Page 9 of Bitter Beats

Does everyone dislike me? Do I not fit in anywhere?

For years, I was at the center of social circles, but when I think about it, it was because of my parents. Their social status. Their wealth. Without them, I’m…nothing. Just an unqualified-for-life, twenty-seven-year-old swimming in debt.

I shake my head, and Mav’s eyes narrow.

He reaches out and plucks at my turtleneck. “Jesus, Mckenna. I know you’re uptight, but you don’t have to be the fucking fun police over a small gathering.”

I glare at him, but he blurs as the tears I’ve fought all afternoon surge forward. My body practically vibrates with fury as a hot flush of anger, and hurt, rocks through me. With each heartbeat, a small part of me wants to throw my hands in the air and tell him he’s right. I want to give in, to break down, to wail. To not rise to the occasion or live up to the expectations that have pressed on me for as long as I can remember.

I glance around the group, taking in their waiting expressions. None of them seem on the verge of a breakdown.

Just me. Me, who’s done everything right. I’ve played by all the rules. And nothing is working in my favor.

Then there’s Mav. He does whatever the fuck he wants when he wants, and what are the consequences? He doesn’t have any. There are no repercussions. There is no stress or judgment, or pressure. There’s just beer and music. Shredded tanks and ripped jeans. Weed and whiskey.

Fuck it. He wants me to be fun? To be exciting and daring?

So be it.

In one fluid motion, I grip the hem of my sweater and pull it off. Balling it in my hand, I throw it at Mav’s chest.

“You’re right. No one wants the fucking fun police.” I move closer to the guy with the Jack. “I’d love a shot.” I rip the bottle from his hand, ignoring the surprise that crosses his face. I knock his glasses askew and he doesn’t bother to straighten them as he gawks at me.

I gulp a big swig straight from the bottle, trying not to choke as the strong flavor coats the back of my throat. With tears pinching the corners of my eyes, I take another drink.

Mav sobers instantly. His arm darts out and he pulls the bottle from my grasp, his gaze morphing from shock to concern. “What the hell, Mc?—”

“This what you want?” I taunt, popping the button on my jeans and working them down my hips. “Go big or go home, right? Fun and carefree and living life in the moment?” I step out of them and fling them off my foot in his direction. My toes are perfectly pointed after mind-numbing years of ballet in my youth. The denim drops in a lump at his feet. “Carpe diem!”

One of the women cheers while a guy whistles.

“You got a great ass!” A blonde woman claps.

Mav glares at me, his eyes frigid, his jawline tense. Anger radiates from him, but something in his gaze holds a note of worry I dislike. Because if Mav Tate is worried about me, I really am losing it.

“Everyone get the fuck out!” he announces, stepping over my jeans and pointing toward the door.

I snicker and reach for the Jack. Throw back another shot. Clad in my black bra and panties, I give my ass a little shake. “Aw, calling it a night so soon? But thefun”—I point to my chest—“is just getting started.”

“Now!” Mav demands.

His gathering disperses in a matter of seconds. The guys avert their eyes, the women remain silent, and the door slams closed.

Then, silence descends. It hovers over us like a raincloud about to unleash a torrential downpour. It thickens with unspoken thoughts, restless energy, and an electric current about to short-circuit.

My chest heaves, and my palms tingle as I stare at Mav. My snark falters as reality sets in. I’m standing in front of Maverick Tate in nothing but black lace undergarments.

The rockstar I hate swallows audibly as his eyes drink me in. His expression morphs from anger to concern to hunger to something unfathomable.

Then, he pounces.

FOUR

MAV

I stridetoward a version of Mckenna I’ve never seen before. Fuck if she’s not sexy, but right now, she’s also scaring the hell out of me.

Her eyes are glassy, two unreadable pools of blue. Her mouth is set in a taunting, yet aloof, smirk. It’s as if half of her is present, right here in this room, and the other half, thethinkinghalf, is far, far away.

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