by Katy Evans
He was the one. It’s the truest thing I know about me. That he was the one.
“I want to be someone one day, you know? Make a difference . . .”
“I don’t know who I want to be yet,” I said.
“I have an idea.” Kiss. “Be you.”
Relaxed as I listen to him now, I lean against the wall and close my eyes, letting his voice soothe me.
“Making friends already,” Lionel says from behind me. I spin around, and he smiles approvingly.
“Heard you did great at rehearsal.”
“I made a fool of myself, but at least some of your other dancers had a good time,” I say. I find myself smiling when he laughs, a booming laugh.
“Yolanda said you’re quite the natural. That you really brought it with you today.”
“Huh,” I say, disbelieving the compliment.
But it feels really good, actually. I’d forgotten how good. To get praised for something.
When Mackenna walks offstage, Lionel waves at him and proceeds to inform him of the same. “Your girlfriend’s apparently a natural dancer,” he says.
Mackenna is sweaty and breathing hard, eyebrows rising at the news. “Of course she is. Who’d you think you were dealing with?”
I’m blushing so hard, I can feel my toes grow red.
“She’s a great skater too,” Mackenna says softly.
When our eyes meet, my heart grows wings. Do you remember, Kenna? How you spun me, caught me, held me?
A long moment passes, and I feel like Lionel gets too uncomfortable with our silence, for he quickly excuses himself.
“So.” I tug on the strand Melanie dared me to paint, suddenly feeling shy. “You had a good rehearsal too.”
A deep, unexpected laugh leaves him, and we start heading into the back of the stage. “I think I missed you, Pink,” he says softly, shaking his head as if that’s stunning news. “All this time.” He reaches out, and his silver ring rubs over my chin in a soft caress.
Briefly.
One second it’s there, the next, gone.
My smile falters as the ghost of his touch lingers on my skin. “I think you’re deluded.”
“Yeah, I missed you,” he says, nodding to himself, his smile sincere. “Such a brave, angry little raven . . . hiding the sweetest, warmest little chick inside.”
I roll my eyes, struggling with how genuine he sounds. “Whatever, Kenna,” I say. Like I’ll ever forget he wrote a song basically telling me how much I suck!
“Hey, Kenna!” One of the backstage roadies passes him a red cup of what I assume is water. He grabs it and starts downing it while the twins come toward us with their guitars slung behind their backs. We watch them head for water too.
“How do you guys do it?” I wonder out loud as Mackenna and I watch the Vikings grin at us. “Perform before all those people.” I gesture toward the stage and all the empty seats surrounding it.
He shrugs. “Lex throws up before going up, every time. Jax gets stoned. And me?” He shrugs. “I have a special trick I do.”
“Like what?”
“I tell myself no one out there is you.”
“Really? That’s your trick? So, I’m your jinx, and you’re just relieved I’m not watching.”
He laughs as he heads to his dressing room.
“Hey! Where are you going? We’re having a talk here!” I protest.
“I need to shower, Pink. Look me up later, though, and I’ll be happy to explain,” he says, but something about his gaze tells me he’d like to do more than explain.
For the next hour, movements of all kinds wreak havoc in my stomach.
I tell myself he wanted to get the best of me, or bait me like he baits the Vikings. He’s a pirate luring me into his lair, but I won’t fall into his trap. Who cares what he meant?
But later at the hotel, I’m wandering out in the hall, unsure of which room he’s in, when the delightful Tit and Liv walk by. “You looking for Kenna?” they ask, wearing identical ear-to-ear grins.
Fuck.
“No.”
“Oh. Really?” Liv hooks her arm around mine and spins around, taking me in another direction. “Then want to come to our room? We’re going to watch a movie.”
“I’m a little sore.” I try to pull free.
“Oh, no worries! I’ve got stuff to help with that.”
Since I am sore from this morning’s dance lesson, I bite back my retort and let her lead me into their shared bedroom. The “stuff” she has is an ice pack, and I squirm as she presses it against the muscle above my knee. “Oh, don’t groan and be a boy about it,” she shushes. “The guys are the only ones that complain.”
I go still and frown.
“We sometimes let the boys borrow our packs when they overdo their workouts. Gym every three days. They dead lift and do all kinds of other things.”
“How long have you been dancing for them?” I ask, genuinely curious. They all seem to be friends, but clearly the girls sleep with the men too.
“Me, four years. Tit, two. We love it here.”
“I bet.” I study them. I’m searching for any traces of guilt in Olivia’s eyes, but I can’t quite decipher it. I’m so used to the transparency of Melanie and Brooke. The honesty of real friends. But then again, I’m used to my mother. Closed off. These girls are just like her, and there’s only one way to deal with this sort of people—from a distance. Failing that, you have to be up front. “Why are you being nice to me right now?”
They laugh in unison, exchanging glances. “Oh, don’t be silly. We don’t want you as an enemy. We want to be sure you’re not messing with Kenna.”
“You think you’re protecting him from me? That’s absurd.”
“Is it?”
“Yes!”
“Oh, we don’t know.” Now it’s Tit talking, tapping one manicured nail to her lips—painted in the exact same shade as Liv’s. “Since you arrived, Kenna’s done nothing but stare at you, walk next to you, sit next to you, and sniff around you like some dog with a new bone.”
“He’ll go find another bone soon.”
“Will he?” It’s Olivia again. “Because, can I just say, we’ve talked to the other girls, ones who’ve been with the band even longer, and he doesn’t do that. Women come to Kenna. He doesn’t go to anyone, he’s got like legions. So yeah, we’re concerned. What’s the deal with you two?”
I shrug. “He’s my ex. We have a past. A past which means I hate him—as you’re supposed to hate an ex.”
“But you were dancing with Yola like you wanted to make out. You were imagining she was Kenna.” The words weren’t a question so much as an accusation.
“I . . .” Since there’s really no point in denying the way I got lost in that stupid dance, I shut my mouth.
“One of the camera guys said you two shared a room the other night. That true?” Tit presses.
“Wow, is this high school?”
There’s a camera positioned on a stand in the corner of the room, almost like a live predator, waiting to trap my answer. For a fraction of a second, I want to leave, but I want the information I can garner from these girls too.
“We slept together,” I whisper, really low, “but . . .”
“You guys did it! We knew you had. Those smoldering looks he gives you must be multiplied times five in the bedroom, huh!”
“Oh, no.” I glance back at the stupid camera, suddenly a little too vulnerable. Admit that he didn’t have his way with me? That he didn’t touch me like that? I suddenly don’t want them to know if he did or didn’t. Mackenna is my secret again and I don’t want to share anything about him with anyone.
I get to my feet.
“Good night, girls. Next time let’s get together in my room. I’ve got a little thing that you don’t—it’s called privacy.”
“Hey, Dora,” Liv says as she stops me.
“Pandora. Please. Here’s your ice pack back. My guess is, it’s about the same temp as you two.”
&n
bsp; “Tomorrow. Your room. After the concert. We’ll bring the skinny martinis. Deal?”
I look at them, and I realize I don’t know what to make of these two. Maybe they hate me, but I still need somebody to talk to, or I’ll go running back into Mackenna’s arms like I was just about to only minutes ago. He’s the one—not these girls—who can hurt me. Whatever these girls want to do has nothing on what Mackenna can do to me.
It won’t do any harm to remain cautious, though.
I head back to my room and wonder what he’ll do when he realizes I’m not showing up. Will he attempt to seduce me tonight in my room? Is he feeling this same strange anticipation I feel? Wondering what his next step will be? What he’s going to do?
But by midnight I hear his laughter in the hall. The sound is accompanied by that of women laughing too, and I realize the sudden wave of hate I feel is not even for him.
It’s for me.
TEN
CONCERT TIME
Pandora
Concert night is crazy. You need ten eyes when you walk backstage to keep from tripping over anything and crashing into anybody, much less staying in one piece.
I spot Jax in a corner near the curtains, smoking, and I suddenly wish I’d tucked my e-cigarette into my jeans. “Oh, can I get some?” I ask. Jax puffs out a stream of smoke as he hands it over. I give it a hit and cough. “It’s pot?”
“What did you think it was?” He grins and lifts his hand to retrieve it from me, but I quickly move away, deciding to take another quick hit.
Jax laughs and pounds my back when I cough. “Easy, Miss Jones,” he says.
“Oh, puleeze. I’m not Miss Jones.”
“Well that’s what everybody calls you ’round here.” He grins at me, and I notice he has the strangest shade of eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re violet. “We feel like we know you, being that Jones sings about you and him and all,” he drawls out, acting quite brotherly to me now.
“They’re all lies, I tell you. Wait till you hear what I have to say about him.” I nod direly, and he lets out a booming laugh.
From out of nowhere, Lionel grabs the cigarette and stubs it out. “Get rid of this, Jax. Jesus F Christ, how many times must I tell you?”
“Umm. Once more?”
Leo scowls at him and turns to me. “Want to watch the concert from the front row?” Clearly noticing my hesitation, he ushers me toward the doors leading out to the stadium. “Come on. It’ll be fun for you, and one less thing for me to worry about. I don’t want Kenna distracted. He’s already obsessing over what wig to wear tonight.”
“He looks ridiculous either way, so tell him he might as well go for a Mohawk,” I say drolly as I follow him outside.
I guess I knew there could be repercussions to being in the front row: listening to the crowd clamor, “CRACK BIKINI!” as he walks in, the Vikings pop out, and the music builds . . . slow at first—like foreplay—then races toward a musical orgasm that grabs you in a choke hold and doesn’t let go. I should have known my body would betray me, just like last time. I should have known I’d feel hot and bothered and confused . . .
Just like last time.
But Mackenna? He wears a spiky blue mohawk over his buzz cut, and the things that does to me. Is he teasing me, or indulging me? He’s just so good at what he does. The crowd is hyped, and he greets them all with a low chuckle and a vigorous yell.
“Aren’t you a noisy crowd tonight!”
The crowd responds by yelling louder, and after a short interlude from the orchestra, he gets into position at the center of the stage and starts to sing.
My body reverberates with the music. With his voice.
He sings with incredible focus—and one of the things I most marvel at is that he never just stands there. His body is always on the move, rippling muscles and fluid movements that have to be deceptively strong. Those leaps he makes . . . how he leaps from one level of the stage to the other and flips in the air . . . I need to consciously fill my lungs. They’ve stopped working on automatic.
And, as if the sight of him isn’t enough, the sound of his voice bolts through my body and makes my blood pump furiously in my veins. His voice is so deep and masculine, you cannot be both a woman and unaffected. He sings from the heart, and you can see it—feel it—in every word. When he sings “Pandora’s Kiss,” I can hear the anger in the song, even in the mad strike of the twins’ guitars . . . and my own anger, frustration, and pain rise up to meet Mackenna’s sudden frown.
He looks at me with pained eyes, and my stomach plummets when he keeps singing without looking away from me. Those wolf eyes have hunted me down in the crowd, snagged and captured me. He’s stopped dancing too. The dancers dance behind him, but he just sings, and looks at me, and sings, “I shouldn’t have opened you up, Pandora . . .”
As he sings his frustration and regrets to me, I know it’s for the cameras.
It has to be.
I’m confused. Confused when his anger and mine mix in a powerful combination that brings forth an undeniable, electric spark of lust. People scream, the music vibrating in all of us, but in me it’s tangled up like another being. Breathing. Pulsing. Beating.
As the music continues, Liv and Tit come up to his sides and start rubbing up his chest. He’s ignoring them, still singing while their fingers trace his nipples and chest. Just like I will in Madison Square Garden. If I don’t puke from the nerves first.
Tit looks at me from upstage. It’s a brief flick of her eyes that everyone else would miss—even me, if I weren’t so engrossed by what they’re doing to him—then she leans and licks his nipple. Jealousy flits through me as his voice rumbles through my body, spinning me into a frenzy to the point where I want to go and scream at the bitch, “He was mine first!”
He turns and moves against Tit, looking at her now as he sings, and strangely I feel the absence of his eyes like a punch in the gut. But then the guitars come in for their turn, and when his stare comes back to me, I’m charged with a thousand watts. The night progresses and his attention keeps straying to see that I’m watching him, and I feel . . . sexy, wanted, womanly. I remember how Brooke used to sit when her husband spotted her from the boxing ring. I used to think how ridiculous it was to be so stunned and excited. Yet here I am, trapped in my seat. In trying to show how tough I am, I’ve repressed the sensual side of me for so long that it feels good to embrace it now. Aware that he’s watching, I close my eyes and lose myself to the music, somehow feeling the shift in his voice.
When this last song is done, I open my eyes to see him whispering something to someone. One of the roadies comes out and ushers me backstage.
“What’s going on?” I ask, confused.
“Kenna gets a water and costume change. He wants you there.”
As the Vikings take over the microphone for a while, I find myself waiting in darkness under the stage until, suddenly, he drops through the same open elevator that lifts the Vikings at the start of the concerts.
I cry out in surprise when he rockets to the ground. He leaps off and grips me to his hard body to steady me, saying against my temple, “Easy.”
He holds me, his heart beating wildly under my ear. We’re both panting. It’s dark, but I feel his eyes looking down at me, gauging me. The silence here is eerie, but I can still hear the roars of the public outside. “I never thought you watching me perform would get to me the way it did.” His eyes are silver flames. “Did that turn you on as much as it did me?”
Whatever it is I expected, it wasn’t this.
And I bite my tongue before I can tell him that it turned me on more. My god, it turned me on more. His desire isn’t the only turn-on; it was also the way his stare felt almost intimate on me. I feel it right now, close and heady, and like a heavy anchor in my chest.
“Tell me,” he repeats, seizing my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Why didn’t you come to me last night? You’re determined to be stubborn about this, when you know I want you?” He tips my head b
ack so I have no choice but to stare into his heartbreakingly handsome face. He wears this beautiful, partly amused, partly regretful smile. “Well, you know what they say, Pandora,” he murmurs, stroking his thumb ring over my chin. “If Muhammad won’t come to the mountain, then the mountain will come to Muhammad.”
“And you’re this walking, moving mountain?” I scoff, trying to lighten the atmosphere between us. It’s too much. It’s electric. Magnetic.
He slides his fingers under the fall of my hair and massages my scalp, the movement almost as hypnotizing as hearing his rough rocker’s voice so close. “That’s right. I heard you were dancing your heart out. You’re determined not to embarrass yourself on our final concert night?”
“That’s right.”
I focus all my attention on his strong jaw and then his mouth. Anything so he doesn’t look into my eyes and see the things I’m suddenly thinking. I want to impress you. I want you to remember the girl in the ice skates. The one you said you loved . . .
God, I’m such a bluffer. Black clothes, black nails? I’m a pussy. An innocent little kitty pretending to be Catwoman. This man could kill me, over and over, until my nine lives are done.
“You know,” he says. His tone is conversational, but there’s a lingering huskiness in his voice, an exertion from his vocal cords roughening it. “When I kiss you in front of the world, I’m going to tongue you. I’m going to fucking ravage your mouth and give Lionel exactly what he wants. A kiss that’s going to be plastered on every fucking screen across the country. A kiss you’ll never, ever forget, Pandora. It’s what you want too, isn’t it? To make people see that I’m really into you. That I’m a fucking fool, singing about you as if I don’t want you when the truth is, I want you more than my next fucking song?”
These words are so unexpected, my lungs forget to expand and contract. The only things expanding seem to be my throat and my chest, and contractions flutter between my legs. “It doesn’t matter. It’s an act,” I say.
“Is it.”
