Ripped

He continues reading.

A donkey’s ass is sweeter

I hate Mackenna’s mouth

And his fucking lies

He can kiss my ass

And it will taste better than his fucking mouth

He lowers the piece of paper, and before I realize it, he’s caught me by the back of the neck and kissed me flat on the mouth. Then he yanks back and strokes his knuckles across my wet lips, still grinning.

I wipe my mouth to get rid of the tingle his touch leaves. “I’m still working on it. Just thought you might like to start thinking of a tune,” I say, scowling.

“Why let me pick if you’re on a roll, baby? Let’s just use the background music for Jaws.”

“Stop kissing me when you feel like it, Kenna.”

“Stop opening your mouth and sticking your tongue at me when I do, Pink.”

“I didn’t . . . ugh.” I flip him the bird and feel entirely too warm when he heads for the door, taking my song with him.

“Thanks for this.” He grins like it’s a love sonnet. “Glad to see you’re making lists again.”

“It’s not a fucking list.”

“Well it’s not exactly a song either, Pink.”

Suppressing the urge to kick the door when he leaves, I decide to go cool down and take a bath.

“I hate you,” I mumble, just to get it out of my system as I undress.

But the worst part of it all is that I’m starting to wonder whether I truly mean it.

♥ ♥ ♥

AFTER A BATH, I’m calmer when I drop on the bed. The covers are rumpled. The room smells a little bit like him. I let him . . . hold me? Why’d I go and do that? I felt him slip in behind me. I felt the mattress give in to his weight and then I felt all his warm muscles surrounding me. I pretended not to notice because I didn’t want him to go.

I groan and bury my face in my hands.

God. What have I done?

I’m not letting him get through my walls—protective layers it took me years to mend. But I’m wandering right into the most painful moments of my life, and I already feel a little bit too rumpled. Like the bed he slept in with me. The rumpled feelings crawl their way into my chest, and I try to perk up and think of the future Magnolia can have with all the money.

I sit down and check the clock, then mentally go through Magnolia’s schedule. Since it’s summer, she must be home.

I dial from my cell, and all my pain and confusion ease when I hear her little voice answer.

“I miss you, Panny, I have thirty-eight things we’re going to do when you get back!” she proclaims.

“Wow, you’re going to keep me busy, huh?”

“Yessss! Guess which is number thirty-three?”

“Hmmm. Let’s see now . . .” I pretend to think until I hear her practically panting. “We’re going to lay around in pajamas all day and play board games.”

“No! We’re going to make a lemonade stand and sell orange juice.”

“What? Whoa, wait. You can’t sell orange juice at a lemonade stand—it needs to be an orange juice stand.”

“Yes you can! Why not?”

I’m so exhausted by last night, I can’t even think right this morning. So I backpedal. “Okay, you’re right. Let’s break the rules. Everyone who sells lemonade at a lemonade stand has no creativity like we do.”

“And we’re gonna add water so we get more orange juice to sell.”

“What? No, oooh no no. I’m drawing the line there, Mags. We are not watering down the orange juice. That’s for complete delinquents.”

“Delinquents! I wanna be a delinquent with you!” she squeals, and I grin like a dope and stare at my bracelet as she starts telling me about what she’s done. The bracelet has little gem charms, colorful and rugged in texture. They’re supposed to protect all my loved ones from wrong. I don’t ever wake up in the mornings without rubbing it.

I don’t like that Mackenna made me forget until now. So I brush my thumb over the rocks, letting that simple movement ease me like Magnolia does.

Little did I know I’d especially need as much calm as I could muster this morning.

♥ ♥ ♥

SO, THERE’S BAD news. Not surprising. I expected this trip to be a disaster from start to end, so I shouldn’t be in full panic mode. I already woke up with Mackenna in my bed, so now? Now, the interstate highway is closed due to construction, and the ever-efficient Lionel has chartered a plane to fly us all to the next location. But then again, that isn’t just bad news.

That is a disaster.

I am not a tactile person, but I desperately need to hold someone’s hand when I fly—desperate as in I’m-afraid-I’m-going-to-yank-off-an-armrest-or-something-now-that-Melanie-Brooke-Kyle-my-mother-or-Magnolia-aren’t-here.

But . . . sigh . . . I’ve got meds, right?

And meds make the world go round, so . . .

And at least I wasn’t forced to ride alone with Mackenna to the airport. I took the same coach as the dancers, and Lionel didn’t have time to protest before we were on our way. True, they all gave me enough evil eyes to give me a lifetime of bad luck—but it’s not like I’ve enjoyed much great luck in the first place, so I might not even notice the difference.

Once we shuffle into the airport, the Viking twins keep staring at me. Their expressions are curious more than antagonistic, and I briefly wonder what Mackenna has told them about me.

This girl not only throws a good tomato, but I popped her cherry when she was seventeen too . . .

“Hey,” one finally says.

“Hey,” the other follows.

They’re both smirking now, big and blond, and worst of all is that, like Mackenna, they reportedly have brains too. From the clothes they wear, to the carefully calculated appearances for the paparazzi, Crack Bikini is a meticulously plotted piece of merchandise. Mackenna’s wigs, the Vikings’ chains, tats, and nipple rings are all part of “the look,” though today, Mackenna wears a black T-shirt and jeans and a cap on his buzz cut, plus aviators. The twins are dressing the part of rockstars to a T. Chains hang around Jax’s neck, while Lex wears a spiked choker.

“ID?” Lionel asks, and I hand it over as he checks me in.

Mackenna joins his two boys and the guys stare in my direction. All three of them.

I hate how his energy pulls on mine. He’s the only person in this world I can actually feel spiking my adrenaline. He has a way of making me feel supercharged—as if my own body pumps extra hormones when he’s near.

Jax surveys me with quirked lips. “Kenna didn’t tell us much about you, you know.”

My eyes slide to Mackenna, and my tummy dips for some reason when I see he’s not smiling but watching me intently.

“Except that I was a witch?” I quip.

Lex laughs. “Not in those words.”

“Well, tall, dark, and mean is just part of his charm. Isn’t it?”

They grin at me, and I slide a look at Mackenna, my tummy dipping again when I see him looking at me as if there’s an intense pondering session going on in his brain. Lionel comes back with my ticket, and suddenly it’s real.

This flight is real.

There’s no way I will allow myself to be weak and vulnerable in front of Mackenna, but my nerves skyrocket as we head toward our gate.

I’m acutely aware of him silently walking next to me. One thousand percent bad boy rocker, with lazy swagger. With a sidelong glance I check out the tattoo on his forearm, the one thousand leather bracelets on his wrist, and the silver ring on his thumb. The memory of that ring on my skin when we went a little bit too far in the closet skims through me.

And what does that tattoo say?

Several men in suits walk with the group and attempt to keep people away from the main men. The guys have always been an entity—like two balls and a dick.

“You okay there?” Mackenna asks me.

“Dandy.”

Relax, Pandora. Just take a pill, take a whiskey, and knock yourself out.

I repeat it as a mantra as we board the plane. The scent of airplane is suddenly choking me.

Mackenna is talking with the guys. Lionel greets me with a huge smile as he lightly guides me into first class. A group of dancers start chatting up the guys. As I put my bag in the overhead compartment, I watch Mackenna. All the guys seem bored with the conversations, but not Mackenna. Ohhhh, no, not player Mackenna. He smiles and teases the girls, stealing little touches on their arms.

God, he’s unbelievable.

Scowling, I slide into my seat and pray for a smooth landing, breathing in and out as I check—for the tenth time today—the pillbox in my pocket. If a piece of metal can fly, then I can fly in it, safely, like everyone says.

But as I strap on my seat belt, I remember how my father died. He died this way. I picture that plane lurching and crashing. I picture him going numb. Thinking of Mother, of me. I wonder if the others screamed. It’s a fear that’s grown with me through the years as I’ve lost my innocence and become more cynical and, at the same time, more vulnerable and therefore more guarded. Fear bubbles and fizzes in my stomach as I try to stop thinking about that flight. How my father’s last goodbye was truly a goodbye. How no one survived.

My mother and I saw the crash on the evening news before we even realized my father was on board. “Ohmigod,” my mother breathed as we both watched the images of shredded airplane among sirens and stretchers and debris.