Ripped (Real, #5)(67)

He pushes through the crowd. He’s taller than most people here. His skull looks so deliciously round today, and I sit in the booth and watch him take the stage. His magnetism takes over every room we’re in. I swear, he was completely deluding himself thinking he wouldn’t be recognized. And so was I.

But the people’s faces? Their expressions? They look beyond thrilled—like this is the best day of their lives. How must it feel for him to have this effect on others? How must it feel to sing a song and make a difference in someone’s life? To make them feel less lonely, feel . . . understood.

He taps the mic and laughs. “Testing, testing,” he says. People roar, and the clown laughs again. He loves it, and despite myself, I’m grinning. God, he’s completely beyond repair, isn’t he?

He starts a song. Not one from Crack Bikini, one I’ve heard on the radio from Secondhand Serenade.

“You really Pandora?” A guy slides next to me and sets a drink before me, nodding to it. “On me.”

“Nah, thanks, I’m good.”

“Really. I’d like to buy you a drink.” He’s looking at me like he might have slipped something into the drink. You can never be too paranoid.

“I’m with him.” I jab my thumb in the direction of Mackenna.

“Yeah, I heard. But you’re not really with him, are you? Are you really Pandora?”

“Damn right she is.”

Mackenna has completely dropped the song and headed over. He’s looming over me and the guy. He plants a threatening hand on the table, then leans forward. “You’re sitting in my spot, at my table, next to my girl, so as you can imagine, I have a bit of a problem with that.”

“Hey, I just wanted a chat with her. Chillax, Gru.”

“I don’t even know what the f*ck that means.” Mackenna drops down next to me and shoots me a look of both amusement and disgust as the guy vanishes into the crowd. “Must you have to break hearts every second I leave you alone?”

“I don’t have to, but it’s fun,” I lie.

“Not for me. One day you’re going to lure a guy the size of a truck to you, and I’ll have to fight dirty to get him away.”

“I thought you liked dirty. You have a dirty mouth, a dirty mind, you love dirty sex—”

“Jesus.” He pulls me to him and says, “Say ‘dirty’ one more time and I’m sucking the word right out of you.”

“Dirty.”

We kiss. The kiss is sloppy and wild and delicious, and it lasts a whole intense minute.

When we peel our lips apart, he grins and pushes the pink strand of my hair behind my face. “What’s the deal with this pink on your hair?”

“Melanie. She thinks I’m bitter and suggested a little color might spruce up my mood.”

“Did it help?”

“No, but she dared me, so I’m stuck with it for a while.”

“I like it. It makes you girly.”

“Is that supposed to mean I look like a man, otherwise?”

He grabs my hand and sets it on his erection. “Do you think I’d have feelings like these for a man?”

“Who knows what perversions you harbor.”

“I’ll be happy to experiment with you all you like.”

My cheeks flare when I remember how I spread my legs and let him shave the small airstrip I usually have on my *. It turned him on, and it turned me on, and even remembering something so intimate makes me blush beet red.

“You’re a world of contrasts, aren’t you?” The words are spoken reverently as he eases his fingers into my hair. We’re in our own little world. Rock music plays in the background. We may be in a booth, in the middle of a club, but right now, there’s no one but us. “Pink hair on a set of black. Innocent bad girl. Sarcastic but sweet. Is it any wonder I could never forget you?”

My heart trips, and I turn my head away as I feel an awkward blush rise up my neck. “Kenna . . . don’t.”

He turns my head to his with the back of one knuckle, like we’re a couple, and the gesture keeps making me feel weak at the knees. “It’s the truth, Pandora,” he repeats.

My body throbs in response, and I hate that he can hear the huskiness in my voice when I say, “Let’s not confuse what we’re doing here.”

He laughs and leans back on the seat, studying me. “What are we doing here?”

I draw in a deep, steadying breath to calm myself. “Having fun. We’re . . . getting each other out of our systems. Doing what we maybe would’ve done as teens if you hadn’t left.”

“I would’ve done much more to you, woman.” He signals for a drink and sets the drink the other guy bought on a passing tray. “I can’t f*ck you fast or hard enough to make up for all the days I f*cked you in my head, or had another woman in my bed.”

I turn away, blushing beet red. “Kenna.”

He turns me back to him. “It’s the truth. There have been others—tens, hundreds, who even knows.”

“Stop it.” I’m getting angry and push him away.

“Don’t,” he says, gripping me close to him. “I’m trying to be honest with you.”

“I don’t want you to. It’s too late for that.”