Ripped (Real, #5)(52)
“Optimism? From you?” His lips curl softly, and he shakes his head. He leans over. “You really are a softie.”
“Am not.”
“I’m pudding too. At least, I am with you.” He walks to the door and leaves me with that. How can he f*cking leave me with that?
Well, he does, and for the next half hour I text Brooke and Melanie in a group chat.
Me: Do you believe in second chances?
Mel: Absolutely.
Brooke: If Rem hadn’t given me a second chance I’d be f*cked right now.
Mel: If I hadn’t given Grey a second chance and I hadn’t been spared my life, we’d be f*cked now too and NOT in a good way.
Me: Ok. Just asking.
Brooke: Pan, why didn’t you tell me you had a thing with Crack Bikini’s Kenna Jones? Remington plays their “Used” song all the time before a fight starts!
Me: Cause I hate their songs, that’s why.
I’m lying, of course. I just hate one song. The one about me. Although a lot of them do talk about anger, being used, and being betrayed—as if I were the one who walked away and left him to pick up the pieces of his heart.
But if any of that hell was true for him too, what’s going on right now? Why are we getting tangled up in each other all over again?
He could f*ck any of his fans, like Jax and Lex do after concerts. He could f*ck any groupie, any one of his dancers. They clearly miss him in their beds.
But, like junkies, one taste of each other and we’re obsessed.
“Danger,” that little voice whispers.
Oh, shut up, brain! You’re too damn late.
I squeeze my eyes shut and find myself adding his father’s name to my talisman bracelet.
TWELVE
THERE’S ALWAYS THAT ONE ASSHOLE STONE YOU TRIP ON TWICE
Mackenna
I left ten messages on his cell phone as I waited for my flight. By the time I landed, he’d left a message. Said his parole officer had found him and not to worry myself over it. Yeah, right.
He’d left a hotel name and room number too. I pick up a key at reception and end up having to scribble a couple of autographs, until I’m finally on the twentieth floor, popping the door open to find my father slumped in a chair out on the terrace, staring off into space.
A room service tray holding two glasses of champagne is set up by the window. “What the hell is up with you, Dad?”
The anger on my face gives him pause, and it takes him a hot second to get words out of his open jaw. “Hell I . . . you’re here? Son . . . I wouldn’t be ditching parole if that bitch hadn’t made it such a pain in the ass. I need freedom, Kenna, I’m choking here.”
“Look up, Dad. You see that? That’s f*cking sunlight. You want to get a good dose of that every day, then you do your f*cking parole.”
“I said I’m choking. Feels like I’m still in jail, only with a wider mile radius.”
“Jesus,” I curse, then lean over, trying to reason with him. “Dad, I know exactly how you feel. You feel trapped by your circumstances, but don’t carve yourself a worse one.”
“Do you understand? Do you really?”
“You f*cking know I do.”
He forces out a smile and looks away, over the traffic and the city. “?‘Carry on my wayward son,’?” he quotes, his dark eyes framed with the same dark circles he came out of prison with. “Remember that song? You rocked it.”
“Yeah, I rock everything I touch with my tongue.”
A chuckle. “?‘There’ll be peace when you are done,’?” he continues, raising his eyebrows in question.
“You damn well know I want my freedom too. We’ve talked about this before. I’ll move you back to Seattle when I’m done so I can see you more often. Just don’t give anyone reason to put you away—you hear me? Be smart about this, Dad, Jesus. I f*cking worry about you. Just think things through.”
“Like you’re smart about that girl?” he counters.
Fuck, I knew he’d bring her up.
Every part of me is tensing to defend her.
But it’s no use arguing with Dad about her. I shrug and say nothing, my jaw tight.
“Son, she’s toxic to you. You might want to be sure she’s into you before you go and drop a good life for the life of your dreams, only to find out it’s all a castle in the air, boy.”
“She’s real to me” is all I give him, and I growl it out in a thick whisper.
He sighs and drops his face in his hands. “Sorry, just can’t forget how her bitch mother put me behind bars.”
“Dad, you got yourself behind bars. See? We reap what we sow. Nobody made you deal, nobody made you make that choice. Own it. I’m owning the choices I made too, and one of those put me in a tight spot. Nobody made me do it. I had to. We just have to do some things sometimes.” I scrape my hand down my jaw, because holy shit, those choices hurt.
“You made a deal with her, didn’t you? That’s why I’m out. That’s why I should still be there. That’s why my parole sucks—that controlling bitch probably knows you’re traveling with her daughter now and is still trying to meddle with you two!”
“It’s crossed my mind.”
He stares at me, his eyes widening. “So what are you going to do?”