Tainted Tempos (Dating the Drummer Trilogy #2)

1. Mav

ONE

MAV

The sound of Mckenna vomiting twists my stomach and hollows out my chest. I open and close my hand several times, staring at the gold wedding band on my finger.

This morning, I admired it.

Now, it’s a symbol of mockery instead of commitment.

I fucked up Mckenna’s life.

Fuck. How the hell does she not remember getting married?

It was her idea!

And, if she doesn’t remember the wedding.

..oh God. My horror rises to the surface.

Does she remember having sex?

I close my eyes and suck in an inhale.

Disgust sweeps through my bloodstream, and regret pounds in my temples.

Does she not remember the kisses I pressed along her abdomen?

The secrets I whispered in her ear?

The way she lovingly held my body against hers?

I work a swallow, my throat tight.

The backs of my eyes burn, and I feel the urge to cry.

To fucking sob. Because what I remember as a beautiful and meaningful memory, Mckenna— my wife —recalls as a goddamn nightmare.

A massive regret.

A mistake.

The bathroom door swings open, and Mckenna leans against the doorframe.

The hotel sheet is wrapped around her body, held up by the arm she banded across her chest. As if I didn’t see every naked inch of her glorious body less than seven hours ago.

Writhing beneath mine.

Clutching and pressing and coming apart as?—

“Maverick,” she says my full name, her voice scratchy, her eyes wide.

I sigh, clear my mind, and stand from the edge of the bed.

“Want to get breakfast?” I keep my tone measured.

Reach for levity, for normalcy, in this giant clusterfuck.

“Breakfast?” Her eyes nearly fall out of her face.

“We...we need to talk.”

I hold up a hand.

“I know,” I agree. “But you could also use some...toast?”

She regards me for a moment before nodding.

“And coffee.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Get dressed, and when you’re ready, we’ll eat.”

“And talk.”

“And talk,” I confirm.

I move from the bedroom into the living room of our suite to give her some privacy.

I showered and dressed right before she woke up.

The entire time, I envisioned a mimosa-filled brunch with our friends congratulating us.

We would take pictures flashing our wedding rings.

We would draft a statement for Kimberly to post as a press release.

And then, we’d fly back to Boston and begin the new year—our new lives—as a married couple.

The fantasy disintegrates instantly.

Like a puff of smoke.

Gone.

There will be no brunch.

Or happy photos. Nope, there’s only dread and regret.

Awkwardness and a landmine of questions to navigate.

The worst part is the crippling disappointment that eats at my stomach like acid.

For a handful of hours, I believed in the happily-ever-after that Reign enjoys with Allegra.

That my brother could have shared with Marisa.

But maybe Jameson and I are more similar than I like to believe.

Maybe, when Big Jim bounced, it bonded us in nurture more than in nature.

Maybe neither one of us is meant to have a big love story with partnership and admiration and trust.

The disappointment expands into disgust. Mckenna Byrne is a good fucking girl and all I’ll ever be is a complication-turned-mistake-turned-regret.

A stain on her perfect reputation that she’ll spend the rest of her days trying to wash away.

Sourness explodes on my tongue and saliva pools.

I suck in a breath, trying to calm the roll of nausea before I find myself on the bathroom floor, tossing my cookies, like Mckenna.

Once the nausea passes, I pull out my phone and swear.

Scrolling through the barrage of messages on the screen, I realize this will be a problematic scenario to wade through.

It’s not as simple as two drunk people getting married in Vegas.

Not when I’m a member of a rock band.

Not when Mckenna has grown her own popular following.

Not when, just last night, she announced—on a fucking stage—that she loves me, and I convinced Cartier to open their store and sell me a diamond eternity ring.

Kimberly

Maverick!

Call me ASAP! Why aren’t you picking up?

Reign

Did you marry Mckenna last night?

A

Mav! Serious talk—are you and Kenny married?

What’s going on? What happened?

Why didn’t anyone tell me?

Levi

Dude, you good?

Jameson

Maverick, are you married?

What the fuck were you thinking?

Aiden

We need to talk, Mav.

Call me. There are legalities involved that need to be discussed.

Jess

You’re the biggest headache of my fucking life.

Even more so than Levi.

Call me now. I’m not kidding.

I wince. Mckenna clears her throat as she enters the living room, and I slip my phone into my pocket.

She looks exhausted, with purple shadows below her navy eyes and her hair twisted away from her face in a low bun.

She’s pale and fidgety, her fingers twisting the ring on her finger.

“I looked at my phone,” she admits.

“Me too.”

“I sang karaoke.” She sounds astonished.

“You were pretty good. A little pitchy but not totally off-key.”

Mckenna doesn’t smile.

Instead, she rolls her lips together and looks away.

I note the moisture that gathers in her eyes, and it feels like I got kicked in the stomach.

She’s trying not to cry.

The morning after our wedding and Mckenna regrets it—me—so much, she wants to fucking cry.

“We should order room service,” she states.

“Okay.” I stand and move toward the phone.

Calling for room service, I rattle off a list of items I doubt we’ll eat.

When I hang up, Mckenna is seated on the couch.

She looks at me expectantly.

Her face is resigned, but her eyes are uncertain.

I swear and drag a hand through my hair.

“So, last night...”

“We were drunk,” she interjects.

I narrow my eyes. “I mean, yeah, we were drinking, but...”

“But?”

“Fuck, Mckenna. I didn’t think you didn’t know what you were doing. How much do you remember?” I hold my breath, nervousness churning with my disappointment and disgust. Screw alcohol, I can poison myself on my sour emotions.

“I... Bits and pieces,” she offers cryptically.

Her voice is monotone, her expression carefully neutral.

I hate that I can’t read her.

That she won’t give me anything to fucking read.

“Are you okay?” I drop into the seat beside her.

God, I want to hold her.

Hug her. Show her that I don’t regret it even though last night wasn’t planned.

I could never regret being with her.

She nods. Her neutral expression slips, and a cocktail of emotions—fear, disappointment, regret—washes over her face.

“Mav, last night was a mistake. I don’t…” She shakes her head.

“I don’t have one-night stands. Or random hookups. I don’t lose control like that.”

Her words bowl me over.

One-night stand. Random hookup.

Is that all she thinks I am?

Is that what I mean to her?

I mean, yeah, our relationship started off as a fake arrangement.

But now…after the past few months and Christmas, I thought at the very least our friendship was unshakeable.

That we were operating from a foundation fortified with trust and sincerity.

I’d hardly consider myself random.

“I’m not saying it’s your fault,” she rushes out.

“We both got caught up in the moment. And I’m sure it was great, you know, the sex,” she fumbles.

But she doesn’t fucking remember.

Nausea swims in my gut again, making me feel like I’m on a boat, adrift at sea, in the middle of a category-five hurricane.

I feel sleazy. How did I not realize how drunk she was?

How does she not recall how in sync our bodies were?

Our laughter and our promises.

Our night together wasn’t clumsy and fumbling.

It was fucking poetry.

Song lyrics. Music of the soul.

And she’s sure it was something as generic as great ?

God, that hurts. Scrapes and burns and cuts me up like fucking ribbons.

Random and great. She’s fumbling through this the best way she knows how—with a degree of grace and compassion for my sake.

Not for hers. Even now, she’s trying to let me down easy.

A knock sounds on the door, and I jump up, relieved by the interruption and desperate for the coffee.

The slight hangover I had this morning morphs into a full-blown migraine from the shattering disappointment, the crushing guilt I feel.

Glancing at Mckenna, I realize she feels even worse.

That realization only intensifies my remorse over putting her in this messed-up position.

Why did I allow this to happen?

The server who rolls in the cart with the trays piled high looks between us, an excited and expectant look on his face.

His smile slips as he takes in our forlorn expressions.

Understanding that he walked into an awkward conversation dawns and he quickly removes the lids of our meals and dips back out.

“Even the server knows,” Mckenna worries.

“The whole fucking world knows, Mckenna,” I snap, my anger at myself momentarily redirecting toward her.

“You announced, on a stage, that you love me.”

She winces.

“You really don’t remember that?” I ask softly.

It was one of the best moments of my life.

A high I’ve only ever experienced on stage.

Or after cocaine.

Mckenna’s eyes flick to mine.

Slowly, she shakes her head.

“I’m sorry, Mav. Truly.” She sounds.

..haunted. “I don’t remember much about last night.” She holds up her hand and stares at the ring.

“I can’t believe we got married.”

“Yeah,” I mutter.

“And now, we’ll have to get an annulment.”

She sucks in a breath, her eyes flying back to mine.

“I mean, obviously, since—” Another knock at the door cuts me off.

“Fuck,” I yell, striding toward the door.

Grasping the handle, I pull it wide open.

“Now isn’t a good time,” I announce to whoever is on the other side.

Allegra’s worried expression, Jameson’s hulking frame, and Derek and Levi’s carefully neutral postures greet me.

“No fucking kidding, mate,” Levi murmurs.

“Kenny!” Allegra ducks under my arm and hurries into the suite.

Glancing over my shoulder, I watch my girl— wife —crumple into her best friend’s embrace.

“Shit,” Jameson says.

“You okay?”

“What do you think?” I retort.

“Aiden’s on his way,” Levi says.

“What were you thinking?” Derek wonders, his tone devoid of the judgment I expected.

That this was right.

That I was happy. That Mckenna is everything.

The responses roll through my mind, but I don’t voice them.

“I wasn’t,” I say instead.

“Obviously.” Levi snorts, barreling into my suite.

“Shut the door,” Derek advises.

“We need to do damage control.”

Jameson hangs back, watching me curiously.

“You okay?” he repeats.

Digging deep, I pull out my facade—funny, life-of-the-party, carefree goofball.

I wrap myself in it and cling to humor.

Force a smirk. “Of course. I’m always okay.”

But as I take in Mckenna’s tear-stained cheeks, my heart fucking cracks.

And I wonder if I’ll ever be okay again.