Ripped (Real, #5)(76)

“What?” She’s stunned now—her suitcase, her packing forgotten as her mouth gapes wide. “But the band is a part of you.”

“So are you,” I point out cockily, then I lower my voice. “In fact, you’re the biggest, most important part of me.”

She stares at me like what I’ve just said is pure, raw torture. Like it’s hurting her, really hurting her. But I can’t let her go this time. I can’t walk away from her for the second time in my life. “Pink, I like writing my songs, and singing, but I want you more. I want to settle down . . . I want something normal. For once in my life, I want something normal.”

“I’m the furthest thing from normal, Kenna,” she chokes out with a bitter laugh.

“Well, you’re what I want. I want to give you normal.”

“Riding on a bike? In a Lamborghini? That’s not normal either,” she cries, and although her eyes are red and a little wet, she still fights to keep from letting those tears out.

Frustration starts knotting up my insides, and I grab her shoulders to give her a little shake. “Fuck, Pink. Are we going to fight about this? Huh?” I chuck her chin up. “All right, fine. I concede. You’re not normal. I’m not normal. But I want to give us our kind of normal—which might be weird and f*cked up, but it works for us.”

“I . . .” She glances at me, then closes her eyes and whispers, “You’re tempting me in the worst way.”

I take her palm and set the ring inside, closing her fingers around the precious metal, the value of which means nothing compared to her, and then I stare into her face and wait. My heart’s a wild beast pounding in my rib cage. She’s stunning—all white skin with dark-painted lips, eyes like dark pools of night, glossy dark hair with its adorable pink streak. Her little breasts, her little ass, her long legs, and those long, pointy boots . . .

I like it all.

I want it all.

“But you still won’t say yes?” I press.

Say.

Yes.

Baby, say YES.

She won’t answer, so I drop my voice to its lowest tone—the one I use when singing ballads.

“Come because I ask you to, not because they pay you to. Come if you ever loved me. If you can ever love me. Come see me, Pink. Come hear me sing at Madison Square Garden.”

Her eyes soften with emotion, an emotion I can feel pooling in my gut.

“I thought you didn’t like knowing I was out there watching you sing.”

“That might be because I’d never had something I wanted you to hear me sing before,” I admit then brush a kiss, first to her forehead and then to the top of her ear. “If you do decide to come, let Lionel know. He’ll seat you.”

“I’m not sure it’s a good idea,” she hedges, but she’s got her fist closed tight around my ring. “You think I’ll show up, you’ll sing to me, and we’ll live happily ever after?”

“That’s what I’m going for.” I smile at her softly, torn between shaking her, begging her, and flat out ordering her to do as I say. “Fuck, Pink, just say you’ll come.”

“Say you’ll let me go home on my own. Your band needs you.”

I hesitate. She seems desperate to get rid of me right now. I’m not sure if she’ll come. But if she doesn’t . . .

Just go after her, dude.

“If I agree, you’ll come?” I say, trying to get something of an agreement out of her.

“Yes,” she says, looking at me and opening her palm as if she thinks I want the ring back. I close her fingers around it again.

“Keep this. It belonged to the first woman I loved, so it makes sense it should stay with the last.”

“Kenna!” she cries, but before she can make a thousand and one excuses as to why she can’t make it to my concert—excuses about why she still can’t open up—I head out of there, hoping that ring never finds its way back to me.

Like it did once before.





TWENTY


PANDORA’S BOX


Pandora


Usually at this stage of a journey—sitting on a hard plastic chair at the gate, waiting for the call to board the flight—my palms are sweaty, my heart is racing, and my stomach churns like I’m about to puke. But this time my attention is elsewhere, my eyes focused entirely on the little diamond. . . .

I can’t stop staring at the little diamond, in those sleek little legs, high up in the air and begging for attention. It’s priceless to Mackenna, and I know that no diamond in the world means more to him than this one. No diamond in the world means more to me than this one—because it was his mother’s. And he loved her with everything in him.

Like I love my mother too.

My mother . . .

I think of her as I grip the armrest and hold on tight as the plane takes off.

Even with my clonazepam, the adrenaline rushes around my body so fast that I can’t sleep. The pill allows me to relax briefly, but this time around, that’s about it. I’m still too hyper, my brain too wired, my heart too busy feeling . . . stuff.

My mother had the perfect setup for a pain-free marriage until we realized . . . she didn’t. She’s wanted what’s best for me. She was there on January 22.

There when the pain started.