Page 75 of Bitter Beats

I don’t know how many seconds, or minutes, pass. I’m lost to my anger, her intoxicating allure, and this heady moment. Mckenna fists the material of my dinner jacket.

“Enough,” Derek says. His voice is even and controlled.

I tear my mouth from Mckenna’s.

She heaves a deep breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her chest, the tops of her breasts, are colored pink from her emotions, from the cold, hell, from my rough touch.

She glares at me, and I reach forward to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

Mckenna smacks my hand away. “Don’t ever fucking manhandle me again.” Her voice cracks and those wild eyes bleed out, looking haunted.

She turns away and stiffly strides back to the party.

“That was some show,” Allegra comments, hurrying behind her friend.

Derek slow claps behind me, and I hang my head in shame.

Fuck. I fucked this up big time.

TWENTY-FIVE

MCKENNA

I’m seething with anger.Hurt. Confusion. It doesn’t recede for the rest of the evening.

Not when I smile and pose for photographs with Mav’s fingertips pressed into the small of my back. Not when Derek passes me a flute of champagne and offers a comforting shrug. Not even when Allegra hauls me off to the bathroom and asks if I’m okay.

Wonders if my reaction is connected to Branson.

Wants to know if I’m scared. Or mad. Or hurt.

Begs me to give her some insight into my headspace.

But I say nothing.

Instead, I stick to the contract. I perform my role well. I smile and make small talk and rise to the occasion.

When we return to the hotel, I try to ignore Maverick. My head is cloudy and my body on high alert. It’s strange, almost an out-of-body experience, and I can’t figure out why my thoughts are scattered. Why is my body running hot and cold?

As much as I’d like to pretend I’m alone, I’m hyperaware of every move Maverick makes. I catch each frustrated inhale and aggravated exhale. So much so that I need to escape his presence.I need to be alone with my spinning thoughts.

Why did Carrington’s simple touch make me feel so gross?

Why did seeing Mav infuse me with relief? With knowing that I am safe?

Why did his scene on the balcony tear my heart out?

Because it was the type of spectacle Mom and Dad used to make—at least, back when they still cared.

I shut myself in the bathroom to take a long, hot shower. I want to zap the chill from my body. I want to cling to normal, so I go through an entire spa ritual of moisturizing, blowing out my hair, and polishing my toenails.

See, I’m fine. I’m good.

When I finally emerge from the bathroom, the suite is silent. Good. I hope Mav is out with his bandmates for the night and doesn’t return until I’m passed out and snoring. I can use the distance.

I hope I drool all over the pillows and sleep like a starfish in the center, so he’s forced to take the couch. Or the floor. I can use the space.

The thought calms me and I move toward the bed, arranging the pillows how I like. Dread gathers in my stomach, confusing me further. But my head is heavy and my body tired. So damn tired.

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