“You’re my rockstar,” she says, grinning.

“And you’re my Magnificent.”

TWENTY-ONE

ROCKSTAR IN WAITING

Mackenna

I’m in makeup. Sitting in a stupid chair, playing with a lighter while Clarissa, my makeup and hair artist, draws kohl under my eyes.

“Let’s go with a streaked white-and-silver wig today, to match your eyes,” she says. “It’ll make the black leather jacket and pants pop more.”

“Not wearing a wig today.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, don’t feel like role-playing today.” I ease the wig off my head and curl a hand around my skull. With my eyes kohl-darkened, the silver of my irises is brilliant in the mirror. My diamond earring glints. I feel like kicking ass, but I also feel like there’s a girl out there in this world kicking my ass.

And I still don’t know if she’s coming.

She looked away when she said she would. A sure sign she’s lying.

But fuck, I can’t think about that now.

On the outside, she’s a bluffer—she always has been. But I know the girl within. I fucking know what she hides. A heart big as an ocean.

A heart that says, Mackenna. Fucking. Jones.

“So, Leo said you asked him to get in touch with her?” Lex asks from his seat, getting his makeup done as well.

“She’s not answering her phone.” I flick the lighter and watch the flame, then let it die before flicking it on again.

“Think she’ll be here? Kind of boring without her now.”

“She’ll be here,” I lie. At least I have to pretend she will be, because when I go out there tonight to sing my new song, it’s her I want to be listening. Please just come to my damn concert, Pink, and then we’ll figure out what to do with you and me . . .

I swear, this girl has done a number on me my whole life. When I was sure she loved me, she ditched me. When I was sure she wanted nothing to do with me, she comes to my concert and sends a bunch of tomatoes flying at me.

I sure as fuck don’t know what to expect of her, but I know I’m not a seventeen-year-old without a future anymore. I’m Mackenna fucking Jones, and I’m going to damn well have her if I want her.

And I want her, all right.

I’m restless, tired, wired, but most of all, I’m craving the taste of her. The feel of her. I need to get her in my bed, where she protests less, and keep her dazed. Dazed from her orgasms. I need to strip her of her clothes and her bravado until she’s trembling in my arms. Until she forgets to curse and tease me because she’s so busy moaning for me to fuck her harder.

I can’t deny she’s the best sex I’ve ever had.

But it’s not just because she’s a fucking goddess, because she is. A dark Medusa, I’m under her spell, and all I want is to be in her. And I love being in her because I love her.

The way she smells.

The way she smiles like she doesn’t want to but can’t help it.

The way she kisses with all that angry passion inside her.

The way she goes to pudding in my arms, but as soon as we’re done puts up her bitch act just to bring out my asshole, and force him to give her bitch another tumble . . .

She’s been giving herself physically, but that’s not enough for me anymore. I can grind against her, force her to take every inch of my dick. I can grasp her arms by the wrists, keep her pinned, and make her cunt devour me.

And still it won’t be enough.

I think about it happening. How the scene will play out. What I’ll do to her. What she’ll do to me . . .

“Kenna,” she’ll moan. And she won’t be any hotter than she is, because she can’t be. Because she’s perfect.

And still, I’ll want to hear the words.

I won’t be gentle with her, but I don’t think she’ll want me to be. I’ll suck, lick, feel her twist with desire, the ripples of her body around mine.

She’ll tremble as I suck her tit, trembling still as I spread her thighs apart. She’ll thrash under me, rocking up to my body the way she does—greedy, hungry, like she’ll fall apart if she doesn’t get me in her. Like my dick is all that holds her together. Her nipples will grow red and puckered from my kisses, and I’ll give them a rest and go to her mouth, until she’s flushed and gasping too. Saying it.

Saying what I have been dying, for years, to hear.

I will watch her lips form the words.

Three. Only three.

Because I’ll still want them.

Her lovely face, pure white in the dark. Those rounded shoulders, plump breasts, her perfect ass, and hot, wet, delicious pussy lips. All of that, mine for the taking as she says,

“I love you . . .”

And when that happens, I’ll hold her in place. She’ll toss her head as I hold her immobile, and there’s no way she won’t know who’s taking who. Her nails will rake into my back as I dive into her heat, telling her again and again that I feel the same way. That she’s the only one for me. Showing her with my hands, my lips, my body, she’s the one for me.

“What are you doing if she comes?” Lex presses, snapping me back to the dressing room. I toss the lighter aside and rise to my feet as I slide my bare arms into my leather jacket.

“I’ll be waiting.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“Then I’ll be hunting her down.”

TWENTY-TWO

MY FRIEND MELANIE SAYS NOT TO WAIT FOR PRINCE CHARMING—HE COULD BE STUCK AT A CONCERT

Pandora

So I heed her advice.

The flight triples my anxiety, but I’m starting to become a pro at this. Once on board, I pop my clonazepam and apologize to the guy in the seat next to mine, saying, “If you need to use the toilet, just wiggle past me, ’cause I sleep like the dead,” and he laughs and says, “No need.”

Next thing I know I’m being shaken—rather violently—by the flight attendant, letting me know we’ve arrived in New York.

New York.

Madison Square Garden.

And Mackenna Fucking I-love-you-you-delicious-motherfucker Jones.

I hail a cab at the airport, lugging my roll-on suitcase behind me. I packed enough for a week, but I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t really know anything except that he didn’t walk away. That he came back for me.

The minutes stretch as we head toward the concert. I drum my fingers on my thighs, fidget with my fingers, my hair, peer restlessly out the windows. We’ve barely moved three feet in the last half hour.

“Oh my god, this traffic,” I tell the cabdriver, my legs aching with some first-time impulse to run. Just run to him, get him back, talk to him. Come clean at long last . . .

“There’s a concert happening . . . hard to get close.”

“I’ll walk from here,” I tell the driver, slipping him a couple of bills and then, regretfully, hauling out my luggage and looking toward the entrance to Madison Square Garden.

The stage is set up and lit with warm light. I spot one of the roadies and rush forward. “I need to get in,” I say, breathless. He instantly recognizes me—I can tell by the twinkle in his eye as he pulls open the rope and ushers me inside. “Head to the back. I’ll take care of this for you,” he says, gesturing at my suitcase.

“Thank you.”

“Opening act’s about to be done,” he says.

That very instant, the wild music playing in the background shuts off, the lights shut down, and I shuffle to the lower side of the stage, holding my breath as I hear a violin playing in the dark. My flesh pebbles as a soft, haunting tune begins, and when the lights turn on, my eyes fixate on the exact figure they illuminate.

Gah, I love him so much my heart aches in my chest.

He’s down on one knee, a headset with mic curled around his jawline, his head down, and as the rest of the orchestra begins to follow the tune of that haunting, slow violin, Mackenna starts singing.

Like a sleepwalker, I take a step closer to the stage, not close enough to be seen, for he’s in the opposite corner, lost in his own world as he starts a slow and mournful verse.

You flick the candy cotton pink strand in your hair

And I pray to the gods that you’ll be there

In my dreams, fantasies, and nightmares

I’m so scared I’ll never see you again

His words start building with the music, now sounding hopeful.

And you can try hiding behind your anger

And I can try running away

But at night as I sleep, you come crashing in on me

And I’m scared, ’cos you’re the only girl for me

And a big instrumental climax joins in as he sings, louder this time.

You’re my girl

You’re my girl

Pandora, you’re my girl

I can’t ignore ya

I’ve always adored ya

Pandora

I implore ya

You’re the only girl for me

It’s written, it’s meant to be

You’re my girl

You’re my girl

Pandora, you’re my girl

Sky high, thigh-high leather, in all kinds of weather

Tonight, now, then and forever

Come on over, my girl, sink your claws into me

I’m not scared, ’cos you’re the one and it’s meant to be

You’re my girl

You’re my girl

Pandora, you’re my girl