t. Not really.”
“Thanks. I’ve been wondering what you thought about me. Now I can go rearrange my whole personality to suit you.” I look at the guy behind the camera, who’s grinning like he’s just struck gold, and I try to keep my cool, even though my anger is simmering under the surface of my skin.
She scrunches her face up until she looks like a little gremlin. “He hates your guts, girl. I swear the lyrics of ‘Pandora’s Kiss’ just needed to add the fact that he wished you dead. Why would he even look at you, if not to break you right now?”
I laugh. This kind of laugh, I’m actually used to. The kind that means I’m the opposite of happy and mirthful. “He already broke me, there’s nothing to break anymore, and when I reglued myself, I made it a priority not to put the heart back in. So it’s cool. Thanks for worrying about me. Your concern is touching.”
She jumps ahead of me and grabs one of my arms. “And yet you keep staring at him like you think he’s yours. He’s not.”
“Let go of me unless you want me to punch you,” I warn.
“Wow. You’re just like a man, aren’t you,” she says.
“Hey, Tit,” Lex calls, coming over to her and eyeing us both as though sensing we’re about to have a real live catfight, right here. I’m surprised he didn’t ease back and enjoy the view.
Maybe he isn’t such a douche bag after all.
Tit’s face switches in an instant from angry-gremlin mode to sweet-coquette mode as he comes over. He wraps his arm around her waist and kisses her on the mouth. God, I can’t believe these guys just pass around a woman like that.
Or actually, I can.
But I can’t believe they call her “Tit.”
I turn away when I catch Mackenna surveying me with a strange kind of proprietary gaze. Red plastic cup in hand, he starts walking over, and a ball of nervousness fires up in my belly as he approaches. Will you puleeze stop making me nervous, *? I want to yell.
“Making friends already?” he says with a smirk.
This smirk is different, though. Almost as if he’s displeased with Tit, which is ridiculous.
And suddenly I remember how, on the weekends after Thanksgiving, I’d escape with him. I remember us going to the ice rink, the day snowed in and cold. We’d watch guys making ice sculptures and we’d skate, and I loved to press close to him because he was always so warm and strong and steady on his feet. We’d see the frozen ice, stiff and white. I’d put on my skates, line up my boots, walk unsteadily into the ice. Then I’d slide over it, and he’d circle me like he was born on it. My Ice Man with silver eyes and warm skin and the world’s most perfect lips. Muscled and strong, it was always so easy for him to reach out and spin me like a top. And then he’d stop me from spinning with a hug, hold me close, and lift the ears of my cap so he could whisper, “You’re so hot you’d thaw this whole ice rink within hours.”
My heart melts a little as I remember, and I try to reach for the ice I need to guard myself against him. He’s no longer the boy I skated with, hid with, and thought myself in love with. He’s a famous rockstar who plays with women. Me being the first of legions and legions of others.
“What? No reply?” he asks me. To be honest, I don’t remember what we were even talking about, but his lips quirk and he adds, “Not so sure about yourself when you’re not armed with vegetables?” There’s a playful challenge in his eyes, that bad boy gleam that still makes my pulse skittish.
“Kenna, do you want a cupcake?” one of the dancers asks as she comes over and nearly decorates his face with it.
“Not now,” he tells her, shoving the offering away, his eyes homed in on me. His alluring voice—his chiseled cheekbones, that twinge of charged air—is torture to my girly parts. Torture. I feel a little drunk from having the attention everyone wants.
“More drink?” she presses hopefully, offering her red cup to him.
That catches his attention, and he stares at the red cup. “What you got there?”
I don’t intend to stay here and watch this poor girl embarrass our sex in this way, so I head off in search of Lionel. I need my room key.
“Leaving the party early?” Mackenna calls as I leave.
I direct my answer to Lionel, who I’ve spotted, instead, watching the manager put his whiskey down as I reach him. “I’m tired. If it’s okay with you, I already gave a juicy tidbit to one of the photographers.” I point at the blond guy.
“Noah? Good. Appreciated.” He flips a key out. “We’ve got the entire floor. There’s a communal media room that will be open in the presidential suite. Some food storage closets in the hall.”