“You want it all, dude, you want me to give you what you want—”

“Look,” I interrupt, narrowing my eyes as I aim my index finger his way, “you’re gonna get the kiss and I’ll also give you a song. One last song before you release me from my contract. That’s more than fair.”

Leo looks constipated, but I don’t fucking care. With his eyes narrowed on me as he seems to let everything sink in, I let him watch me call a rental service and get a car for Pandora and me.

As soon as the call ends, Lionel is on me with a furious glare, tightening the sash of the bathrobe that just so happens to match the one Tit was wearing. “You fucking her? Heard on camera there was fucking. We want to see some fucking action, Kenna.”

“You’re not going to see shit.”

“I’ll give you what you want,” he relents, “but only if you make this movie worth remembering.”

“Leo, we had a deal,” I remind him. “You said you’d release me if I went along with this bullshit. You wanted the kiss, and all you’re getting is that kiss.” Kissing Pink in front of thousands of fans, her lips on mine—hell, I know she’ll be angry. But she gets her chance to let the world know my song is bullshit. Not that I care all that much. Every complaint in that song is because I’ve been in love with her for years.

“Fine. Go drive her around in a car, I don’t care. But I get that kiss and that song or you get nothing, you hear?”

I head for the door. “I hear.”

“Make her want it, Kenna!” he calls.

“Oh, she wants it.” I slam the door shut after me.

Just not as much as I fucking do.

My father has a second chance, and I realize now that so do I. Difference is, I’m not screwing mine.

When I slip back into her room, she’s lying in bed and quickly rises up onto her arms when I arrive. You could never fall asleep when you knew I was coming, could you, baby?

“Hey,” I say, struggling with the sensation of carrying a grenade inside my chest. Grenade about to go boom!

Holy shit, I feel powerful things for her.

I feel everything for her. Anger and protectiveness. Possessiveness and pain. I feel fucking good with her. I feel . . .

“Come back to bed,” she whispers, lifting the sheets.

God, I’m not fucking it up this time.

FIFTEEN

A ROAD TRIP WITH A ROCK GOD

Pandora

“Mackenna, I’m not getting in that car.”

“I see two choices for you, Pink, and two only. It’s either the jet or the Lamborghini. Your pick.”

“The door doesn’t even open right! What’s with that, Kenna? You have a big dick—you don’t need these gadgets to feel like a man.”

“Stone, seriously, get in the fucking car.”

“Jones, you want the entire highway to look in your direction as we go to the airport? Is your rockstar status not enough to make you feel good about yourself?”

He laughs. “Babe, we’ll be passing by so fast no one will get a glimpse of our faces. Come on.”

He slams my suitcase and a small duffel into the trunk, then comes around and yanks the door open. “What are you waiting for? Get in.”

I edge inside and when he leans over, my insides stir, as if my stomach is in a blender. “Why are you doing this?” His eyes hold mine as he reaches for the belt and slowly starts strapping me in.

“Easy. Because I want to. I want to be away from those bozos . . . and alone with you.”

His scent reaches me, and it annoys me that I sound breathless—even if I have been fucked ten ways to Sunday already. “You sure woke up chivalrous today. I never thought you’d grow up to be such a gentleman.”

“I can be gentle, just not with this car.” He settles down in his seat, then snaps the belt on with a cocky smile. He strokes the wheel almost with the same loving care he strokes me with, then sets the GPS, his arms bulging, the flex of his muscles causing an uncomfortable tickle between my legs. He starts the car with a big roar and presses the pedal, and the engine roars even more.

“So, is there an ulterior motive for us driving to the airport?” I ask.

“We’re not heading to the airport.”

He smirks and zooms us out of there with a screech of tires only fast, scary cars with expert drivers in movies make. Before I can demand specifics, he drops our windows and the sunroof, and the wind presses his shirt to his chest, every muscle grabbing my attention. I take in the buildings that we pass, then nothing. Every couple of minutes, my eyes drift to him. I can’t stop. The wind is the only actual sound, but in my head, there are a thousand.

Why did he leave? What does he want with me now? Does it matter? Do I want to take his love, just so I can fling it back in his face? Or am I trying to prove to myself that I’m loveable? Or am I doing this—this thing with him—simply because it’s the thing I’ve wanted most, my whole life?

“So what’s the plan?” I ask.

“We road trip to Dallas, spend a night at a hotel, then arrive for practice before the concert. We’ve got to beware of the fucking paps, but I’ve got my lucky cap for that.” He looks at me, raking his eyes up and down. “Want to stop for a couple of disguises?”

“I can always wear your mohawk.”

He smiles and reaches out to take my hand, bringing it over to his thigh, keeping his hand on mine as he hums a Mozart song. I swear it’s so fucking sexy when he hums that I almost wish he wouldn’t. It’s sexy because he likes real music and can play piano and guitar like a devil. All because of the way he listens to the melody, then repeats it, but with his own twist.