Ripped
Page 70
“She put him there,” Mackenna finishes for her, his voice not betraying any emotion.
Silence.
Remington says, “Sorry, man.”
He reaches for Brooke’s hand, both of them now solely looking at Mackenna. “How old were you when that happened?”
“Seventeen. Doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Pan,” Brooke whispers, her attention coming back to me in full force. “All this time you knew him and didn’t even say. And he was singing about you!”
With a rumbling laugh, Mackenna reaches out to retrieve the knife from my place setting with that adorable, kissable smirk that’s driving me nuts. “Please don’t even mention that. She has . . . exceptions to that song.”
“Because it’s a lie!”
He groans and rolls his eyes.
“So it was you, then,” Brooke laughingly tells him. “The man we all wanted to hang for ruining her life.”
“Don’t, Brooke,” I warn.
“She pine for me?” Mackenna asks, his voice growing thick—like it sometimes does when he asks about me. He seems superinterested, his predatory, wolfish gaze glimmering full force.
“Don’t. No! Don’t say anything, Brooke.”
“No, she doesn’t get sad,” Brooke admits, with a curl of her lips. “She gets mad.”
“Oh, she’s mad at me, all right,” Mackenna agrees.
I groan and bang my palm to my head, but in the end, we all burst out laughing.
♥ ♥ ♥
AFTER DINNER WE part ways, and Mackenna’s eyes are somber as we head back to the parking lot. “Enjoy that?”
The daring lift of his brow surprises me. “Excuse me?”
“Enjoy that? Making me jealous?”
“What do you mean? Because I was watching Remington?” I stare at the sidewalk across the street. “All my friends have that and it makes me curious, but I don’t want it. I don’t need it. I want to be independent all my life,” I lie.
He chuckles softly. “Your nose just grew about an inch.”
“Fine. I may want it, but I don’t think I’ll get it . . . not that you’d understand.”
“I understand. I want something normal too, you know.”
I’m so surprised, I stop walking and whirl around to face him. “You want a wife? You have a freaking harem.”
“So? I want a wife someday.”
An elderly couple walks past us and I stare at their intertwined hands, weathered with age but still holding on to each other.
And they’re not even talking, as if they know all they need to about each other.
Suddenly all the memories of walks with Mackenna, unable to hold hands because we’d be seen, hurtle through my mind, and a new thought teases me, begs me to find out if that’s the reason he’s now so determined to hold my hand. When he drives. When we were in the restaurant. Even after we fuck.
The question hammers at me, at all my precious walls, and I’m so torn, I’m powerless to resist him.
Especially now, when his eyes glimmer in the moonlight, his face patterned with all kinds of interesting shadows that make him look hotter, his lips softer, his lashes longer.
“I’m not a jealous guy,” he says, studying me intently. “Fuck, maybe I am jealous. I’m insanely jealous. How come you smiled at him and not at me?”
“Because we’re fuck buddies. You want to think only you can make me smile.”
“I can make you smile. Hell, I can make you laugh like nobody’s business.”
I try to start walking, but he swings me around and takes my shoulders in his hands, whispering an order that sounds almost like a plea. “Mash up a song with me.”
“What?”
He pulls me close to him and hums against the top of my head. “Come on,” he urges, ducking to softly kiss the top of my ear. “Mash a song with me,” he repeats.
“You make me do some stupid things,” I groan.
“All part of my charm, Pink. Now come on,” he presses, his voice lulling me into a relaxed mood. Plus, how to resist the twinkle in those wolfish eyes? I love those eyes, even though they haunt me, see me, build me, break me . . .
I clear my throat, readying myself to lose what little pride I have left, and I give it a try. “‘Like a virgin . . .’”
He laughs and adds in that low, unique baritone of his, “‘Take me over, take me out, give me something, to dream about . . .’”
“‘Like a virgin, feel so good inside.’”
“‘Tastes so good it makes a grown man cry . . . Sweet Cherry Pie!’”
I start laughing. We’re so ridiculous, but Mackenna eases me back against a storefront window, adding some awesome lyrics from Miss Independent. “‘And she move like a boss . . . Do what a boss do . . .’”
“‘I don’t believe a masterpiece, could ever match your face,’” I whisper from Kylie Minogue.
“‘When I see you, I run out of words to say . . .’”
God. It feels like he’s singing to me. And . . . is that “Beautiful,” by Akon?
I’m so affected and drawn into the moment—the sudden memory of when I lost him—I go for a slow one from the Fray. “‘Where were you when everything was falling apart . . . all my days, spent by the telephone . . .’”
Silence.
Remington says, “Sorry, man.”
He reaches for Brooke’s hand, both of them now solely looking at Mackenna. “How old were you when that happened?”
“Seventeen. Doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Pan,” Brooke whispers, her attention coming back to me in full force. “All this time you knew him and didn’t even say. And he was singing about you!”
With a rumbling laugh, Mackenna reaches out to retrieve the knife from my place setting with that adorable, kissable smirk that’s driving me nuts. “Please don’t even mention that. She has . . . exceptions to that song.”
“Because it’s a lie!”
He groans and rolls his eyes.
“So it was you, then,” Brooke laughingly tells him. “The man we all wanted to hang for ruining her life.”
“Don’t, Brooke,” I warn.
“She pine for me?” Mackenna asks, his voice growing thick—like it sometimes does when he asks about me. He seems superinterested, his predatory, wolfish gaze glimmering full force.
“Don’t. No! Don’t say anything, Brooke.”
“No, she doesn’t get sad,” Brooke admits, with a curl of her lips. “She gets mad.”
“Oh, she’s mad at me, all right,” Mackenna agrees.
I groan and bang my palm to my head, but in the end, we all burst out laughing.
♥ ♥ ♥
AFTER DINNER WE part ways, and Mackenna’s eyes are somber as we head back to the parking lot. “Enjoy that?”
The daring lift of his brow surprises me. “Excuse me?”
“Enjoy that? Making me jealous?”
“What do you mean? Because I was watching Remington?” I stare at the sidewalk across the street. “All my friends have that and it makes me curious, but I don’t want it. I don’t need it. I want to be independent all my life,” I lie.
He chuckles softly. “Your nose just grew about an inch.”
“Fine. I may want it, but I don’t think I’ll get it . . . not that you’d understand.”
“I understand. I want something normal too, you know.”
I’m so surprised, I stop walking and whirl around to face him. “You want a wife? You have a freaking harem.”
“So? I want a wife someday.”
An elderly couple walks past us and I stare at their intertwined hands, weathered with age but still holding on to each other.
And they’re not even talking, as if they know all they need to about each other.
Suddenly all the memories of walks with Mackenna, unable to hold hands because we’d be seen, hurtle through my mind, and a new thought teases me, begs me to find out if that’s the reason he’s now so determined to hold my hand. When he drives. When we were in the restaurant. Even after we fuck.
The question hammers at me, at all my precious walls, and I’m so torn, I’m powerless to resist him.
Especially now, when his eyes glimmer in the moonlight, his face patterned with all kinds of interesting shadows that make him look hotter, his lips softer, his lashes longer.
“I’m not a jealous guy,” he says, studying me intently. “Fuck, maybe I am jealous. I’m insanely jealous. How come you smiled at him and not at me?”
“Because we’re fuck buddies. You want to think only you can make me smile.”
“I can make you smile. Hell, I can make you laugh like nobody’s business.”
I try to start walking, but he swings me around and takes my shoulders in his hands, whispering an order that sounds almost like a plea. “Mash up a song with me.”
“What?”
He pulls me close to him and hums against the top of my head. “Come on,” he urges, ducking to softly kiss the top of my ear. “Mash a song with me,” he repeats.
“You make me do some stupid things,” I groan.
“All part of my charm, Pink. Now come on,” he presses, his voice lulling me into a relaxed mood. Plus, how to resist the twinkle in those wolfish eyes? I love those eyes, even though they haunt me, see me, build me, break me . . .
I clear my throat, readying myself to lose what little pride I have left, and I give it a try. “‘Like a virgin . . .’”
He laughs and adds in that low, unique baritone of his, “‘Take me over, take me out, give me something, to dream about . . .’”
“‘Like a virgin, feel so good inside.’”
“‘Tastes so good it makes a grown man cry . . . Sweet Cherry Pie!’”
I start laughing. We’re so ridiculous, but Mackenna eases me back against a storefront window, adding some awesome lyrics from Miss Independent. “‘And she move like a boss . . . Do what a boss do . . .’”
“‘I don’t believe a masterpiece, could ever match your face,’” I whisper from Kylie Minogue.
“‘When I see you, I run out of words to say . . .’”
God. It feels like he’s singing to me. And . . . is that “Beautiful,” by Akon?
I’m so affected and drawn into the moment—the sudden memory of when I lost him—I go for a slow one from the Fray. “‘Where were you when everything was falling apart . . . all my days, spent by the telephone . . .’”
