Page 1 of Tainted Tempos

ONE

MAV

The soundof 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 inthe 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?

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