Ripped

by Katy Evans

  “Oh, really? Because you have fame and money?” I smirk.

  “Because I’m a man, Pink, not a foolish little boy. Because I weathered shit, and I still grew and made something of myself. Because I’m here now, with you, and I won’t be driven away. You cast me aside before, but I won’t let you do that again. That’s why I’m good enough now.”

  “You really mean that?” I ask, both puzzled and strangely warm in my chest area.

  “Oh, I mean it.”

  Suddenly I feel it’s important to clear up the fact that I did not cast him aside—at least, not willingly. “It wasn’t you, Kenna. My mother would never have understood,” I explain, almost apologizing. Before I say anything more, I grab my glass and drain my cosmo.

  Then sign for another.

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  THREE HOURS LATER we’re drunk. As we stumble into the room, Mackenna pulls my shirt up and my bra down, and suddenly his mouth surrounds the tip of my breast. I feel him jerk on his jeans, and his mouth only leaves my tits for the length of time it takes for him to get his shirt off.

  “Fucking god, just look at you.” He dips his finger into my jeans and runs his mouth along my throat. I love it so much, I impulsively drag my lips over his jaw, running my hands over that sexy buzz cut hair.

  “You drunk? Hmm? You drunk?”

  “You’re drunk as fuck,” I tell him.

  “Yeah, but the kind of drunk that can fuck you like you want.”

  He goes and gets naked, then lights a cigarette.

  He looks lickable.

  The tattoo on his forearm peeks out as he takes a hit of the cigarette, the tip glowing as he does.

  “What does that mean?”

  He passes the cigarette over and I give it a hit, watching the smoke leave my lips.

  “I tried quitting, you know,” I say.

  “Yeah, I can’t quit for more than a few days. Especially touring. I get a fucking headache, and the only thing that quits is my good mood. Come here.”

  “Hmm. Most I’ve lasted was, well, there was this one year where I didn’t smoke anything but e-cigarettes, but then I started up again. My only rule is to never smoke at home. Or in front of Mags.”

  “Nice.” He’s now referring to my body as he peels off my layers of clothing, and he looks at me as if he’s branding the image of me naked into his mind.

  My nipples are puckered as though begging for his mouth. My pussy feels damp and his eyes snag there. “So pink and shiny, this shaven little pussy.”

  He drags a finger over it, leading to my pink clit and lips.

  “Fuck,” he says, rubbing that finger over my lips. “I’m salivating here, babe. You’re so beautiful.” He lifts his gaze and watches my expression as he slides a finger over my sex again. I tremble.

  “Stop saying ‘babe,’ Mackenna.”

  “Shh,” he says, heading for the bathroom in all his naked glory, returning with a condom.

  “We haven’t even kissed and you’re hard. You’re always hard.”

  “You assume your perfect tits and that sweet pussy won’t get me like this?” My eyes drop to his huge erection, and I lick my lips, knowing how much I want it. He takes my face in one hand, his eyes devouring me. “There’s something innocent and alluring about you. Some innocence you don’t hide. I want to feed myself into your mouth, baby, and I want to watch you feast on me.”

  He rolls a condom over his cock, and I groan in hunger and drop to my knees, his hands cupping the back of my head. “Come here,” he coaxes, pulling my head toward his straining cock. “Come here and open your mouth.”

  “I want you, but not with a condom.”

  “It’s flavored just for you, Pink.”

  I unroll it and his eyes darken dangerously. I smile drunkenly up at him, then I open my mouth around him, and the flick of my tongue seems to catapult his desire, because he groans and fists my hair as he starts pumping. “Oh, baby. Oh, sweetheart. Ahh, Christ, Jesus, don’t stop, Pink. Don’t fucking stop until I’m dry. You like that cock? You wanted nothing between your perfect tongue and my fucking cock? Are you going to swallow me, Pink? Tell me how badly you want to fucking swallow me.”

  Quaking with need, I nod and work him slow. Curling my fingers around the base. Sucking the head. Savoring the drops gathering at the tip, and when he shoots off, he groans. When he’s done I grin, because for this moment, I have him right where I want him.

  Until he recovers.

  And fast.

  And when he slides down on the bed and tells me to sit on his face, he ends up having me right where he wants me.

  EIGHTEEN

  MEETING UP WITH FRIENDS

  Pandora

  My morning text two days later isn’t actually from Melanie: it’s from Brooke.

  Brooke: Are you in New Orleans? I just heard Crack Bikini’s concert was the night before last.

  Me: Yes. We’re leaving today for Jacksonville to stop for the night and then on to the next stop.

  Brooke: OMG we’re leaving Miami today! Do you want to meet up?

  “Kenna.” I head into the shower and stop when I see him inside the stall, soaping up his beautiful body. I wait for him to turn the water off, and when he steps out, my breath catches.

  “Whatcha doing there, Pink?”

  “Looking at you,” I say, not even shy about memorizing every wet, delicious inch of the eye candy that is Mackenna Jones.

  “Anything you like?”

  “Most of it, yes.”

  “Most of it?” He scowls. “Well, what don’t you like?”

  “That I don’t know what that means.” I motion at his tattoo, and he glances down at it with a scowl.

  “I told you. It means I’m a jackass.”

  “And a cocky, self-confident man who thinks he’s God would tattoo that on his arm? Pfft! Keep lying to me, Kenna.”

  I shake my head in chastisement, but he just smirks and says nothing—like he’d rather die than tell me. Then I sigh and explain, “One of my friends, her husband’s a fighter and they tour all the time, and they just finished in Miami. She asked if we could meet up in Jacksonville.”

  “What kind of fighter?”

  “I don’t know. But the fights get dirty.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Riptide.”

  “Whoa. Parents hate him?”

  “I think they did, but no, that’s not his name. His real name is Remington Tate.”

  “Seriously? Well, who’s your friend?”

  “Brooke.”

  “He was a boxer, no? Got kicked out when he went Tyson on some dudes at a bar or some shit? I like him.” He grins.

  “You like all men who make you feel like you’re a saint next to them.”

  He grins. “So, you asking me to double-date with you and your friend?”

  “Ugh. It’s not a date. Forget it.”

  He laughs. “Where do we meet them?”

  I stare at my phone. My stomach tangles because it feels so serious. A date. Double-dating. Me and Mackenna, Brooke and Remy. But I want to see Brooke. I haven’t seen her in months, and she, Melanie, and Kyle are my only true friends.

  Me: We’re on! How about dinner?

  Brooke: Double date? OH YES! Text me when you get in town and we’ll have a reservation ready.

  Me: It’s not a date, so please don’t say that in front of Mackenna.

  Brooke: Holy shit, dinner with MJ from Crack Bikini. Remy doesn’t believe me.

  Me: Why?

  Brooke: He listens to their shit all the time before he fights!

  Me: Well Mackenna already confessed his man-crush on Remington going Tyson in the past so if Mackenna wants to date someone, he can date Remy.

  Brooke: Sorry, my man’s taken. :)

  Me: You’re such a possessive bitch now.

  Brooke: He actually loves it! So we’re on. See you tonight!

  “We’re on,” I tell Mackenna. “But it’s not a date.”

  We talk about t
hem on our drive to Jacksonville. Having returned the bike, Mackenna is now driving a Porsche, and my seat is so sunken I can hardly see the road. It must have been too much to expect him to be monogamous with his car selection.

  “And your other friend—Barbie?”

  “Barbie lives with, and is marrying, the closest thing to sin that she could find.”

  “And this sin likes her?”

  “Are you kidding me? He dotes on her. He’d break any one of the ten commandments for her—hell, I’m sure he already has.”

  “Wouldn’t any guy do that for their girl? Do whatever it takes to make sure she’s well and happy?”

  I look at him in confusion. Because, hello? I used to be his girl. And when he walked away, he couldn’t have been stupid enough to think that it made me “well and happy.”

  Unless he truly thought he wasn’t good enough for you. . . .

  The thought haunts me as he finds a parking spot a block away from the restaurant, and it isn’t long before we spot Remy and Brooke, right outside. The first thing you see is, of course, him. He’s large and eye-catching, with muscles that make his T-shirt cling to his shoulders and biceps, and his narrow hips encased in low-slung jeans. His hair is spiky and rumpled—like Brooke’s just had her hands in it—and they’re deep in conversation, him nodding with a smile, his finger rubbing her bottom lip while she talks.

  “Hey!” I call.

  They turn and Brooke squeaks, “Pan!”

  Remington approaches Mackenna with a dimpled smile. “I’ll be damned.”

  “I’ll be next,” Mackenna says right back, and they strike handshakes, pumping hard and smiling while Brooke and I hug.

  “How are you?”

  “No, how are you? Touring with Crack Bikini!”

  “Yeah, this is Mackenna,” I say, stepping back, gesturing. “Brooke, Mackenna. Mackenna, Brooke.”

  “It’s so nice to meet you, Mackenna,” Brooke says sweetly, but even as she shakes Mackenna’s outstretched hand, she slips her free hand into Remington’s, as if reassuring him that he’s the one for her.

  Remington looks down at her hand in his and smiles a secret smile. He doesn’t strike me as a man who needs constant reassurance, but the way he squeezes her hand in some silent communication makes me feel warm inside.

  We head into the steakhouse, and the restaurant is oddly vacant as we walk inside. “Remington’s PA thought we’d have a better time if we rented out the place,” Brooke explains.

  “Hell, I’m already having a blast,” Mackenna says, taking my hand in his.

  It gives me tingles, and those tingles make me want to draw my hand away, but instead I find myself both scowling and laughing.

  “I told you, this isn’t a date,” I whisper in his ear so only he can hear.

  He turns his head and plants a quick, surprising kiss on my lips. One second his lips are on mine, shooting a gust of pleasure through my limbs, and the next they’re gone. “And I heard you the first time,” he says, smiling down at me.

  He’s observing me with that rather adorable wolfish curiosity he always watches me with, and since it unsettles me so, I decide to concentrate on Brooke and Remington instead.

  A waiter leads us to a table at the back of the restaurant, and I notice all those protective gestures they have. He steers her by the neck, while she uses the hand closest to him to hook her index finger into the waistband of his jeans. He pulls the chair out for her to sit, whispering something in her ear that makes her grin. When she laughs, he bends over. I watch as he rubs his nose all along the shell of her ear and she smiles privately at herself and closes her eyes. Shutting off the world so she can focus on what her husband is doing.

  He sits down, and Mackenna, apparently immune to the fact that these two people are quietly making love to each other, begins by asking, “So how’d you get into these Underground fights?”

  I’m amazed at how courteous Remington is, because he seems genuinely interested in Mackenna’s questions, his thick arm outstretched, one hand firmly on the back of Brooke’s chair. Her hand is under the table, and I think it’s on his thigh. I’m getting all sorts of hot feelings inside me, and an even more noticeable one that I always seem to feel when they are near. Longing. Because I ruined my chance at this.

  That’s when, as Remington briefly explains to Mackenna that he’d fight wherever as long as he got to fight, I realize where Mackenna’s arm is. He’s in exactly the same position as Remington—his arm stretched across the back of my chair, his hand resting just behind my neck, as if he owns me.

  Or, at least, thinks he does.

  A tingle grows in my stomach, and I try unsuccessfully to quell it. I’ve always loved those little gestures I see between Brooke and her guy, but me? Oh, no. This is not for me. And definitely not for me and Kenna.

  Okay, maybe a little part of me wants something like this, but not the rest of me.

  I squirm, feeling uncomfortable. Then I slide my chair back a tad, just to see if he drops his hand.

  He doesn’t.

  In fact, he doesn’t even turn to look at me.

  I hear Remington ask Mackenna, “How’d you get your start with the band?”

  “Racer is so big,” I tell Brooke at last, switching the conversation to talk about her son while desperately trying to ignore Mackenna’s arm close to my nape.

  Brooke grins and starts telling me Racer’s exact eating schedule, and how he’s restless because he’s just about ready to walk but can still barely stand up for a couple of seconds.

  When the waiter approaches, Brooke doesn’t even pause, and I hear Remington order for her. She’s still talking to me when I hear Mackenna order, and just as I flip open my menu to decide what I’m having, I realize he’s also ordering for me. “She’ll have the mandarin salad and the seared scallops.”

  Abruptly I leave Brooke midsentence and turn, rapping the side of his hard head. “Knock, knock?”

  “Who’s there?” he teases me.

  “You just ordered for me without even asking me what I wanted.”

  He leans back with a smirk. “All right, Pandora. What was it you wanted?” He lifts one eyebrow, and god, the things I want to do to that smirk. Kiss it. Lick it. Bite it. All of it.

  “The mandarin salad and the seared scallops,” I finally admit, hating that he’s making me smile back at him.

  “And what did I order?”

  That.

  Smirk.

  God!

  All of a sudden I’m hungry, and it’s just for that damn smirk of his. I’ve loved mandarins and sea scallops my whole life—since the days we used to steal away to the docks. And deep inside my brain, I keep hearing a silly little voice saying, “He remembers.”

  How can something so insignificant turn me to mush?

  “I could have wanted something else,” I argue, still smiling.

  He cocks an eyebrow, still smirking at me. “But you don’t. Trust me, I know what you want, Pink.”

  God help me, I want to kiss that smirk. To kiss him so hard, I’ll be the one smirking back at him afterward. Instead, Brooke kicks me under the table and gives me the universal going-to-the-bathroom-to-discuss-the-guys sign.

  Fine.

  We excuse ourselves, and as soon as we’re out of earshot, she’s on me—anxious to know what’s going on.

  “What’s been happening?!” Brooke asks as we storm into the bathroom.

  In her short black dress and sky-high heels, she looks like a million bucks. I go stare into the mirror and look like . . . me. Like some angry little crow out to attack—pink streak and all. Brooke’s face is lit up like from the inside. Like she knows she’s worth something. To someone. Like she sleeps well at night because she’s sleeping next to a blue-eyed man who looks at her like he’s both coddling and fucking her in his mind. And that’s hot.

  “Pan!” Brooke says, with that radiance surrounding her and those gold eyes boring into me. “You need to tell me. I did not know you even knew this
guy. Now he sits there, ordering for you, knowing things I didn’t even know about you—”

  “I used to know the guy. Now I’ve been hired to be in their stupid movie, and we’re fucking.” I wash my hands and try not to meet my own gaze in the mirror, but I sneak a quick peek and then force out the frown lines I’m wearing across my forehead.

  “For real? You’re fucking the Crack Bikini terrible threes?” Brooke asks, as disbelieving as me.

  “The main one. But not for long.”

  “But you like him! Ohmigod!”

  I scowl. “No, I don’t!”

  “Yes. You do!” she counters. “And he definitely likes you. I’m really digging the way he steals those long looks at you. Long looks, like his eyes are taking in all of your face, your temples, your eyes, your nose, your lips, your chin. Every time he looks at you it’s like he takes in every inch of your face before he looks away. You make him smile too.”

  “He just does that to irritate me!” I cry, getting truly agitated by the excitement and fear Brooke’s words are creating in me.

  “No, he does not do it to irritate you. And how can you say that when you don’t even notice when he does it?”

  “He’s a man-slut, Brooke. He looks at my mouth because he likes me doing stuff with it. I bet he’s thinking dirty thoughts,” I say. A memory of him feeding me his cock flashes through me, and I can’t quite quell the bolt rushing through my body.

  She laughs, then shrugs. “Maybe. Personally, I love it when Remington thinks dirty thoughts about me when we’re with others. I can see it in his eyes. Sometimes I just brush my body against his to confirm my suspicions, and I love it when the evidence just slams into me and he growls.”

  I raise my eyebrows, then laugh. “Do you stop having sex with Remy when you have a baby?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I’m just curious how . . . couples live when they have babies.”

  She grins, then her eyes gain a dreamy little sparkle in them as she admits, “We used to struggle when Racer didn’t sleep all night. We needed to steal every one of our moments together. But Racer’s such a good baby . . .” Her smile widens. “If anything, Remington is even more primal and possessive now. Just the thought of me being his makes him want me. Badly. Hell, if you sit down and say something about me and refer to me as his wife, you’ll see what it does to him.”