Page 37 of Bitter Beats

I close my eyes and inhale sharply.

If she stays, if she agrees, I’ll do everything I can to help her.

I’ll be her fucking friend. Lord knows she needs one.

I exhale. Look straight at Mckenna. Hold her gaze and read the resignation mixed with desperation in her irises.

“Will you do this for me?” I ask. “Will you be my fake…girlfriend?” I choke on the last word. The edges of my vision blur, black spots dancing in the corners.

Jameson pounds me on the back, and the room spins as I wait for her reply.

THIRTEEN

MCKENNA

“You can’t be serious,”I hiss at Mav. We’re standing in the kitchen next to the espresso machine.

The coffee sputters and drips, and I glare at the dark brew, desperate to shoot it back like a tequila shot. I need the caffeine. I need the routine of drinking coffee, the normalcy of it. I need something to do with my hands.

Before I strangle Maverick Tate. My goodwill toward him dissipated the second I got twisted up in this little scheme. Pose as his fake girlfriend?

Sell myself—my dignity—for financial gain?

The thought makes me cringe and I want to take that out on Mav, too. But it’s not his fault that I’m in the position I am.

Chatter filters into the kitchen from the band and Mav’s team in the living room. They’re still assembled, waiting for my response. Their voices are low, a quiet hum of muted hope. Silence stretches between their sentences, shallow lulls searching for my voice.

For my answer.

My hand darts out for the demitasse cup, and I drink the bitter roast in one gulp.

“I don’t have an answer for you,” I whisper, half hoping his team hears me, half wishing they don’t.

What the hell is wrong with me?

“This is insane,” I tack on, slamming the cup down.

Mav grips the back of his neck. His eyes are rimmed with shame that unsettles me because it’s so unlike him.

Mav doesn’t have regrets or feel remorse. He doesn’t take responsibility for his actions or give a shit about how his poor choices impact others.

Except right now, he’s looking at me like he does.

A lump forms in my throat, and I move to make another espresso.

“Mckenna.” He touches my wrist, stopping me.

I sigh. Stare up at him. Tears of frustration fill my eyes, and I shrug.

“What do you want me to say?” My shoulders slump, and his expression twists.

I look down to where our toes nearly touch. He’s barefoot, his feet large and dominating. Eating up the space. Mine are covered in soft, light pink socks with a floral pattern. I scrunch my toes, nervous.

Maverick Tate could overwhelm me. He could scoop me up and swallow me whole. He’s that kind of man.

Charismatic, radiant, larger than life.

Maybe that’s why I’ve disliked, even resented, him for so long. Perhaps that’s why I’ve kept my distance.

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