Page 8 of Bitter Beats

New moisture swells in my eyes. I probably am going to fail. Or, at the very least, starve. Who is going to hire me? My parents thought summer jobs were tacky—what would their country club friends think if their daughter was working?—and as such, I’ve never worked retail or waited tables. Hell, I’ve never even babysat. I have no skills, and now, a late tuition payment.

Feeling unsettled from my encounter with Bran, I know I won’t be able to concentrate here. I close my laptop and stow it with my binder and highlighters in my shoulder bag. I don’t need to sit here, in this library, under the scrutiny of my peers, as I try to figure out my next steps.

I finally have a place, a room, I can escape to. I can go home to Derek and Allegra’s brownstone. I glance at the time. There’s no way Mav will be home this early. He’ll probably be out, picking up his flavor of the moment.

Relief flows through me that I’ll have the house and its empty solitude to myself for a few hours.

Drying my eyes, I throw back my shoulders and stride from the library.

The brownstone is shakingwhen I step through the front door. The bass is so loud it reverberates through the floorboards and pulses in time with my heartbeat. I scowl, glancing around the messy living room. Some guys and women sit around, smoking weed and drinking beers. A few of them hold cards in a game I don’t know the rules to. One dude drinks whiskey straight from the bottle.

And Mav? He’s nowhere to be found.

I close my eyes, my defeat quickly morphing into anger.

Can’t I wallow in peace?

What part ofno drugs and no partiesdid Mav not understand? Didn’t we establish ground rules just this morning? Didn’t we agree?

Already, he’s breaking our contract.

I turn down the music.

The group’s attention swings in my direction, their eyes sparking with a range of emotions: annoyance, curiosity, indifference.

“What’re you doing?” Mav asks.

I spin around, glaring as he enters the living room. Anger feels safer than tears. The stress of the afternoon—four job rejections, the email from the bursar’s office, and dealing with Bran—catapults me to a breaking point. Now, fueled with adrenaline and anger, I start to unravel.

“Me?” I point to my chest. “What the hell are you doing?” My finger stabs in his direction.

His expression is bewildered, which pisses me off even more. He doesn’t even know why I’m mad?

I must be going crazy; that must be it. Because nothing in my life makes sense right now. Frustrated tears swell behind my eyelids, and I blink them back.

“I’m hanging with some friends,” he says slowly, like I’m daft. Then, he turns up the volume.

His friends look at me curiously, like they can’t figure out why I’m here. It’s obvious I don’t belong. I don’t fit in with their cool, edgy vibe. I have no ink or piercings save for my ears. I’m not dressed in ripped jeans or a crop top. Glancing down at my lame sweater, I feel even worse. The following words out of my mouth don’t help.

“You’re throwing a party,” I accuse, raising my voice to be heard over the music. I toss my arms wide to encompass his “friends,” not missing the way a few of them snicker like I’m a toddler having a tantrum.

Mav snorts. “A party?” He widens his eyes, one eyebrow arching mockingly. “Mckenna, this is a small gathering. There’s, like, seven people here. Eight, including you.”

“And the drugs?” I demand, pointing to the table.

“You need to loosen up, girl. Want a shot?” The guy with the bottle of Jack peers at me over his glasses and dangles the bottle in my direction.

I close my eyes, feeling my cheeks blaze with embarrassment.

“Last I checked, weed is legal,” Mav says, his voice loud enough to let me know he’s tipsy, his tone amused. He thinks I’m overreacting.

I open my eyes. He smirks at me, his arms crossed over his chest. He’s wearing a tank top with ripped sides, giving a viewof his washboard abs. His forearms flex and his biceps pop. The colors of his tattoos swirl together as I blink furiously.

Challenge and curiosity spark in his irises, as if he can’t wait for me to embarrass myself further.

What dumb thing will Mckenna Byrne do next to prove what a no-fun outcast she is?

My anger mixes with humiliation. A spiral of shame, coated in hurt, unspools in my chest.

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