Ripped (Real, #5)(73)

I clear my throat, readying myself to lose what little pride I have left, and I give it a try. “?‘Like a virgin . . .’?”

He laughs and adds in that low, unique baritone of his, “?‘Take me over, take me out, give me something, to dream about . . .’?”

“?‘Like a virgin, feel so good inside.’?”

“?‘Tastes so good it makes a grown man cry . . . Sweet Cherry Pie!’?”

I start laughing. We’re so ridiculous, but Mackenna eases me back against a storefront window, adding some awesome lyrics from Miss Independent. “?‘And she move like a boss . . . Do what a boss do . . .’?”

“?‘I don’t believe a masterpiece, could ever match your face,’?” I whisper from Kylie Minogue.

“?‘When I see you, I run out of words to say . . .’?”

God. It feels like he’s singing to me. And . . . is that “Beautiful,” by Akon?

I’m so affected and drawn into the moment—the sudden memory of when I lost him—I go for a slow one from the Fray. “?‘Where were you when everything was falling apart . . . all my days, spent by the telephone . . .’?”

He comes in with Guns N’ Roses’ “Sweet Child o’ Mine.” “?‘I hate to look into those eyes and see an ounce of pain . . .’?”

And I’m suddenly full-blown emotional with Rihanna’s “Take a Bow.” “?‘How about a round of applause . . . standing ovation . . .’?”

He drops his voice and strokes his silver ring across my lower lip, just like I watched Remy rub Brooke’s. “?‘And you can tell everybody, this is your song . . .’?” Elton John.

“?‘I’m falling apart, I’m barely breathing . . . ,’?” I softly sing, from Lifehouse’s “Broken.”

And then him, his voice low and smooth, “?‘Pretty, pretty please, if you ever, ever feel like you’re nothing, you’re f*cking perfect to me.’?”

Pink’s perfect song in his manly voice makes me pause, and suddenly I can’t think of anything because I both feel serenaded and accused, as though I just unknowingly pieced my feelings into random songs and random words, and blended them with his.

He’s watching me, waiting for something to happen.

“This right here.” Wearing a genuine smile, he looks up at the sky, then swings his finger between me and him. “There’s nothing better. No better song. I could mash songs all day and be in heaven.”

“You have horns, Kenna, you’ll never set foot in heaven.”

“All the more reason I need to find my own little version of heaven here on earth.” He smirks, and looks at me in his sweet, wolfish way as we once again start walking toward the car.

“See, a song was made to be alone. A duet?” he says, thoughtful as our feet pound the sidewalk. “Every singer has a part. Everyone knows what they’re saying. But a mashup, you take two songs created to stand alone, and you mash them. And although they’re meant to be alone, together they’re crazy and don’t even make sense, but somehow, they do.”

I start past him, down the block. “Whoa, what’s wrong?” he says.

“I can’t do this.”

He stops me and pulls me around. “Yeah, you can, Pink. You can do this.”

“Being with you again is destroying me!” I cry.

He stares at me and takes me by the shoulders. Anger and frustration and love—yes, love!—rear up in me, but my voice is weak and forlorn.

“What is it that you want, Mackenna? What do you want from me?”

He clenches his jaw and looks at me with eyes that scream their torture. “I had your heart once, Pink, and it wasn’t enough. I have your body now, but it’s not enough.” He holds my face in order to force my eyes to stay on his as he demands, “I want your mind, your dreams, your hopes, your f*cking soul. I want it all.”

I feel like I just lost a battle.

I feel . . . destroyed.

I kid myself that I hate him, but I don’t hate him. What I feel for him is unchanging and unstoppable. Nothing about my feelings for him has changed—only the other feelings it gave me. It used to feel good, loving him. I felt whole, excited, happy to be alive. Then he left and I hated feeling that love. It ate at me, corroded me, haunted me. Now here I am, thinking I could find closure while sharing his bed. His kisses. Learning more about him, and what he’s doing. Liking it too much.

I can’t kid myself into blaming him for my mistakes. I can’t kid myself into blaming him for me not being able to get over him.

My anger was my disguise. But now he’s taken off my mask.

And I. Love. Him.

I still do. Always have, always will. I love this man—this rock god—as much as a drummer loves his beat. But it’s clear to me that we can never be, even if the miraculous would happen and he could love me back, and be true only to me. Even then, it could never work.

Ever.

He has no idea, no idea. But I do.

“You can’t have it all,” I whisper, praying he doesn’t hear the tremor in my voice. “You already took it. You took it, and now I have nothing left to give to anyone.”

“Listen to me,” he says with quiet command, forcing me to look up at him, into his face, carved with relentless determination. “The woman I see now is not nothing, she’s everything. Everything. You broke me too, Pink. Us . . . us broke me.”