Ripped (Real, #5)(39)
“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.
TEN
CONCERT TIME
Pandora
Concert night is crazy. You need ten eyes when you walk backstage to keep from tripping over anything and crashing into anybody, much less staying in one piece.
I spot Jax in a corner near the curtains, smoking, and I suddenly wish I’d tucked my e-cigarette into my jeans. “Oh, can I get some?” I ask. Jax puffs out a stream of smoke as he hands it over. I give it a hit and cough. “It’s pot?”
“What did you think it was?” He grins and lifts his hand to retrieve it from me, but I quickly move away, deciding to take another quick hit.
Jax laughs and pounds my back when I cough. “Easy, Miss Jones,” he says.
“Oh, puleeze. I’m not Miss Jones.”
“Well that’s what everybody calls you ’round here.” He grins at me, and I notice he has the strangest shade of eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re violet. “We feel like we know you, being that Jones sings about you and him and all,” he drawls out, acting quite brotherly to me now.
“They’re all lies, I tell you. Wait till you hear what I have to say about him.” I nod direly, and he lets out a booming laugh.
From out of nowhere, Lionel grabs the cigarette and stubs it out. “Get rid of this, Jax. Jesus F Christ, how many times must I tell you?”
“Umm. Once more?”
Leo scowls at him and turns to me. “Want to watch the concert from the front row?” Clearly noticing my hesitation, he ushers me toward the doors leading out to the stadium. “Come on. It’ll be fun for you, and one less thing for me to worry about. I don’t want Kenna distracted. He’s already obsessing over what wig to wear tonight.”
“He looks ridiculous either way, so tell him he might as well go for a Mohawk,” I say drolly as I follow him outside.
I guess I knew there could be repercussions to being in the front row: listening to the crowd clamor, “CRACK BIKINI!” as he walks in, the Vikings pop out, and the music builds . . . slow at first—like foreplay—then races toward a musical orgasm that grabs you in a choke hold and doesn’t let go. I should have known my body would betray me, just like last time. I should have known I’d feel hot and bothered and confused . . .
Just like last time.
But Mackenna? He wears a spiky blue mohawk over his buzz cut, and the things that does to me. Is he teasing me, or indulging me? He’s just so good at what he does. The crowd is hyped, and he greets them all with a low chuckle and a vigorous yell.
“Aren’t you a noisy crowd tonight!”
The crowd responds by yelling louder, and after a short interlude from the orchestra, he gets into position at the center of the stage and starts to sing.
My body reverberates with the music. With his voice.
He sings with incredible focus—and one of the things I most marvel at is that he never just stands there. His body is always on the move, rippling muscles and fluid movements that have to be deceptively strong. Those leaps he makes . . . how he leaps from one level of the stage to the other and flips in the air . . . I need to consciously fill my lungs. They’ve stopped working on automatic.
And, as if the sight of him isn’t enough, the sound of his voice bolts through my body and makes my blood pump furiously in my veins. His voice is so deep and masculine, you cannot be both a woman and unaffected. He sings from the heart, and you can see it—feel it—in every word. When he sings “Pandora’s Kiss,” I can hear the anger in the song, even in the mad strike of the twins’ guitars . . . and my own anger, frustration, and pain rise up to meet Mackenna’s sudden frown.
He looks at me with pained eyes, and my stomach plummets when he keeps singing without looking away from me. Those wolf eyes have hunted me down in the crowd, snagged and captured me. He’s stopped dancing too. The dancers dance behind him, but he just sings, and looks at me, and sings, “I shouldn’t have opened you up, Pandora . . .”
As he sings his frustration and regrets to me, I know it’s for the cameras.
It has to be.
I’m confused. Confused when his anger and mine mix in a powerful combination that brings forth an undeniable, electric spark of lust. People scream, the music vibrating in all of us, but in me it’s tangled up like another being. Breathing. Pulsing. Beating.