CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

MCKINLEY

Three Months Later…

I have spent the last three months terrified for us to go out into public together, after what happened the last time we were seen together. After three months of staying cooped up inside, Jagger demanded we go out. He guaranteed me that yes, the paparazzi would be there, and would probably say unkind things, but we need to learn how to handle it, if we are going to be together. By ‘we’, he means me, because Jagger does not seem to be fazed by the assholes with cameras, or the things they yell. This is a definite test for my mental health. I’ve spoken to my therapist a great deal, and she feels like I’m ready. She said I have all the tools I need to handle the bullying because, really, that’s what it is. Learning to live normally, when you’re not normal, is going to be interesting. Normal people are not recognized by nearly everyone that walks down the street. Jagger’s popularity only increased when he released a solo album last month. And mine is about to skyrocket, when people realize McKinley’s Song is about me. I’m sure they already have, but I don’t think they’ve connected the fact that we are together again.

“McKinley!” He yells from the bottom of the stairs.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” I yell back.

I grab my purse and race down the stairs to where Jagger waits, looking different. I arch an eyebrow. “Why are you wearing a suit?”

I have never seen him dressed up like this.

With a smirk, he says, “I can look nice. It feels like a celebration tonight.”

I giggle with an embarrassing snort. “Or a funeral. Either way, you’re dressed appropriately.”

He arches an eyebrow in disapproval. “Sometimes I don’t enjoy your sense of humor.”

Gazing down my body, then back up again, he licks his lips. “Someone’s going to steal you from me. You look too good.”

I feign shock. “And you’re going to let them?”

He chuckles. “Not a chance. I’ll kill them all.”

Laughing at his absurdity, I say, “Alright, Manson, let’s go.”

JAGGER

“You look good enough to eat, baby,” I say from the backseat and am, of course, rewarded with pink in her cheeks.

I’m not just saying it though, she looks fucking delicious. She’s wearing a champagne colored dress, with a satin shawl over her shoulders. The dress falls above her knee, complete with strappy heels I have every intention of fucking her in later. Her dark hair is pinned up, with a little hair hanging down, to frame her face in soft curls. She grabs my black tie, and pulls me to her as she licks her pretty red lips.

“You look yummy yourself, Wild.”

My eyes drop to her lips. “I don’t want to ruin your make-up, but I want to kiss you.”

“Kiss me. I have more in my purse.”

I lift my gaze to hers. “So beautiful.”

Pressing my lips to hers, I don’t care if she gets lipstick all over my face. It will be worth it if she does. I push my tongue into her mouth, eliciting a sweet little moan from her. Taking her face in my hands, I deepen our kiss, as my tongue swirls with hers. She is everything I want. That feeling never lessens. Every time I touch her skin, it’s like it’s the first damn time. When I fuck her, it never gets boring. McKinley is my own little slice of heaven, and I’ll never stop indulging.

She worries that someone will say something negative about her, and I’ll change my mind, which would never happen. Every interviewer now knows if they say anything negative about her past struggles, they will never get another interview. For a long time they tried to bring her up. Honestly, I was terrified she’d see it and I’d never hear from her again. There were several times I got up and walked out in the middle of the filming. I didn’t give a fuck what people thought, and I still don’t.

“What’s the plan, baby?”

A soft smile crosses her lips, as she recites what she has gone through with her therapist many times over the last six weeks.

“Breathe. Affirmation. Hold on to you. Breathe. And,” she grins for me, “Don’t run away. Face my problems.”

I nod. “Good girl.”

“What’s your affirmation?”

She takes a deep breath. “I am enough. My past does not define me. I am strong enough to face my fears.”

I take her face in my hands as we pull up to the restaurant. “I am so fucking proud of you, McKinley. You amaze me.”

She blushes a soft pink, and I kiss her just below her ear and whisper, “I love you, baby. Let’s go do this thing you call ‘peopling’.”

We step out of the vehicle and walk up to the restaurant. I keep my arm around her, because I like having her close to me, but also because she needs to feel safe.

I wanted to book a private dining room for our first time out, but she decided she wanted to eat like everybody else. I’m a little concerned that the constant requests for autographs might become too much, but McKinley needs to feel like she has control over her life.

She glances around once we make it in the door and she gasps, “Wow.”

This restaurant is owned by a buddy of mine, Beau Beadeux, a French artist, and now restaurateur. The restaurant is designed to be modern, with various paintings of Beau’s throughout. His style is eye-catching. McKinley is proof of that, as she stares at an image of a close up of a woman’s face with splashes of color throughout. Red is the dominant color, but it’s the woman’s green eyes that draw you into the piece.

The hostess asks me if we’re ready. I wrap my arm around McKinley. “Come on, baby. If you like art, I’ll bring you to his gallery.”

We walk through the dimly lit restaurant and she looks around her, clearly impressed with my choice for tonight. The tables are all square with a white linen tablecloth and a candle in the middle, with white plates and ornately designed silverware.

I pull her chair out and she takes a seat, but her eyes are on the dark gray walls, and now she looks at a painting of a small boy on his knees, with bright blue eyes.

Taking a seat across from her, I say, “I didn’t know you liked art.”

She nods, with a faraway look in her eyes. “I love to paint, but I haven’t in a long time.”

“Do you want to paint again, McKinley?”

Lifting her eyes to mine, she shrugs. “It’s stupid.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

The waitress comes to our table, interrupting our conversation, and I tell her, “A bottle of your finest white, and a few minutes please.”

Reaching across the table, I take McKinley’s hand in mine. “Now, talk to me.”

“When I met Erik, I worked in a gallery, but I just sold paintings. I didn’t have my own shows or anything. Anyway, I loved to paint. It’s what I thought I’d do with my life, but he didn’t like it. After we moved in together, I wasn’t allowed to paint because it was too messy.”

The simple thought of that dildo makes my blood boil. If he isn’t dead, and I ever see him again, I will kill him. I should have. My thought was that living in pain would be worse, but I’m still learning how terribly he treated her. It’s like a goddamn onion, and there’s always another layer.

“If you want to paint, baby, you will. Whatever you want in this life, it’s yours. So you know, it had nothing to do with it being messy. He wanted to crush your spirit. I don’t. It’s my job to lift you up, not bring you down, and that is a position I take very seriously.”