Ripped (Real, #5)(4)

Mackenna starts singing in a voice that is low and raspy and sexy as f*ck. I hate him. How fluid his muscular body is. How it oozes testosterone. How dancers join the three men onstage, dressed in formal black-and-white men’s suits. I even hate the way they tear off their suits to reveal their black-painted skin that makes them look sleek as panthers.

Melanie is so enraptured; her lips are parted and she’s gaping. I swear, the electric, primal, and animal way these three men move up onstage is something to behold; the three are being irreverent with their bodies but reverent to their music.

My body is in an uproar. I have purposely not been a music girl for years. Mainly to avoid listening to any song of his by mistake. But now his voice is on every f*cking speaker. It reverberates in my bones, awakening some strange pain inside me along with an extra truckload of anger.

The concert continues like some form of exquisite torture. The band prolonging not only my torment but the torment of every spectator waiting anxiously to hear their most recognized song. And then . . . it happens.

Finally, Mackenna starts singing “Pandora’s Kiss,” the breakout song that topped the Billboard charts and hit #1 on iTunes for weeks:

Those harlot’s lips

To taste and torment me

Those little tricks

That tease and torture me,

Ooooooooh, oh, oh, OH

I shouldn’t have opened you up, Pandora

Ooooooooh, OH, OH, OOOH

You should’ve remained in my closet, Pandora

A secret I will forever deny

A love that would one day die

Ooooh, OH, OH, OH

I should’ve never kissed . . . those harlot’s lips . . . Pandora

Rage bubbles up inside me full force.

“Now?” Melanie keeps asking me.

I. Loathe. Him.

“Now?” she asks again.

I loathe him. He’s the only boy I’ve ever kissed. He took kisses that meant everything to me and turned them into a joke of a f*cking song. A song that turns me into some sort of Eve, torturing and teasing him to sin. He is the sin. He is the penitence, the hell, and the devil, all in one.

I reach into my bag, nicely tucked under my poncho, and grab the first thing I find.

“Now,” I whisper.

Before Mackenna knows what hit him, Melanie and I have sent three tomatoes and a couple of eggs flying through the air.

The orchestra music isn’t enough to drown out his muttered “f*ck,” audible through the microphone.

His jaw clamps and he yanks the mic down over his chin as he jerks his eyes around to find the source of the attack. I feel delirious when I see the genuine anger on his face. I squeal, “The rest!” and grab the remaining things we brought and just keep throwing. Not only at him, but at anyone who tries to get in the way—like the stupid dancers who rush to protect him. One of them makes a whimpering noise as an egg hits her face, and Mackenna jerks her back by the arm so he can take the hits himself, his furious eyes trying to find us in the crowd.

Then I hear Melanie shout, “Hey! LET GO, *!”

My arms are yanked behind me, and I’m suddenly shoved and pulled out of my place and down the aisle.

“Let go of us!” Melanie cries, struggling as two burly guards drag us away. “If you don’t let go of me right now, my boyfriend’s going to find your home and kill you in your sleep!”

The guard yanks me back harder, and I catch my breath as pain rushes up my arm.

“Asshole,” I hiss, but I don’t even bother to struggle. Melanie’s getting nowhere and I know it.

“She knows them! She knows the band! Who do you think he was singing about just now, *?” Melanie kicks into the air. “She’s Pandora! Let us f*cking go.”

“You know Mr. Jones?” one guard asks me.

“Mr. Jones!” I scoff. “Seriously! If Mackenna’s a mister, I’m a unicorn!”

They seem to chuckle among themselves as they lead us past more security, around the stage, and to a small room in the back. One guy starts speaking into a radio as he unlocks the door.

Melanie struggles and tries to kick out, but the enormity of what could happen starts settling on me, and I grow quiet.

Holy. Shit. What have I done?

“You don’t have to look so happy, dickface. My boyfriend will find your home too and kill you next!” she tells the other guard.

They yank a door open and shove us inside. I stumble as I take a step, fighting for some dignity as I wiggle free of his grip. “Let go,” I grit, and he finally releases me.

The radio transmitter on his hip emits a sound. A voice says something I can’t make out, but it sounds a lot like cursing.

“Remove these,” one of the guards commands, pointing at our ponchos.

I pry the plastic off my body and Melanie does the same, then we watch helplessly as they strip us of the bags we’d hidden underneath the ponchos.

Melanie groans when they set our things on a table to the side. Cell phones. Two more tomatoes. Car keys.

“Wow. You guys can’t take a little joke now, can you?” Melanie asks them with a haughty little scowl.

I close my eyes and try to quell the panic rising in me.

Fuuuuck. What was I thinking?

I haven’t done anything this reckless in years.

And it felt good.

Also wrong. Very, very wrong.