Page 25 of Bitter Beats

Welcome to the club, Mav. I’m not impressed with my bullshit, either.

“It’s none of my business? Mckenna, you’re living in my house. You’re coming home at all hours of the goddamn night. You’re—what the hell is going on with you?” Exasperation fills his tone, and his eyes take on a bewildered look as if he can’t understand why he’s even asking.

I glance at my laptop screen, wincing when I note that the small crack that started in the top right-hand corner is spreading, like a spider vein, toward the center of the screen. Bran Burton bumping into me, on purpose, when I was carrying my laptop like a textbook was messed up. Realizing my laptop screen cracked when Bran jerked me upright nearly made me cry.

“Mckenna!” Mav barks.

I look up at him.What were we talking about?

He drops a hand to the center of the island and leans closer, peering at me. “Are you drunk?”

“No.” I scowl. Why does he keep asking me that? I widen my eyes, knowing they’re not bloodshot. “I wish I was fucking drunk,” I mutter.

“High?”

I shake my head, snorting. “I’m not you, remember?”

His mouth twists at my ugly accusation. He shakes his head. “Whatever.” Swiping his keys up, he moves toward the door. “I’m tired of doing this with you. I tried, Mckenna. I fucking tried to be a friend or whatever the fuck.” He gestures between us before shaking his head. “Do you. Don’t wait up for me. I’m going out.”

“You do you,” I toss his words back in his face. I move the pads of my fingers over the trackpad, waking my laptop back up.

“And eat the fucking pasta,” Mav hollers over his shoulder. He turns and points at me. “You’re too fucking thin and look like shit.”

I flip him the middle finger. He’s not wrong. I have lost weight and look awful, with purple half-moons under my eyes and a permanent paleness clinging to my skin. But I don’t need to hear that from Mav. Not all of us mere mortals can roll out of bed with messy hair and bloodshot eyes and have admirers swarm us.

The front door slams closed.

“Fuck,” I mutter, dropping my head to my hands. The weight of my head causes my elbow to bump along the island, knocking into my water glass. “No!” I shriek, reaching for the drink.

But it’s too late.

The glass tips over, and water floods my keyboard.

I close my eyes, hating the hot tears that leak underneath my lids.

“You’ve gotta be fucking with me,” I mutter to the higher powers of the universe that clearly hate me.

I look back at my laptop in time to watch the screen turn a rainbow of colors, all static lines. Then, the screen turns black. Frozen and empty. Horror burns through me. Is it dead? Have I fried it?

“Shit.” My tears fall openly now. The last thing I have money for is a new laptop. But I obviously need one to keep up with my classes.

Swiping my fingers underneath my eyes, I take a deep breath.

“It’s fine,” I mutter to the empty kitchen. “It’s going to be fine.” Except my voice sounds dejected to my own ears.

Nothing is fine. Nothing has been okay for a long, long time. Moving into this brownstone was a mistake. All it’s done is get Maverick Tate twisted up in my life. He’s the last person I want sympathy from, yet he’s the person I now see most regularly.

And he’s right. He’s tried to be a friend to me. He’s asked, several times, if I’m okay. He’s showed me more concern than my own family. Instead of being grateful for his generosity, I’ve pushed him away.

Living with him in his home constantly reminds me of how low I’ve fallen. This must be rock bottom. The fact that Maverick Tate has his life more together than I do and he’s bringing me dinner is telling.

I am failing at everything.I am failing at life.

I have no skills, no plans, no family or man to come home to, and a friend group I’ve been dishonest with.

In short, I have nothing.

I feel it when I look around Mav’s decked-out kitchen, with the fancy espresso machine and stocked fridge.

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