4. Mav
FOUR
MAV
I stride toward 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, the thinking half, is far, far away.
It’s all fucking wrong. This isn’t Mckenna.
Her smirk twists and I want to kiss it off her face and devour it, so she never wears it again.
What the hell is happening? Kiss Mckenna?
The thought pulls me up short.
“I thought we were just getting started,” she taunts, her voice jagged.
What the fuck is going on? I tear my gaze from checking Mckenna out because as much as I want to memorize her delectable body in the scraps of black lace she’s wearing, I don’t want it like this .
Something is wrong, and even in my slightly inebriated state, I know it. I know it, and I don’t fucking like it.
“What the hell has gotten into you?” I toss her librarian turtleneck at her chest. “Put your sweater on.”
She laughs like I’m the one being ridiculous.
“I’m serious, Mckenna.” I bend to pick up her jeans and press them into her hands. “What the hell is this?”
Her laughter holds an edge of sarcasm, of pain that doesn’t make any damn sense. “As if you could ever understand,” she spits, her laughter dying as her blue eyes darken. Angry and hurt and reckless.
I cross my arms over my chest. She knows shit about my life before the band blew up. That’s one of the most annoying things about fame; people think you don’t understand struggle. Or disappointment. Or anything negative at all. “Try me.”
“No.”
“Whatever the hell you’ve gotten yourself into?—”
“I didn’t get myself into anything!” she bellows, her cheeks two pink patches of emotion. Her eyes fill with moisture.
“Fuck. Are you gonna cry?” I rake my fingers through my hair. I don’t do well with tears. When the waterworks start, I usually usher said woman out of my house, out of my life, and close the door behind her.
But I can’t do that to Mckenna. She’s my fucking roommate.
She closes her eyes, the spunk draining out of her. Two tears trail down her cheeks, sliding to her chin before falling softly to her chest. I track the movement, getting distracted by the swells of her breasts, her hard nipples puckering through the lace.
Fuck. I snap my head up and stare at her face again. I am not checking out Mckenna. She’s already a giant pain in the ass, not to mention a complication in my life. Take today—our interactions have swung wildly between volcanic and glacial. It’s so out of the norm for us—for her —to show this intensity of emotion. Something is clearly off.
“Go to bed, Mckenna,” I say, wanting this weird vibe to dissipate. Wanting this night to end.
I glance around the living room. Twenty minutes ago, my friends and I were kicking it, having a good time. Now, it’s filled with the piercing kind of silence I hate. It’s the kind that gets under my skin and stays there. Makes my fingers itch and my head spin. It’s a warning that I need my music. Or it’s a recipe for bad choices.
I drag my gaze back to Mckenna.
She rolls her eyes and mashes her lips together. “You go to bed.”
I snort and shake my head. She looks like an angry cat, ready to strike. Blowing out a sigh, I bend and toss her over my shoulder, one hand wrapped around the backs of her knees, the other gripping her upper arm.
“Mav!” she shrieks, slapping my back. “Put me down.”
“I’m putting you to bed.” I climb the stairs to the second floor. I need her locked in her room, away from me, before I do something absurd. Like kiss her. Or try to comfort her. “I don’t know what the hell just happened, but you should be in time-out.”
She smacks my back again. But a moment later, the fight drains out of her, and her body falls slack. It causes my concern to spike because if Mckenna isn’t flipping me shit, then something truly awful is unfolding.
I barrel into the master bedroom—of course, Derek claimed that shit—and toss her in the center of the king-sized bed.
She lands with an oomph and turns her chin up to the ceiling, staring right at it.
I pace along the foot of her bed. I’m way out of my comfort zone here. I don’t do girl drama. Save for Allegra, I don’t even have female friends. I mean, other than the ones I casually fuck, like Lia.
I glance at the mess in the middle of the bed. She’s breathing, but she’s doing little else. Is she drunk? Is she in shock?
I squint at her. Shit, did something happen? Like, is she hurt?
“Mckenna.” I rush toward her, catching her off guard, so she sits up and stares at me.
I sit on the edge of the bed, reach toward her, hesitate, and drop my hand.
“Uh.” I clear my throat. “Did something happen?”
She frowns, staring at me like I’m not making any damn sense.
I scrub a hand down my face. Gather my courage and meet her eyes. Show her the genuine worry in mine. “Did someone hurt you? Do something to you?”
Slowly, she shakes her head. But her eyes are so fucking sad that something cracks in my chest. “No, no. I’m fine, Mav. Really.” She sounds anything but fine. Her words are soft but brittle. The resignation in her voice is alarming.
“You can tell me,” I press, gentling my tone.
Her lips twist, somehow both sincere and mocking. She shakes her head, letting me know I’m the last person she’d confide in. “I’m fine,” she repeats, scooting back until she can push her legs under the comforter and pull the sheets up. “I’m just tired. Thanks for, um, being decent to me, Mav.” She rolls away from me.
Decent . She thinks this is me being decent. It scrapes because it’s true. I’ve never gone out of my way for her before.
I stand from the bed and study her. Huddled beneath the comforter, she looks tiny. Fragile. Nothing like the formidable, annoying woman I’ve seen glimpses of over the past few years.
“Let’s forget this happened, okay?” she murmurs. “Tomorrow, you can go back to being a cocky pain in the ass, and I’ll go back to pushing your buttons.”
I snort, surprised by her comment but appreciating it nonetheless. That sounds normal, and normal is good. Safe. “Yeah, sure,” I agree, desperate to erase the weirdness between us. Before I close the bedroom door, I glance at her over my shoulder. “Good night, Mckenna.”
“Night.”
Then, I close the door and bound down the stairs toward the living room. I pick up the mess and ignore the hurt, rattled woman sleeping upstairs.
What the hell happened today? What made Mckenna Byrne snap?
And why the hell do I care?
Shaking it off, I pop the tab on a fresh beer and take a swig. Tonight is just one of those weird, random nights.
It doesn’t mean anything. Mckenna doesn’t mean anything.
In the morning, everything will be back to normal.
But when I wake in the morning, Mckenna is gone.