Ripped (Real, #5)(62)

I watch from below. Lionel told me to observe the female dancers because the producers really want me up there for Madison Square Garden. It’s hard, because although I try to keep my eyes on them as they dance all around Kenna—and I really do try—my eyes can’t help straying to him. The lights caressing his skin, shining on his purple rock wig, making even his thumb ring glint as he dances in a way only he can. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m beginning to understand why some of the fans cry at the mere mention of Crack Bikini.





SEVENTEEN


BACK WITH THE BAND


Pandora


After the concert, the guys are, once again, determined to party. Mackenna leads me into the bar and hunts down one of the waiters. “What do you want to drink?” he asks me.

“I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

I hear him order for us, and then I’m once again being casually steered toward a booth in the back. “Shame on me for expecting Crack Bikini to party somewhere tamer,” I say, glancing at the bar/disco place.

“This is tame, babe, but don’t worry—we’ll get the fun started soon enough.”

He’s directing me to the darkest booth in the darkest corner of the club when he’s stopped by two guys about his age, who both call him “the bomb!” as in, “You’re the f*cking bomb, dude!”

As they high-five, swear, and do generally ridiculous boy handshakes, I watch the Crack Bikini dancers jiggle and dance their way toward a dance floor flickering with lights. The music reverberates everywhere in the room. Under my feet. Under my seat.

Some girls separate from their flocks and fly over to Mackenna and the two men still nearly praying to him, and the moment they reach them, they start dancing around him.

“Dance with us, Kenna!”

He slides an arm around each of their waists and immediately moves his body to theirs, all while still talking to the other guys. He is a great dancer. A great singer. A lover of life. Of fun. Games.

Games.

I drop my gaze to the tabletop. You’re such an idiot, I swear to myself.

This is just a game to him. A challenge. Like The Taming of the Shrew.

“What’s up, *cat?” Lex drops into the booth beside me, jerking my face back up with a fist under my chin.

“Not much. You sound drunk,” I say.

“That may be because I am?” He laughs and nods toward Mackenna. “It’s because of you he makes good music, you know. Every song.”

“Your number one hit is the worst song I’ve ever heard in my life, FYI.”

“No, it’s not, and that’s not the only song he wrote about you. Maybe it’s not a bad thing you broke his goddamn heart.”

“Me?” I sputter.

“Oh, please! You think you didn’t? He’s never done more than f*ck a passing girl ever since you, and it’s all because of the way you burned him.”

“Me?” I cry in outrage, completely disbelieving.

“This jerk bothering you, Stone?” Mackenna asks as he sets my drink down and slides in next to me.

I smirk playfully. “He can’t help it, I guess.”

“Dude, I was just telling her what a great catch you are,” Lex tells him. “Trust me, you want me to talk to her.”

Mackenna slides an arm along the back of the seat behind me and leans in. The gesture is casual in nature, but I’m not deceived. He takes a sip of his drink. “Uh-huh,” he says, nodding in a way that says, “Suck my dick.”

“She doesn’t care that you like wearing pink hair during your concerts. She likes that it matches her skunk-look,” Lex continues. “She also doesn’t care that you talk like hell in the morning. She doesn’t care your ten-inch dick can rip her in half. She’s all for you, man.”

“Tell me something I don’t know—like why your ass is parked right next to her?”

“Keeping her warm.”

“Get out of here, Lex.”

“Dude, I’m tired as f*ck, chill.” He eases away from the booth, though, and I feel a hand on my thigh. My eyes flick up to meet silver ones, and Mackenna smiles at me.

Danger . . .

My heart starts to pound.

I can’t fall for him again. I can’t.

But you are. You are. You are!

“Your hand going somewhere?” I ask breathlessly, sounding amused even though I’m more alarmed than amused. And excited. I’m more excited than anything else.

“Yes,” he says as he slides his fingers higher, his eyes shining with something. Challenge? Lust? His head ducks, and my stomach dips as I feel his lips, his breath, on my ear. “I can’t keep my eyes off you, and I want my hands on you, my lips on you. Really, I’m developing a serious problem with sharing you, even for the night.”

I laugh nervously. “Do these lines usually work for you?”

“Remember our first time?” he continues, ignoring me, his seductive whisper caressing my ear as his fingers stroke up my side, beneath my top, as though . . . as though he really likes to touch my skin.

He snakes his hand around my waist and settles there, on the side of my rib cage, his thumb only a hairsbreadth away from the underside of my breast.

“No, I don’t remember,” I lie through uneven breaths. “It’s all that Diet Coke offing my brain cells.”