Rage
bubbles up inside me full force.
“Now?”
Melanie keeps asking me.
I.
Loathe. Him.
“Now?”
she asks again.
I
loathe
him. He’s the only boy I’ve ever kissed. He took kisses that
meant everything to me and turned them into a joke of a fucking song.
A song that turns me into some sort of Eve, torturing and teasing him
to sin. He
is the sin. He is the penitence, the hell, and the devil, all in one.
I
reach into my bag, nicely tucked under my poncho, and grab the first
thing I find.
“Now,”
I whisper.
Before
Mackenna knows what hit him, Melanie and I have sent three tomatoes
and a couple of eggs flying through the air.
The
orchestra music isn’t enough to drown out his muttered “fuck,”
audible through the microphone.
His
jaw clamps and he yanks the mic down over his chin as he jerks his
eyes around to find the source of the attack. I feel delirious when I
see the genuine anger on his face. I squeal, “The rest!” and grab
the remaining things we brought and just keep throwing. Not only at
him, but at anyone who tries to get in the way—like the stupid
dancers who rush to protect him. One of them makes a whimpering noise
as an egg hits her face, and Mackenna jerks her back by the arm so he
can take the hits himself, his furious eyes trying to find us in the
crowd.
Then
I hear Melanie shout, “Hey! LET GO, asshole!”
My
arms are yanked behind me, and I’m suddenly shoved and pulled out
of my place and down the aisle.
“Let
go of us!” Melanie cries, struggling as two burly guards drag us
away. “If you don’t let go of me right now, my boyfriend’s
going to find your home and kill you in your sleep!”
The
guard yanks me back harder, and I catch my breath as pain rushes up
my arm.
“Asshole,”
I hiss, but I don’t even bother to struggle. Melanie’s getting
nowhere and I know it.
“She knows them!
She knows the band! Who do you think he was singing about just now,
asshole?” Melanie kicks into the air. “She’s Pandora!
Let us fucking go.”
“You
know Mr. Jones?” one guard asks me.
“Mr. Jones!” I
scoff. “Seriously! If Mackenna’s a mister, I’m a unicorn!”
They
seem to chuckle among themselves as they lead us past more security,
around the stage, and to a small room in the back. One guy starts
speaking into a radio as he unlocks the door.
Melanie
struggles and tries to kick out, but the enormity of what could
happen starts settling on me, and I grow quiet.
Holy.
Shit. What have I done?
“You
don’t have to look so happy, dickface. My boyfriend will find your
home too and kill you next!” she tells the other guard.
They
yank a door open and shove us inside. I stumble as I take a step,
fighting for some dignity as I wiggle free of his grip. “Let go,”
I grit, and he finally releases me.
The
radio transmitter on his hip emits a sound. A voice says something I
can’t make out, but it sounds a lot like cursing.
“Remove
these,” one of the guards commands, pointing at our ponchos.
I
pry the plastic off my body and Melanie does the same, then we watch
helplessly as they strip us of the bags we’d hidden underneath the
ponchos.
Melanie
groans when they set our things on a table to the side. Cell phones.
Two more tomatoes. Car keys.
“Wow.
You guys can’t take a little joke now, can you?” Melanie asks
them with a haughty little scowl.
I
close my eyes and try to quell the panic rising in me.
Fuuuuck.
What was I thinking?
I
haven’t done anything this reckless in years.
And
it felt good.
Also
wrong.
Very, very wrong.
But
good. Great, in fact.
Hell,
I can still picture the pissed, disbelieving look on Mackenna’s
face. It gave me intense pleasure. Orgasmic pleasure. But now the
intense feeling I’m experiencing is more along the lines of
paralyzing fear.
What
if the guards call him into the room to ask if he does, indeed, know
me?
What
if I have to stand here in this small stuffy room and look at him
from thisclose!
I
feel sick to my stomach. Later, Melanie’s going to want
explanations. Big-time explanations; more than what I’ve told her
so far. She’s going to have to tell Greyson what happened, and he’s
going to want to know everything, because these stupid security
guards messed with his girl. I don’t even know if I can explain to
her the kind of past Mackenna and I share. January 22: the day I
unfailingly get drunk and don’t bother to even see the light of
day—I’d sworn to myself I’d never discuss that day. But Melanie
and Greyson? They will want me to open my box of secrets. Of me and
Mackenna Jones.
Hot,
wet mouths melding . . .
Him,
pushing into me, stretching me, taking me, loving me . . .
Promises.
Lies.
Loss.
Hatred.
The
kind of hatred that’s only born of an intense, out-of-this-world
love that went woefully wrong.
What
am I going to say to him if I see him?
What
am I going to do?
Please
god, don’t punish me by making me look at him thisclose.
I
pace and pray, pace and pray while Melanie studies her nails, the
wall, and me, sighing with the bored confidence of someone who knows
she’s getting out of here intact. If I see Mackenna, I really doubt
it'll be so easy. My stomach’s already in knots, and I’m having
the most awful urge to vomit right now.
The
concert seems to last forever. One of the guards comes and goes while
the other opts to stand a few feet behind Melanie, standing all
military-like, as if waiting for something.
Oh
god, please let that something not be Mackenna.
I’m
wearing off a layer of my boots’ soles when, a century later,
the door swings open and a chubby man in a suit and tie steps in. My
blood pools in my feet from my nervousness. Lionel Palmer, the band
manager, also known as “Leo.” I saw his face and interview in
this
morning’s
paper, but I have to say he looked much happier in that picture.
He
glares at us—Melanie glaring back, me standing motionless—and his
hands make meaty fists at his sides.
“Have
you any idea what you just did?” he grits out, chubby cheeks
blazing red. “How long we could keep you two cozy in a fucking lady
prison? What kind of fucking fans are
you?”
“We’re
not fans,” Melanie says.
The
door swings open and the twins, in all their male glory, join the
melee. They look intimidating all the time, but now—with their
blond hair, odd-color eyes, and perfectly pissed-off scowls—they’re
a force to be reckoned with.
I
can’t breathe.
“Who
the fuck are these bitches?” the one with the snake tattoo demands.
“I’m
getting to that, Jax,” Lionel says.
So
the other one must be Lexington. He charges forward and looks at me,
eyebrow piercing and all, then he looks at Melanie. He points his
index finger, swinging it from her to me. “I hope you two have a
lot of money, because one of our dancers is injured. If she’s
screwed up for Madison Square Garden—”
“Don’t
worry, Pandora, Greyson will take care of this,” Melanie says
easily.
“Pandora,”
Lionel repeats suddenly. He grows still, his eyes sliding back to me.
“Your friend called you Pandora. Why?”
“Because
it’s my name? Duh.”
I’m
in the middle of rolling my eyes when the
door swings open and a figure fills the space. I don’t think my
heart is beating anymore. I feel like someone is strangling me and
punching me on the inside.
Mackenna.
A
few feet away.
In
the same room as me.
Bigger
and manlier than ever.
He
kicks the door shut behind him. He’s wearing aviators, so I can’t
see his eyes, and ohmigod, I hate him with a passion. I came here to
hurt him, but I’m so overcome by my anger, I can’t seem to do
anything but stand here with my breath getting trapped in my lungs,
my heart squeezing in my chest, my body trembling as all my
suppressed anger bubbles up inside me.
He
is tall and dark, and the remains of a red gooey liquid trickle down
his chest.
But
what a perfect chest, with its thin trail of hair that leads the way
from his navel to his dick. Tight leather pants mold to his bulging
thighs. A bulging cock too. I swear girls might think he sticks a
loaf of bread down his pants, but I can assure you that fucker is
real. As huge as his fucking ego, and I remember it used to get as
hard as his fucking head.
Not
everyone can pull off a buzz cut, or a diamond stud earring, but he
has a perfectly shaped head that makes you want to curl your hands
around it and trace the curves with your lips. The diamond glints
almost menacingly in his right ear, and when he takes off the
sunglasses with an angry jerk, I see his brilliant, furious silver
eyes, and I swear that it feels like coming home.
To
a home that was wrecked, and burned, and there’s nothing left, but
it’s still your home.
How
fucked up is that?
God,
please let him not be real. Let this be a nightmare. Let him be on
the other corner of the world while I hate him safely from my corner
in Seattle.
“She’s
fucking Pandora?”
Lionel asks Mackenna.
When
Mackenna’s hard jaw only tightens, Lionel turns slowly around to
study me. My brain is a tangle of confusion because Mackenna is
staring straight at me like he can’t believe I’m standing here.
I
can barely take his steely gaze. I thought this night would give me
closure. That I could make him feel in front of his fans like I felt
when he left: humiliated. Instead he stands there, every inch the
rock god, even with tomato puree on his chest. He owns the room,
carrying that unnamable X factor that nobody can pinpoint but that he
has in spades, that tells you he owns this room and everyone in it.
And
that fact only serves to piss me off further.
“Lionel,” he
says in a low, warning tone.
Just
one word makes Lionel ease back. Now nothing stops Mackenna from
staring straight at me.
My
face burns as I remember how I loved him. Deep, hard, completely.
Don’t
think about that. You hate him now!
“Nice
hair.” He shoves his glasses into the belt loops of his pants.
His
voice, oh god.
His
eyes run down the length of my hair, and Melanie offers, “I
suggested she add a little spirit to her hair, so at least she looks
happy.”
He
doesn’t even look at Melanie. He looks at me in the most intense
way, specifically the pink strand in my hair, waiting for me to
answer. I loathe that pink strand, but not as much as I loathe him.
“Nice
tights,” I return, and gesture to his leather pants. “How’d you
get into them? From the top of a building and with a pound of
butter?”
I
refuse to let his chuckle move me, but I feel it run down my legs as
he starts approaching. “No need to use butter anymore. These pants
are a part of me.” He holds my gaze helplessly trapped. “Like you
were a part of me once.”
He’s
coming closer, and every step affects me. My cheeks burn. The gall of
him to remind me. I’m so angry. Years of hurt simmer in me. Of
loneliness and betrayal.
“Fuck
you, Mackenna.”
“Already
done, Pandora.”
PRE-ORDER
AVAILABLE
RELEASE DATE: December 9th
A
ripped rock star with attitude. An ex-girlfriend with a reckless
plan.
Pandora
assumed getting her heartbroken by her bad boy ex could only happen
once--until Mackenna Jones comes back to town for the biggest concert
of his career. They say girls are getting pregnant just thinking
about the Crack Bikini tour and it's destined to be a huge hit.
Oh,
it'll be a hit alright--when Pandora comes out swinging. She and her
friend Melanie are determined to humiliate him onstage. But when
they're caught by security and her ex is summoned, Mackenna decides
not to press charges if she'll join him on tour and follow certain
conditions--rules designed to give him the upper hand and keep her in
close contact with him once again. Soon, the passion they once shared
is reignited, and no matter how much Pandora wants to hate him, her
hard exterior starts to crack.
And worse: Mackenna
knows it, too. But he hasn't uncovered all her secrets...
Series
Reading Order
Real (bk 1)
Mine (bk 2)
Remy (bk 3)
Rogue (bk 4)
Ripped (bk 5) 12/9
Hey!
I’m Katy Evans and I love family, books, life, and love. I’m
married with two children and three dogs and spend my time baking,
walking, writing, reading, and taking care of my family. Thank you
for spending your time with me and picking up my story. I hope you
had an amazing time with it, like I did. If you’d like to know more
about books in progress, look me up on the Internet, I’d love to
hear from you!
Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/AuthorKatyEvans
Twitter:
https://twitter.com/authorkatyevans
Email:
authorkatyevans@gmail.com
Comments
Post a Comment