Ripped (Real, #5)(88)
He’s recruited a couple of bands to play at Pink during the week. And, even better, as a special favor, Jax and Lex and Crack Bikini will be performing opening night.
They call all the time, those two goofballs. Trying to coax Kenna back to the band. He laughs and banters with them, says, “Hell no” and “Fuck off.” He’s currently working on a new album called Bones. I’m crazy about the songs. They’re so bare, different from what he created during his time with Crack Bikini. Edgier. More raw.
At night, he takes me out, whether I protest that I’m tired or not. He’s a prowler—another wolfish trait.
On the weekends, we invite Magnolia over. She loves it with us. Even my mother is trying to make amends, so even if she doesn’t like having to let me take Mag some weekends, she lets us have our way. Her way of trying to make peace with Mackenna.
I still remember the first time they met—Mag and Kenna.
Mom dropped her off. We’d prearranged the visit, so we were expecting Magnolia. I rang her up from the lobby, and suddenly the door of the apartment swung open and there was Magnolia, her eyes bright with curiosity as she asked, “Pan, Pan, who is he?”
She curled around my legs like a cat, and I clutched her to me as Kenna set aside the guitar he was fiddling with and headed over with a smile I remember finding heart-meltingly adorable.
I noticed her study him.
And I noticed him study her.
“Aren’t you going to let our guest inside, Pandora?” he asked me, intrigued.
“Who are you?” she asked in return, frowning.
“Who are you?” he shot back, lifting one eyebrow and reaching around me to shut the door behind us.
“I’m Magdalene,” she said.
“Magnolia,” I corrected, laughing.
He smiled down at her while she surveyed him.
“Magic Mike, say hello to my boyfriend, Mackenna,” I said, giving her a little nudge forward.
“What does this mean?” she went on to ask of the tattoo on Kenna’s forearm. “Why are you wearing bracelets? You like boys, don’t you?”
“Mag!” I laughed, ushering her into the kitchen. “Come on, we’re making homemade pizza.”
Over the mozzarella sprinkling, Mackenna looked at me, as intent as ever. “She’s—?”
“A little older than our . . . um, yes.”
We shared a moment of sadness, then he came up behind me, took my hand, and set it over the five Chinese symbols on his forearm as he whispered in my ear, “It means ‘I Live For You.’?”
“What?”
He laughed and moved to help Magnolia add the pepperoni slices. “I’m not repeating it. I was drunk and had one thing on my mind and one thing only.”
“Me?”
“Yup. That wasn’t the best tattoo to help me forget you, was it?” he murmured.
“But you wore it proudly?”
“Only because it was the truth.”
A month before the movie premiere, we hear that the movie trailer is becoming famous for showing me charging across the stage to kiss Mackenna, whispering with ferocity, “You’re mine. I claim you. I love you. You’re mine.”
Surprisingly, this has gotten me an online fan club. So unexpected! I even interact with the fans sometimes. As long as Kenna’s fans don’t lynch me at the premiere, I’m good with anything. He’s promised me, they won’t touch me.
And I believe him, because, sadly, they’ll probably be too busy trying to reach out over the red cords to touch him.
Anyway, just a week before the premiere, I find myself calling Melanie with my most excited voice yet. I’m so happy, my voice has a new tone even for me.
“We’re getting married.”
“Squee! OMG! How? When? When did he ask, and how did he ask you?”
“Well, we’d already said we would, but he asked in an un-cheesy way, or I’d have flung the ring back at him,” I say, looking down at my ring, then up at my man, who’s lying with his arms crossed behind his head, the bedsheets barely reaching his waist.
“If you’re telling me Grey’s proposal was cheesy when he told me flat out we were getting married, you are deranged—it was the best, most un-cheesy proposal I’ve heard.”
“Kenna proposed in bed, while . . . you know . . . insert your most volcanic fantasies here . . .”
“Wow, that is un-cheesy. Not something to tell the kids, huh?”
“Just get over here!”
“Be there in a bit.”
Then I call Brooke and Remy.
“You’re getting married! Remington! Guess who’s getting married?”
He briefly grabs the phone. “Congratulations, you two.”
Soon Melanie appears, her intimidating boyfriend by her side. “Maleficent, getting married?!” She hugs me with her usual mix of glee and tenderness, and we rock in each other’s arms while our men have no other choice but to introduce themselves.
“Greyson,” I hear Melanie’s fiancé say. “Congratulations, man.”
“Mackenna,” Kenna offers, slapping and shaking hands.
“God! Look at this ring, it’s obscene! One seriously obscene ring, Kenna, you did good!” Melanie says in complete delight. “Greyson, have you seen anything so pretty?”