Ripped (Real, #5)(5)

But good. Great, in fact.

Hell, I can still picture the pissed, disbelieving look on Mackenna’s face. It gave me intense pleasure. Orgasmic pleasure. But now the intense feeling I’m experiencing is more along the lines of paralyzing fear.

What if the guards call him into the room to ask if he does, indeed, know me?

What if I have to stand here in this small stuffy room and look at him from thisclose!

I feel sick to my stomach. Later, Melanie’s going to want explanations. Big-time explanations, more than what I’ve told her so far. She’s going to have to tell Greyson what happened, and he’s going to want to know everything, because these stupid security guards messed with his girl. I don’t even know if I can explain to her the kind of past Mackenna and I share. January 22: the day I unfailingly get drunk and don’t bother to even see the light of day—I’d sworn to myself I’d never discuss that day. But Melanie and Greyson? They will want me to open my box of secrets. Of me and Mackenna Jones.

Hot, wet mouths melding . . .

Him, pushing into me, stretching me, taking me, loving me . . .

Promises.

Lies.

Loss.

Hatred.

The kind of hatred that’s only born of an intense, out-of-this-world love that went woefully wrong.

What am I going to say to him if I see him?

What am I going to do?

Please god, don’t punish me by making me look at him thisclose.

I pace and pray, pace and pray while Melanie studies her nails, the wall, and me, sighing with the bored confidence of someone who knows she’s getting out of here intact. If I see Mackenna, I really doubt it’ll be so easy. My stomach’s already in knots, and I’m having the most awful urge to vomit right now.

The concert seems to last forever. One of the guards comes and goes while the other opts to stand a few feet behind Melanie, standing all military-like, as if waiting for something.

Oh god, please let that something not be Mackenna.

I’m wearing off a layer of my boots’ soles when, a century later, the door swings open and a chubby man in a suit and tie steps in. My blood pools in my feet from my nervousness. Lionel “Leo” Palmer, the band manager. I saw his face and interview in this morning’s paper, but I have to say he looked much happier in that picture.

He glares at us—Melanie glaring back, me standing motionless—and his hands make meaty fists at his sides.

“Have you any idea what you just did?” he grits out, chubby cheeks blazing red. “How long we could keep you two cozy in a f*cking lady prison? What kind of f*cking fans are you?”

“We’re not fans,” Melanie says.

The door swings open and the twins, in all their male glory, join the melee. They look intimidating all the time, but now—with their blond hair, odd-color eyes, and perfectly pissed-off scowls—they’re a force to be reckoned with.

I can’t breathe.

“Who the f*ck are these bitches?” the one with the snake tattoo demands.

“I’m getting to that, Jax,” Lionel says.

So the other one must be Lexington. He charges forward and looks at me, eyebrow piercing and all, then he looks at Melanie. He points his index finger, swinging it from her to me. “I hope you two have a lot of money, because one of our dancers is injured. If she’s screwed up for Madison Square Garden—”

“Don’t worry, Pandora, Greyson will take care of this,” Melanie says easily.

“Pandora,” Lionel repeats suddenly. He grows still, his eyes sliding back to me. “Your friend called you Pandora. Why?”

“Because it’s my name? Duh.”

I’m in the middle of rolling my eyes when the door swings open and a figure fills the space. I don’t think my heart is beating anymore. I feel like someone is strangling me and punching me on the inside.

Mackenna.

A few feet away.

In the same room as me.

Bigger and manlier than ever.

He kicks the door shut behind him. He’s wearing aviators, so I can’t see his eyes, and ohmigod, I hate him with a passion. I came here to hurt him, but I’m so overcome by my anger, I can’t seem to do anything but stand here with my breath getting trapped in my lungs, my heart squeezing in my chest, my body trembling as all my suppressed anger bubbles up inside me.

He is tall and dark, and the remains of a red gooey liquid trickle down his chest.

But what a perfect chest, and then that thin trail of hair that leads the way from his navel to his dick. Tight leather pants mold to his bulging thighs. A bulging cock too. I swear girls might think he sticks a loaf of bread down his pants, but I can assure you that f*cker is real. As huge as his f*cking ego, and I remember it used to get as hard as his f*cking head.

Not everyone can pull off a buzz cut, or a diamond stud earring, but he has a perfectly shaped head that makes you want to curl your hands around it and trace the curves with your lips. The diamond glints almost menacingly in his right ear, and when he takes off the sunglasses with an angry jerk, I see his brilliant, furious silver eyes, and I swear that it feels like coming home.

To a home that was wrecked, and burned, and there’s nothing left, but it’s still your home.

How f*cked up is that?

God, please let him not be real. Let this be a nightmare. Let him be on the other corner of the world while I hate him safely from my corner in Seattle.