Pandora. Two days he’s been gone, but he arrives back just in time for the concert

Two days he’s been gone, but he arrives back just in time for the concert. The cameras were everywhere in his absence. Olivia, Tit, and half a dozen of the other dancers were being nice to me. They even asked if I wanted to hang with them the other night. They were going dancing.

“Pandora?” they prodded.

“Thanks, but I’m staying in tonight,” I said.

The cameras are trained on me from the moment I step out of my room. They filmed me in practice with Yolanda, right down to filming me while I asked the twins if they’d heard from Mackenna.

I’m only free in my room, but other than when I’m calling Magnolia and Mother, and trying to answer some client e-mails to keep my work from piling up when I return to Seattle, it’s lonely.

Tonight I couldn’t watch the concert. My legs are too sore from dancing. I’ve been taking cold showers and using ice packs, but I can’t wear my boots and walk at the same time, so I tell Lionel I don’t feel well and will stay in the hotel during the concert.

So here I am, waiting out in the hall, sitting on the floor and leaning against the door of Mackenna’s room, staring at the scuffs on my boots, when I hear the elevator ping and the sound of the guys joking around fills the hallway.

It’s almost inexplicable, the way my heart turns over in my chest when I catch sight of him. He’s wearing a pink wig, much like the one he wore the first day I saw him, and he’s dressed in gold leather pants, and sporting little flecks of glitter on his golden chest. He wears his everyday uniform of chains, bracelets, and tattoos.

And I want to lick, kiss, touch, suck, and fuck the living daylights out of him. I also want him to take me in his arms and tell me he’s all right. That his father is all right. I want to tell him he’s lucky that he even has a father. Whether he’s fucking up his new life or not, at least his father is alive. Unlike mine. His father has a chance to say he’s sorry, make things right. My father was never able to even attempt to explain that the trip was “not what it seemed,” or that he wasn’t “involved with his assistant.” He never got the chance to tell me that, no matter what, he’d always love me.

The laughter fades when the three men spot me. There are two women accompanying them, each draped over one of the twins. Mackenna is alone, and when he looks at me, I know he is alone because of this—of the electricity suddenly sparkling all the way from where he stands, to right here, where I sit.

“Hey, Kenna,” I say, trying to stand. The action is a bit awkward on account of my sore muscles.

He’s instantly by my side, helping me up by the elbow. “You okay? Leo said you weren’t feeling well.”

“Headache, but now it’s gone. Who knew?” I lie, smiling softly.

He smiles back at me and slips his key into the slot. He tugs me inside with him, and my knees feel weak when he grips my hand in his bigger one as he goes to get his toothbrush.

“Mackenna, he okay?” I ask. I’m so anxious on his behalf. I know firsthand how much, how very much, Mackenna loves his dad. “Your dad.”

“Yeah, they found him.”

“Do you need something . . . ?” I swallow, because it’s so hard to say what comes next. “Do you need me?”

He turns around, and I’m bowled over by the soul-searing, heartrending, raw need I see in his eyes. I suddenly don’t need words. My whole body responds to that look. “There are cameras here,” he whispers. Then, silently, he takes my hand and leads me down the hall, toward my room. He shuts the door behind us.

“What happened?” I ask him.

“He got drunk. Passed out in some hotel with some whore.”

“Oh, god, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Well. At least he wasn’t dealing.” He doesn’t sound too convinced that all is well, though.

Something’s bothering him, and the urge to appease him is stronger than ever.

I quickly say, “Look, my dad fucked up too, Kenna. But he could never . . . fix things. Your dad still can.”

He pries off his wig, tosses it aside with a sigh, then goes into the restroom and comes out with a damp towel, which he slowly swipes across his muscled, sparkling tan chest. “Do you ever wonder what would’ve happened if your father had the chance to say he was sorry?” Mackenna asks me.

“He didn’t care, he betrayed us.” Guess that’s all I can do; repeat what my mother’s drilled into my head for years.

“Oh, Pink, he cared,” he contradicts. “Anyone who really knows you can’t help but care. That friend who defended you at the concert when you veggie-bombed me? She cares.”

“Melanie?” I smile when I think of her. She’s my opposite, and I need her. I need her in my life the way any living thing, except for a parasite, needs the sun. “Brooke, Kyle . . . I guess they care too,” I admit, then, on impulse, I unlock my phone and show him a picture of Magnolia as he continues wiping the glitter off his arms.

“She cares for me most of all.”

“Look at that. Who’s that little thing?”

I love his grin so much I ache in a delicious way inside my heart. “My cousin. Her mother battled leukemia but lost. Magnolia saved us—saved my mother and me. I don’t know where we’d both be if she hadn’t come into our lives.”

“We need a little cape for her with a big ‘M’ so she knows she’s a superstar, huh?”

I smile as I set my phone aside. “You’re teasing me, but I like the idea. She’d love that. She doesn’t want to be a princess, and she seems more inclined to be a cape person.”

“Like her Aunt Pink?”

I smile and he chuckles with me, then he turns somber. Oh god, I missed him. I’ve only been with the band two weeks, but I’ve felt his absence over the last few days. And I missed him more than ever.

“You know, the band . . . ,” he begins but stops to take a breath. “When Dad got arrested—when my life went to shit and I lost everything I loved—” He holds my gaze and nods solemnly. “The band saved me too.”

I feel that ever-present pain, acute as ever as it pricks me. “I’m glad it saved you, Mackenna,” I whisper.

“I fucked up, Pink.”

“How? Because you walked away?” I don’t know why I ask this, but the words are out before I know it.

“No.” In slow, predatory moves, he approaches me. “Because when I could finally come get you, I didn’t. I didn’t think you’d want me to, but that shouldn’t have mattered. I should’ve come back for you.”

“No, you shouldn’t have. Because my kitchen would’ve had more ammunition than just tomatoes.” I fake laugh, trying to lighten the mood.

Unfortunately he doesn’t find that funny.

Before he can push me and find all the cracks in my walls—which are becoming weaker and weaker by the second—I pull his head down and start nibbling on his lips.

“You miss me?” he suddenly demands to know. He eases his mouth away until it is less than an inch from mine. He tortures me by holding it still, keeping it from me. “You miss me?” he asks again, sliding his hands under the fall of my hair.

“Please stop trying to make me into some simpering fool over you. Just kiss me.”

“You’ll never be a simpering fool, just tell me you missed me,” he says, looking at me, gaze fierce.

I make a noise of protest, and he laughs softly. “Fine,” he whispers, brushing his lips to mine. I think I’ve gotten away with it, so I move to kiss him. But before I can crush my lips with his, he tells me, “But I missed you.”