Before Mackenna knows what hit him, Melanie and I have sent three tomatoes and a couple of eggs flying through the air.

The orchestra music isn’t enough to drown out his muttered “fuck,” audible through the microphone.

His jaw clamps and he yanks the mic down over his chin as he jerks his eyes around to find the source of the attack. I feel delirious when I see the genuine anger on his face. I squeal, “The rest!” and grab the remaining things we brought and just keep throwing. Not only at him, but at anyone who tries to get in the way—like the stupid dancers who rush to protect him. One of them makes a whimpering noise as an egg hits her face, and Mackenna jerks her back by the arm so he can take the hits himself, his furious eyes trying to find us in the crowd.

Then I hear Melanie shout, “Hey! LET GO, asshole!”

My arms are yanked behind me, and I’m suddenly shoved and pulled out of my place and down the aisle.

“Let go of us!” Melanie cries, struggling as two burly guards drag us away. “If you don’t let go of me right now, my boyfriend’s going to find your home and kill you in your sleep!”

The guard yanks me back harder, and I catch my breath as pain rushes up my arm.

“Asshole,” I hiss, but I don’t even bother to struggle. Melanie’s getting nowhere and I know it.

“She knows them! She knows the band! Who do you think he was singing about just now, asshole?” Melanie kicks into the air. “She’s Pandora! Let us fucking go.”

“You know Mr. Jones?” one guard asks me.

“Mr. Jones!” I scoff. “Seriously! If Mackenna’s a mister, I’m a unicorn!”

They seem to chuckle among themselves as they lead us past more security, around the stage, and to a small room in the back. One guy starts speaking into a radio as he unlocks the door.

Melanie struggles and tries to kick out, but the enormity of what could happen starts settling on me, and I grow quiet.

Holy. Shit. What have I done?

“You don’t have to look so happy, dickface. My boyfriend will find your home too and kill you next!” she tells the other guard.

They yank a door open and shove us inside. I stumble as I take a step, fighting for some dignity as I wiggle free of his grip. “Let go,” I grit, and he finally releases me.

The radio transmitter on his hip emits a sound. A voice says something I can’t make out, but it sounds a lot like cursing.

“Remove these,” one of the guards commands, pointing at our ponchos.

I pry the plastic off my body and Melanie does the same, then we watch helplessly as they strip us of the bags we’d hidden underneath the ponchos.

Melanie groans when they set our things on a table to the side. Cell phones. Two more tomatoes. Car keys.

“Wow. You guys can’t take a little joke now, can you?” Melanie asks them with a haughty little scowl.

I close my eyes and try to quell the panic rising in me.

Fuuuuck. What was I thinking?

I haven’t done anything this reckless in years.

And it felt good.

Also wrong. Very, very wrong.

But good. Great, in fact.

Hell, I can still picture the pissed, disbelieving look on Mackenna’s face. It gave me intense pleasure. Orgasmic pleasure. But now the intense feeling I’m experiencing is more along the lines of paralyzing fear.

What if the guards call him into the room to ask if he does, indeed, know me?

What if I have to stand here in this small stuffy room and look at him from thisclose!

I feel sick to my stomach. Later, Melanie’s going to want explanations. Big-time explanations, more than what I’ve told her so far. She’s going to have to tell Greyson what happened, and he’s going to want to know everything, because these stupid security guards messed with his girl. I don’t even know if I can explain to her the kind of past Mackenna and I share. January 22: the day I unfailingly get drunk and don’t bother to even see the light of day—I’d sworn to myself I’d never discuss that day. But Melanie and Greyson? They will want me to open my box of secrets. Of me and Mackenna Jones.

Hot, wet mouths melding . . .

Him, pushing into me, stretching me, taking me, loving me . . .

Promises.

Lies.

Loss.

Hatred.

The kind of hatred that’s only born of an intense, out-of-this-world love that went woefully wrong.

What am I going to say to him if I see him?

What am I going to do?

Please god, don’t punish me by making me look at him thisclose.

I pace and pray, pace and pray while Melanie studies her nails, the wall, and me, sighing with the bored confidence of someone who knows she’s getting out of here intact. If I see Mackenna, I really doubt it’ll be so easy. My stomach’s already in knots, and I’m having the most awful urge to vomit right now.

The concert seems to last forever. One of the guards comes and goes while the other opts to stand a few feet behind Melanie, standing all military-like, as if waiting for something.

Oh god, please let that something not be Mackenna.

I’m wearing off a layer of my boots’ soles when, a century later, the door swings open and a chubby man in a suit and tie steps in. My blood pools in my feet from my nervousness. Lionel “Leo” Palmer, the band manager. I saw his face and interview in this morning’s paper, but I have to say he looked much happier in that picture.

He glares at us—Melanie glaring back, me standing motionless—and his hands make meaty fists at his sides.