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 them 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.”
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?”