Ripped
Page 18
My heart melts a little as I remember, and I try to reach for the ice I need to guard myself against him. He’s no longer the boy I skated with, hid with, and thought myself in love with. He’s a famous rockstar who plays with women. Me being the first of legions and legions of others.
“What? No reply?” he asks me. To be honest, I don’t remember what we were even talking about, but his lips quirk and he adds, “Not so sure about yourself when you’re not armed with vegetables?” There’s a playful challenge in his eyes, that bad boy gleam that still makes my pulse skittish.
“Kenna, do you want a cupcake?” one of the dancers asks as she comes over and nearly decorates his face with it.
“Not now,” he tells her, shoving the offering away, his eyes homed in on me. His alluring voice—his chiseled cheekbones, that twinge of charged air—is torture to my girly parts. Tor-ture. I feel a little drunk from having the attention everyone wants.
“More drink?” she presses hopefully, offering her red cup to him.
That catches his attention, and he stares at the red cup. “What you got there?”
I don’t intend to stay here and watch this poor girl embarrass our sex in this way, so I head off in search of Lionel. I need my room key.
“Leaving the party early?” Mackenna calls as I leave.
I direct my answer to Lionel, who I’ve spotted, instead, watching the manager put his whiskey down as I reach him. “I’m tired. If it’s okay with you, I already gave a juicy tidbit to one of the photographers.” I point at the blond guy.
“Noah? Good. Appreciated.” He flips a key out. “We’ve got the entire floor. There’s a communal media room that will be open in the presidential suite. Some food storage closets in the hall.”
“Thanks.”
It takes me a while to make sense of the rooms. This is an extended-stay hotel, so the rooms are more like apartments. I hear footsteps behind me—shuffling, then giggles. It sounds like Tit and Lex, making out, but I’m not sure. I don’t bother to turn around. The urge to get away from whoever is behind me hits and on impulse I grab the next doorknob and it opens, so I peer into pure darkness.
Before I realize it’s some sort of closet, the door slams shut behind me and a celebration ensues just outside.
Great.
Fucking perfect.
They’ve locked me in here. Just like Mackenna predicted, I’m being hazed. Damn, I hate him being right.
I press my ear to the door, straining to hear them outside. They’re still out there, and I hear giggles combined with male whispers. Sighing, I look around the closet and wonder if I’m going to sleep in here. It’s a four-by-four space and not long enough to take me stretched out on the floor. So, what, I’ll sleep sitting? All fucking night? No. When they leave, I’m going to try to unlock this sucker.
Minutes pass until, suddenly, they grow mysteriously quiet. I sense them still out there, waiting for something.
But what?
Then I hear the voice. Even though it’s muffled, I know exactly who it belongs to, because all the little hairs on my arms rise to attention.
Fuck no. Please. Anyone but him.
“What did you fuckers do?” Mackenna growls under his breath. When nobody answers him, he adds, “What? Is she in there, you pricks?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Why don’t you check and see for yourself, dude?” one of the twins answers.
There’s a cackle.
And then I hear the low, sensual, male sound of Mackenna’s panty-wetting, heart-melting, toe-curling chuckle coming closer. “Seriously? You’re such assholes.”
He gets the door to open and there he stands, those eerie silver eyes fixed on me. And they are on me. Like a touch. Doing things to my heartbeat that I don’t like but I can’t stop. There’s a tattoo on his forearm, a ring on his thumb, a thousand leather bracelets on his wrist. His lips curl, and I hate the feeling I get, like a bell chiming in the pit of my stomach. I especially hate the little tingle I get when he stretches out his hand.
“Hey,” he says as he studies me with amusement. “Told you, didn’t I?”
He talks to me good-naturedly, with one sleek eyebrow up high, and I feel a flush creep up my body as I stay rooted to my spot, bravely battling a surge of unwanted lust and old, familiar anger.
I want to get out of here, but I don’t like that he gets to play the hero.
Laughter rings out behind him, and before I can take his offered hand or brush snottily past him—which is what I was actually planning on doing—Lex and Jax shove him and, suddenly, all six feet three of Mackenna is crashing into the closet.
The door slams shut behind him. “Woo! Remember seven minutes in heaven, Kenna?” Lex shouts against the door. “How about seven hours in hell, dude!”
They start humming “Pandora’s Kiss,” and anger rushes through me. I fist my hands at my sides and close my eyes, praying for retribution one day.
Sounding bored as could be, Mackenna replies, “Very funny, douche bags,” and turns to grab the knob just as there’s a loud screeching of heavy furniture being dragged across the floor outside.
“Are they seriously blocking the door?” I ask, trying to sound bored as well, but in actual fact, I’m alarmed. They are seriously locking me in here?!?!?! With Mackenna?!?!?
This is beyond hell. So far beyond I don’t even have a term for it, but the closet already smells of . . . man. Man-wolf, and alcohol, and . . . ugh!
“What? No reply?” he asks me. To be honest, I don’t remember what we were even talking about, but his lips quirk and he adds, “Not so sure about yourself when you’re not armed with vegetables?” There’s a playful challenge in his eyes, that bad boy gleam that still makes my pulse skittish.
“Kenna, do you want a cupcake?” one of the dancers asks as she comes over and nearly decorates his face with it.
“Not now,” he tells her, shoving the offering away, his eyes homed in on me. His alluring voice—his chiseled cheekbones, that twinge of charged air—is torture to my girly parts. Tor-ture. I feel a little drunk from having the attention everyone wants.
“More drink?” she presses hopefully, offering her red cup to him.
That catches his attention, and he stares at the red cup. “What you got there?”
I don’t intend to stay here and watch this poor girl embarrass our sex in this way, so I head off in search of Lionel. I need my room key.
“Leaving the party early?” Mackenna calls as I leave.
I direct my answer to Lionel, who I’ve spotted, instead, watching the manager put his whiskey down as I reach him. “I’m tired. If it’s okay with you, I already gave a juicy tidbit to one of the photographers.” I point at the blond guy.
“Noah? Good. Appreciated.” He flips a key out. “We’ve got the entire floor. There’s a communal media room that will be open in the presidential suite. Some food storage closets in the hall.”
“Thanks.”
It takes me a while to make sense of the rooms. This is an extended-stay hotel, so the rooms are more like apartments. I hear footsteps behind me—shuffling, then giggles. It sounds like Tit and Lex, making out, but I’m not sure. I don’t bother to turn around. The urge to get away from whoever is behind me hits and on impulse I grab the next doorknob and it opens, so I peer into pure darkness.
Before I realize it’s some sort of closet, the door slams shut behind me and a celebration ensues just outside.
Great.
Fucking perfect.
They’ve locked me in here. Just like Mackenna predicted, I’m being hazed. Damn, I hate him being right.
I press my ear to the door, straining to hear them outside. They’re still out there, and I hear giggles combined with male whispers. Sighing, I look around the closet and wonder if I’m going to sleep in here. It’s a four-by-four space and not long enough to take me stretched out on the floor. So, what, I’ll sleep sitting? All fucking night? No. When they leave, I’m going to try to unlock this sucker.
Minutes pass until, suddenly, they grow mysteriously quiet. I sense them still out there, waiting for something.
But what?
Then I hear the voice. Even though it’s muffled, I know exactly who it belongs to, because all the little hairs on my arms rise to attention.
Fuck no. Please. Anyone but him.
“What did you fuckers do?” Mackenna growls under his breath. When nobody answers him, he adds, “What? Is she in there, you pricks?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Why don’t you check and see for yourself, dude?” one of the twins answers.
There’s a cackle.
And then I hear the low, sensual, male sound of Mackenna’s panty-wetting, heart-melting, toe-curling chuckle coming closer. “Seriously? You’re such assholes.”
He gets the door to open and there he stands, those eerie silver eyes fixed on me. And they are on me. Like a touch. Doing things to my heartbeat that I don’t like but I can’t stop. There’s a tattoo on his forearm, a ring on his thumb, a thousand leather bracelets on his wrist. His lips curl, and I hate the feeling I get, like a bell chiming in the pit of my stomach. I especially hate the little tingle I get when he stretches out his hand.
“Hey,” he says as he studies me with amusement. “Told you, didn’t I?”
He talks to me good-naturedly, with one sleek eyebrow up high, and I feel a flush creep up my body as I stay rooted to my spot, bravely battling a surge of unwanted lust and old, familiar anger.
I want to get out of here, but I don’t like that he gets to play the hero.
Laughter rings out behind him, and before I can take his offered hand or brush snottily past him—which is what I was actually planning on doing—Lex and Jax shove him and, suddenly, all six feet three of Mackenna is crashing into the closet.
The door slams shut behind him. “Woo! Remember seven minutes in heaven, Kenna?” Lex shouts against the door. “How about seven hours in hell, dude!”
They start humming “Pandora’s Kiss,” and anger rushes through me. I fist my hands at my sides and close my eyes, praying for retribution one day.
Sounding bored as could be, Mackenna replies, “Very funny, douche bags,” and turns to grab the knob just as there’s a loud screeching of heavy furniture being dragged across the floor outside.
“Are they seriously blocking the door?” I ask, trying to sound bored as well, but in actual fact, I’m alarmed. They are seriously locking me in here?!?!?! With Mackenna?!?!?
This is beyond hell. So far beyond I don’t even have a term for it, but the closet already smells of . . . man. Man-wolf, and alcohol, and . . . ugh!
