Page 11 of Bitter Beats

I glance at the mess in the middle of the bed. She’s breathing, but she’s doing little else. Is she drunk? Is she in shock?

I squint at her. Shit, did something happen? Like, is she hurt?

“Mckenna.” I rush toward her, catching her off guard, so she sits up and stares at me.

I sit on the edge of the bed, reach toward her, hesitate, and drop my hand.

“Uh.” I clear my throat. “Did something happen?”

She frowns, staring at me like I’m not making any damn sense.

I scrub a hand down my face. Gather my courage and meet her eyes. Show her the genuine worry in mine. “Did someone hurt you? Do something to you?”

Slowly, she shakes her head. But her eyes are so fucking sad that something cracks in my chest. “No, no. I’m fine, Mav. Really.” She sounds anything but fine. Her words are soft but brittle. The resignation in her voice is alarming.

“You can tell me,” I press, gentling my tone.

Her lips twist, somehow both sincere and mocking. She shakes her head, letting me know I’m the last person she’d confide in. “I’m fine,” she repeats, scooting back until she can push her legs under the comforter and pull the sheets up. “I’m just tired. Thanks for, um, being decent to me, Mav.” She rolls away from me.

Decent. She thinks this is me being decent. It scrapes because it’s true. I’ve never gone out of my way for her before.

I stand from the bed and study her. Huddled beneath the comforter, she looks tiny. Fragile. Nothing like the formidable, annoying woman I’ve seen glimpses of over the past few years.

“Let’s forget this happened, okay?” she murmurs. “Tomorrow, you can go back to being a cocky pain in the ass, and I’ll go back to pushing your buttons.”

I snort, surprised by her comment but appreciating it nonetheless. That sounds normal, and normal is good. Safe. “Yeah, sure,” I agree, desperate to erase the weirdness between us. Before I close the bedroom door, I glance at her over my shoulder. “Good night, Mckenna.”

“Night.”

Then, I close the door and bound down the stairs toward the living room. I pick up the mess and ignore the hurt, rattled woman sleeping upstairs.

What the hell happened today? What made Mckenna Byrne snap?

And why the hell do I care?

Shaking it off, I pop the tab on a fresh beer and take a swig. Tonight is just one of those weird, random nights.

It doesn’t mean anything. Mckenna doesn’t mean anything.

In the morning, everything will be back to normal.

But when I wake in the morning, Mckenna is gone.

FIVE

MCKENNA

The cool morningair is refreshing against my skin. It jolts me awake, even better than caffeine, and erases memories of last night, of how out of character I acted.

It allows me the mental clarity to focus on the task at hand: finding a job.

After a series of unsuccessful attempts at coffee bars, restaurants, cocktail lounges, and pubs, I try the café near campus.

Grounds and Grinds is open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. It’s a late-night study haven, an enclave for students who need a warm, cozy space with light background noise to finish homework, write papers, or meet with friends and debate the merits of group projects.

While it’s certainly not my first choice, given how many BU Law students occupy tables at the café, I’m not in a position to be picky. I’ll be grateful for any employment opportunity extended my way.

As I step into the street, a car horn blares, and I jump back, colliding with a garbage can.

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