3. Mckenna
THREE
MCKENNA
Sender: Bursar Office
Subject: Late Tuition Payment
“No,” I groan as the email pops up in my inbox. I minimize the email I’m reading, my fourth job rejection today, and pull up the newest piece of negative news.
Shit.
Mom and Dad’s divorce, a theatrical, two-year event, is still in full swing. As they each try to one-up each other, they’ve completely forgotten about their adult daughter, and as a result, my tuition hasn’t been paid by them for over two years.
When I embarked on my law school journey, I was under the impression that I wouldn’t have to worry about student loans or repayment plans. That understanding disintegrated one month into my 1L year.
Now, I’m $160,000 in debt, unable to pay rent, and in desperate need of a job to cover my daily expenses.
“What the hell am I even qualified for?” I whisper to myself, dropping my forehead to my hand.
Sitting in the law school library, surrounded by the gentle clacking of keyboards and under-the-breath mutterings of studying students, I want to scream.
How the hell am I going to make this work?
Should I take out another loan?
No.
Should I drop out?
No!
Do I even want to be a lawyer?
Yes.
The thought pops into my mind unbidden and instant, giving me relief. Sanity. The rising flush of panic recedes slightly.
Yes, this is what I’m meant to do with my life. I’ve been interested in entertainment since I was a child—playing violin, performing on stage, taking voice lessons—and while I no longer harbor dreams of being an entertainer, I’d love to represent them. I’d love to be an entertainment lawyer.
“And you will,” I murmur the declaration as if saying it out loud will make it real. Tangible. Attainable. “You will,” I say, with more gumption this time.
“Ahh, there she is,” a male voice says, more taunting than surprised.
I drag my attention to the voice and swallow back my groan. Clasping my hands together in my lap, I straighten and try to shake off the icy tentacles that wrap around my limbs.
Branson Burton, a fellow 3L and cocky pain in the ass.
Branson Burton, a hazy echo of a drunken, messy night during my 1L year. His rough hands, harsh tone, stale breath—I blink, banishing the mental reminder of that night, of the pieces I remember, back into the box I locked them in.
“Bran,” I say as pleasantly as possible.
He leans against the small table, half sitting on it, as he crowds me. I recoil instantly, my fingers scraping together, and his lip curls. “All alone, as usual, Mckenna. Do you ever think about making friends?”
I scowl at his mocking tone.
“Or date.” He reaches forward and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. I turn my face, smacking his fingers away. Bran grins. “We could’ve been good together. We?—”
“Stop it,” I whisper-hiss. I hate when he does this. I hate the film of shame and confusion that coats my skin, that tightens my stomach in Bran’s presence. At the sound of his voice.
“Do you really think you’re that much better than everyone here? Better than me ?” he sneers.
My breath freezes in my throat. Ten solid retorts file through my mind, but none come out. The words don’t form, and I sit in silence, my chest heaving, my self-loathing mounting.
What the hell happened that night? My mind flickers with shadowy images and broken sounds. Clarity shimmers around the edges, disappearing before I can latch on. I shudder.
Bran smirks. “Nah. You’re not worth a goddamn thing, Mckenna. That’s why you’re all alone. Even Emily and Robyn finally caught on.” He knocks against my table twice before walking away, whistling a tune under his breath even though several students he passes look up in annoyance at the interruption.
I slump over my laptop, the words of my emails blurring as my eyes fill with tears. Dammit. Don’t let him rattle you, Mckenna. You’re giving him exactly what he wants—a reaction. I angrily swipe the backs of my fingers across my eyes. It shouldn’t matter what Bran thinks.
I don’t even like him.
I just hate that on some level, he’s right. People do think I’m stuck-up. Standoffish. A no-fun prude who follows the rules and never lets loose.
Outside of Robyn and Emily, I don’t have any law school friends. While dealing with my parents’ divorce during my 1L year, I went out one night and got sloppy drunk. I only have snippets from that night—pieces of Bran I can’t fully recall but I’m certain I’d rather forget.
After that, I started skipping law school socials. I withdrew into myself. Dyed my hair darker. Spent more hours studying. Eventually, I stopped being invited to socials and parties, and everyone drew conclusions about my absences: Mckenna Byrne thinks she’s too good for us.
It couldn’t be further from the truth, but I never actively refuted it. In fact, I doubled down, and insulated myself more with Robyn, Emily, and Allegra when she still lived in Boston. I spent weekday evenings Facetiming with Nova and Ivy. It’s better that way. Safer.
But still lonely.
I snort back a harsh laugh, drawing attention to my little table. If only anyone here knew how many student loans I’ve taken out over the past two years. Of how desperate I am for a job. Of how close I am to faltering. Failing .
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 shaking when 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 of no drugs and no parties did 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 view of 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.
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 the fun ”—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.