Because I just spent a fucking fortune on two tickets, and because he’s the fucking asshole who broke my heart and made me heartless and bitter.
Who? The one who sold you the tickets?
No! Mackenna suck-a-dick Jones!
“For real, you’re working with Crack Bikini?” Kyle asks.
“No, Kyle. I just like bullshitting you for rides to random hotels.”
“When are you coming back?” he presses.
“Less than a month.”
We head to where I was told to meet everyone, and as we spot about a thousand custom coach buses at the hotel parking lot, I’m so nervous I’m crackling.
Kyle parks in awed silence, then grabs my duffel and helps me carry it as we head toward a group of band members. Before we reach them, he stops and gives me a brotherly peck on the cheek, and—isn’t this just perfect?—there’s Mackenna, watching it from the door of a nearby coach. I push on my tiptoes and shove my tongue down Kyle’s throat, and before he can figure out why the fuck I’m swapping saliva with him, I pull back with a little moan.
“Be good,” I say in a lame seductive voice.
He’s not looking at me anymore. He’s looking at Mackenna.
Mackenna, who’s somehow leapt off the coach, is now approaching, all gorgeous rockstar with that sexy buzz cut, the dark sunglasses, the mocking smile.
“Ahh, our guest of honor!” Lionel beams as he starts forward in my direction, but he gets sidetracked by a roadie.
Mackenna has no such welcome. Those arms I dreamed would hold me until my last day cross over his broad chest, and I notice his eyebrows furrow as he plucks off his sunglasses, hooks them in his shirt, and fixes his silver wolf eyes on Kyle. He takes a very brief moment to survey me, then he sure as fuck takes a longer one to survey Kyle. Cool steel slides along my nerves. The fact that he’s a rockstar and heart-poundingly sexy does not—and will not—exempt him from my hell.
“Pandora!” someone shouts, and a camera aims in my direction.
At the mention of my name, Mackenna’s head swivels toward me—and I’m not prepared for what I see in his deep, dreamy eyes, dark and waiting, or for the deep, intense flare of heat they cause inside my belly. One second it’s there, the next, he turns to the cameraman and stretches out one arm, using his palm to tip the camera so that it points elsewhere. Then he comes over and rakes Kyle up and down with an icy stare.
“Mackenna Jones,” he says, stretching his arm out.
Kyle sizes him up, but with the warmth of a volcano. “Kyle Ingram. Dude, I’m a huge fan!”
“Good to know,” Mackenna says, nodding.
Why does my friend have to fawn all over the man I hate? Huh? I groan and lift my bag, Mackenna watching me struggle with it with that same mocking smile, his eyes now mocking me harder. Does he offer help? Does he do even the remotest gentlemanly thing? The thing even my friend did? Hell no. Do I want him to so much as touch my duffel? Hell no.
Fuck him.
I sway my hips and make sure my boots make extra crunching noises on the asphalt as we head over to Lionel. The Viking twins stop me. They both come at me with unexpected delight. Their expressions are curious as they glance at Mackenna, and the impossible happens. They look even more delighted.
“Pandora,” one says.
“Pandora,” says the other.
“That’s right, guys, that’s my name, don’t wear it out,” I say.
“All right, get your shit together. You two”—Lionel points at Mackenna and me—“ride on that coach. It’s the one with the most built-in cameras.”
“I can’t fucking believe this,” Mackenna growls, shaking his head.
I gather my girl-balls and march toward the coach. He’s going to complain about it all the time? Fine. I’m being paid to give them a couple of shots. Hell, maybe one of them can be of my boot in his nuts. He’s right to be fearful.
“Thanks, Lionel,” I say with a suddenly warm smile.
Mackenna stares, dumbstruck, like he didn’t remember I could smile. “Yeah, thanks, dude. My life is made,” Mackenna suddenly says, and he charges over to the coach too. He stands by the door and sweeps an arm out. There’s no missing the flex of muscles under his bronzed skin, and I hate that my body actually tightens. “Ladies first,” he declares with a grin.
It suits him, that smirk, and it’s ruining my panties, which I don’t like. “Ladies first? Then maybe you should go,” I reply, pointing to the interior of the coach.
That smirk still holds, but now it’s challenging, telling me, If you’re playing, I’m game, and I’m winning.
“Charming, beautiful girl,” he says; interpretation: hateful bitch of a witch. “How old are you, darling? Eight?”
“You’re so hilarious. Ready for your own comedy show, aren’t you?”
I swing up into the coach and greet the driver then, a little faint when I see the way these guys travel. Luxury on wheels. This shit is bigger than my bedroom and living room combined. The living room area has a small kitchen nearby, and at the far end, through the open door, I can see a big bed.
“Think we can get along for”—Mackenna looks at his phone—“six hours without any bloodshed?”
I drop down on a sofa. “I’ll be right here, filing and polishing my nails, just in case.”
“Claws, you mean,” he corrects.
I stretch out my boots and admire how long the heel is, how sleek and classy.
Who? The one who sold you the tickets?
No! Mackenna suck-a-dick Jones!
“For real, you’re working with Crack Bikini?” Kyle asks.
“No, Kyle. I just like bullshitting you for rides to random hotels.”
“When are you coming back?” he presses.
“Less than a month.”
We head to where I was told to meet everyone, and as we spot about a thousand custom coach buses at the hotel parking lot, I’m so nervous I’m crackling.
Kyle parks in awed silence, then grabs my duffel and helps me carry it as we head toward a group of band members. Before we reach them, he stops and gives me a brotherly peck on the cheek, and—isn’t this just perfect?—there’s Mackenna, watching it from the door of a nearby coach. I push on my tiptoes and shove my tongue down Kyle’s throat, and before he can figure out why the fuck I’m swapping saliva with him, I pull back with a little moan.
“Be good,” I say in a lame seductive voice.
He’s not looking at me anymore. He’s looking at Mackenna.
Mackenna, who’s somehow leapt off the coach, is now approaching, all gorgeous rockstar with that sexy buzz cut, the dark sunglasses, the mocking smile.
“Ahh, our guest of honor!” Lionel beams as he starts forward in my direction, but he gets sidetracked by a roadie.
Mackenna has no such welcome. Those arms I dreamed would hold me until my last day cross over his broad chest, and I notice his eyebrows furrow as he plucks off his sunglasses, hooks them in his shirt, and fixes his silver wolf eyes on Kyle. He takes a very brief moment to survey me, then he sure as fuck takes a longer one to survey Kyle. Cool steel slides along my nerves. The fact that he’s a rockstar and heart-poundingly sexy does not—and will not—exempt him from my hell.
“Pandora!” someone shouts, and a camera aims in my direction.
At the mention of my name, Mackenna’s head swivels toward me—and I’m not prepared for what I see in his deep, dreamy eyes, dark and waiting, or for the deep, intense flare of heat they cause inside my belly. One second it’s there, the next, he turns to the cameraman and stretches out one arm, using his palm to tip the camera so that it points elsewhere. Then he comes over and rakes Kyle up and down with an icy stare.
“Mackenna Jones,” he says, stretching his arm out.
Kyle sizes him up, but with the warmth of a volcano. “Kyle Ingram. Dude, I’m a huge fan!”
“Good to know,” Mackenna says, nodding.
Why does my friend have to fawn all over the man I hate? Huh? I groan and lift my bag, Mackenna watching me struggle with it with that same mocking smile, his eyes now mocking me harder. Does he offer help? Does he do even the remotest gentlemanly thing? The thing even my friend did? Hell no. Do I want him to so much as touch my duffel? Hell no.
Fuck him.
I sway my hips and make sure my boots make extra crunching noises on the asphalt as we head over to Lionel. The Viking twins stop me. They both come at me with unexpected delight. Their expressions are curious as they glance at Mackenna, and the impossible happens. They look even more delighted.
“Pandora,” one says.
“Pandora,” says the other.
“That’s right, guys, that’s my name, don’t wear it out,” I say.
“All right, get your shit together. You two”—Lionel points at Mackenna and me—“ride on that coach. It’s the one with the most built-in cameras.”
“I can’t fucking believe this,” Mackenna growls, shaking his head.
I gather my girl-balls and march toward the coach. He’s going to complain about it all the time? Fine. I’m being paid to give them a couple of shots. Hell, maybe one of them can be of my boot in his nuts. He’s right to be fearful.
“Thanks, Lionel,” I say with a suddenly warm smile.
Mackenna stares, dumbstruck, like he didn’t remember I could smile. “Yeah, thanks, dude. My life is made,” Mackenna suddenly says, and he charges over to the coach too. He stands by the door and sweeps an arm out. There’s no missing the flex of muscles under his bronzed skin, and I hate that my body actually tightens. “Ladies first,” he declares with a grin.
It suits him, that smirk, and it’s ruining my panties, which I don’t like. “Ladies first? Then maybe you should go,” I reply, pointing to the interior of the coach.
That smirk still holds, but now it’s challenging, telling me, If you’re playing, I’m game, and I’m winning.
“Charming, beautiful girl,” he says; interpretation: hateful bitch of a witch. “How old are you, darling? Eight?”
“You’re so hilarious. Ready for your own comedy show, aren’t you?”
I swing up into the coach and greet the driver then, a little faint when I see the way these guys travel. Luxury on wheels. This shit is bigger than my bedroom and living room combined. The living room area has a small kitchen nearby, and at the far end, through the open door, I can see a big bed.
“Think we can get along for”—Mackenna looks at his phone—“six hours without any bloodshed?”
I drop down on a sofa. “I’ll be right here, filing and polishing my nails, just in case.”
“Claws, you mean,” he corrects.
I stretch out my boots and admire how long the heel is, how sleek and classy.
