Ripped (Real, #5)(79)

“Hey, Mag,” I say, swallowing back my sadness as I kneel and open my arms.

She hits me like a cannonball and squishes me tight while she gives me a sloppy kiss on the cheek. Then she pulls back and tells me, “I made a list, come see.”

“Okay, let’s go,” I say, faking excitement.

“Pandora?” My mother’s voice stops us at the door. She looks as miserable as ever. “I can’t undo what I did,” she repeats again in a whisper.

“Neither can I,” I whisper back.

“Come!” Magnolia says, tugging and tugging.

“Pandora!” my mother calls again. I stop, close my eyes, and turn one last time. Something awful is gripping my stomach, and there’s no way of stopping it. I feel my ring on the hand Magnolia is grabbing.

Come because you want to, not because they’re paying you to.

“I’m sorry.”

Two little words. Important words, but they won’t give me back my guy, my baby, my choice, my past. “So am I,” I say sadly, then I hug Magnolia to my legs and absorb her happy little energy before she drags me over to her room.

“What is this?” I ask when she hands over a paper marked with neat red letters.

“Things I want to do when I grow up,” she says with a huge grin. “You said to make a list! It’s a long one.” She turns it over, and I see more letters.

Wear pink in my hair like Pandora.

Bake a cake with one hundred lollipop candles.

Go on a safari.

Have a pet giraffe (from the safari).

I read all her tiny little wishes, feeling her enthusiasm by my side, and I remember that once, I was just like her. Dreamy and hopeful and alive. “You know, I used to have one of these,” I confess. “When I made lists.”

“What did it say?”

“It said . . .” It hits me. Suddenly I remember what Mackenna and I did on our recent road trip, and I’m shocked.

You sneaky bastard, you remembered my stupid lists, didn’t you?

“One of them said, ‘Ride on the back of a motorcycle.’ Another: ‘Go on a road trip.’ And I also wanted to kiss a rockstar . . .”

I can’t go on. Impossible to. I stop and plant a smile on my face while my heart swells like helium has just been pumped into my chest.

“OOOH!!! Is it true? Is it true? Did you go on a road trip, Pan? Did you go on a road trip, and ride on a motorcycle, and kiss a rockstar?”

I nod, feeling dangerously emotional—but isn’t that what Mackenna and Magnolia do? Bring out the gooey stuffing in me that nobody else can see? With infinite tenderness, I kiss her temple. “Yes, I did. I fell in love with him. And before he was even a real rockstar, he was my rockstar.”

“You’re my rockstar,” she says, grinning.

“And you’re my Magnificent.”





TWENTY-ONE


ROCKSTAR IN WAITING


Mackenna


I’m in makeup. Sitting in a stupid chair, playing with a lighter while Clarissa, my makeup and hair artist, draws kohl under my eyes.

“Let’s go with a streaked white-and-silver wig today, to match your eyes,” she says. “It’ll make the black leather jacket and pants pop more.”

“Not wearing a wig today.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, don’t feel like role-playing today.” I ease the wig off my head and curl a hand around my skull. With my eyes kohl-darkened, the silver of my irises is brilliant in the mirror. My diamond earring glints. I feel like kicking ass, but I also feel like there’s a girl out there in this world kicking my ass.

And I still don’t know if she’s coming.

She looked away when she said she would. A sure sign she’s lying.

But f*ck, I can’t think about that now.

On the outside, she’s a bluffer—she always has been. But I know the girl within. I f*cking know what she hides. A heart big as an ocean.

A heart that says, Mackenna. Fucking. Jones.

“So, Leo said you asked him to get in touch with her?” Lex asks from his seat, getting his makeup done as well.

“She’s not answering her phone.” I flick the lighter and watch the flame, then let it die before flicking it on again.

“Think she’ll be here? Kind of boring without her now.”

“She’ll be here,” I lie. At least I have to pretend she will be, because when I go out there tonight to sing my new song, it’s her I want to be listening. Please just come to my damn concert, Pink, and then we’ll figure out what to do with you and me . . .

I swear, this girl has done a number on me my whole life. When I was sure she loved me, she ditched me. When I was sure she wanted nothing to do with me, she comes to my concert and sends a bunch of tomatoes flying at me.

I sure as f*ck don’t know what to expect of her, but I know I’m not a seventeen-year-old without a future anymore. I’m Mackenna f*cking Jones, and I’m going to damn well have her if I want her.

And I want her, all right.

I’m restless, tired, wired, but most of all, I’m craving the taste of her. The feel of her. I need to get her in my bed, where she protests less, and keep her dazed. Dazed from her orgasms. I need to strip her of her clothes and her bravado until she’s trembling in my arms. Until she forgets to curse and tease me because she’s so busy moaning for me to f*ck her harder.