Exposed (VIP Book 4)

by Kristen Callihan

  Libby shoots me a look that says she’s keeping an eye on Sophie. But I’m distracted by the whole “matchmaker” bit. Did everyone but me know he was planning to hook Brenna up?

  “Isn’t it cute?” Sophie says. “Look, it’s so on.”

  We all turn in the direction of her stare. Brenna is leaning into Marshall’s space, her sweet little tits thrust out like eye candy. He’s taking the bait, his eyes more on her chest than her face. My stomach roils, and I finish off the last of my drink. It’s gone watery and weak.

  “I can’t believe that’s Marshall Faulkner,” Libby says with a dreamy sort of sigh. “I had no idea he was so hot. He knows everyone.”

  “Even Chris Evans?” Sophie asks with wide eyes.

  “Yep.”

  All three women sigh then.

  “I’d probably drool on Evans if I met him,” Libby says. “It wouldn’t be pretty.”

  “You two have men,” I remind Sophie and Libby, compelled by loyalty to stick up for my boys. Besides, it beats watching Brenna chat it up with Marshall.

  They roll their eyes and scoff in exactly the same tone.

  “That doesn’t mean we’re dead,” Libby says with a flip of her honey-blond hair. “Killian is well aware of my Chris crushes. He finds it amusing.”

  “No one is hotter than Gabriel,” Sophie adds. “He can deal.”

  “The ultimate question. Hemsworth or Evans?” Libby grills her.

  Sophie shrugs. “Why not both?”

  “I’d be the meat in that sandwich,” Jenni adds, choosing now to pipe up. She gives me an assessing glance. “You’re a bit of a Hemsworth.”

  They all look at me. Assessing.

  “He’s definitely got the big, strapping Hemi-body going,” Sophie says without hesitation. Drunk Sophie is good for the ego, I’ll say that. But I’m beginning to feel like the meat in their sandwich.

  Libby’s gaze darts to Jenni then back to me. Her brow wings up, and a slow smile spreads over her lips. Shit.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, holding out a hand to Jenni. “I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Libby.”

  “I know. I’m a huge fan.”

  “Oh, shit,” Sophie laments loudly. “I’m sorry. This is Jenni. Scottie and I met her at a fundraiser, and we invited her to the party.”

  “And I’m very glad you did,” Jenni says.

  I don’t miss the way she looks at me when she says it. Neither do the girls. Sophie hums, rubbing her cheek against my arm—she’s notoriously cuddly when she’s buzzing—and then beams. “Scottie thought you’d hit it off with Rye. I guess he was right.”

  She drops that awkward bomb, clearly quite pleased with herself, while Libby chokes back a laugh and Jenni blushes—though she doesn’t appear embarrassed. No, she’s pleased as well. As for myself? I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve fallen into an episode of The Twilight Zone. Scottie’s matchmaking for me too? What the actual fuck is going on here?

  And what the hell do I say now? An uncomfortable laugh escapes me, and I rub the side of my neck that still tingles with the urge to turn and watch Brenna. The urge to run away is also high on the list. “You’re cute when you’re drunk, Soph.”

  “I’m not drunk,” she protests, taking the bait. “I’m simply…cocktail-induced happy.”

  Libby hums. “Let’s go tell Scottie about it, shall we?”

  “Oh, let’s.” Sophie’s grin goes lopsided. “He’s so pretty. My mom is watching Felix for the weekend. I’m footloose and baby-free. I gonna take my man home and ride him like a wild pony.”

  With that lovely image in my head, I really don’t want to look at my friend at the moment. But I can’t help myself; I glance Scottie’s way. He’s still at the bar but has moved away from Brenna and Marshall. Brenna, who pulls out her phone to take down Marshall’s number. It’s a kick to the gut to see. Irritation surges just behind that, and I grind my back teeth. What the fuck am I doing? My life was so much better when I remembered that Brenna is a pain in my ass and someone I should give a wide berth. It’s stupid to get caught up in this “problem” of hers.

  A moment of mindless stupidity. That’s all it was. Now it’s over.

  “We’re definitely asking Scottie how he feels about pony rides.” Libby takes hold of Sophie’s arm and peels her off me. “Nice to meet you, Jenni,” she says, as they head inside to torment Scottie.

  Leaving me alone with my apparent date for the night.

  “Well,” Jenni says expansively. “That was…something.”

  “That’s Libby and Sophie for you. The encounter only needed Stella to make it a complete ‘embarrass Rye’ show.”

  “I can’t believe I met Libby Bell.” She’s wide-eyed now. “God, she’s so talented. I mean, you’re all so talented. I’d love to meet the rest of the guys.”

  Normally, that would be my cue to steer someone away from my guys. But I’m not feeling charitable right now.

  “Good thing they’re over there.” I nod toward the corner of the terrace where Stella and Jax are cuddled up on a big round lounger. They’re talking to Killian and Whip. I don’t need to make eye contact to know those fuckers are watching me too. I’m being set up big time, and I’m not amused. “Let me introduce you.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean you had to…”

  I gently take her elbow and guide her to my nosy-ass friends. “No, no, it’s my pleasure.”

  They all do a terrible job at pretending they don’t see me coming. I fall into expansive, carefree, good ol’ Rye mode.

  “Hey, guys. Having fun?” I ask, as Libby, having left Sophie in Scottie’s care, returns and sits on Killian’s lap.

  Killian leans back in his chair, his hand on Libby’s hip, and grins. “Sophie told us all of Scottie’s favorite intimate positions. In detail. So maybe not fun. But entertained, yeah.”

  “I’m so giving him shit later,” Jax says.

  “Oh, hush.” Stella pinches his side. “You will not!”

  “Yes, he will,” Whip, Jax, and I all answer in unison.

  “You’ll embarrass him,” Stella says.

  I laugh. “Kind of the point, Stells.”

  Libby shakes her head. “Yeah, and then we’ll all have to deal with extra-evil Scottie. And suddenly we’ll be doing a guest appearance on some weird Japanese game show where they throw us in a vat of udon to fight it out for points.”

  “That’s…scarily specific,” Jax says.

  Libby gives him a speaking look. “Exactly.”

  Sadly, we’re all properly spooked. Because she’s not wrong.

  “You guys are a trip,” Jenni says at my side.

  It’s my cue to introduce her. Stella is all grace and kindness. Killian and Jax are annoyingly smug. Whip gives me a quick look of sympathy. Couples, man. They lose their damn minds when they fall for someone. Suddenly, they want to pair up the world.

  “Jenni works at NYU. Music department…” A movement at the corner of my eye catches my attention. Brenna and Marshall are walking away from the bar. They’re swallowed up by the crowd. The conversation around me dissolves into an indistinct buzz.

  Jenni’s warm arm brushes mine. Beautiful, intelligent, into music, and can hold her own with my friends. She should be perfect for me. But I feel absolutely nothing for this woman. Ordinarily, that wouldn’t matter. I’m more than able to have sex without emotion. Truth is, I don’t know it any other way.

  It’s kind of a shock to realize I’m tired of using soulless sex as a quick fix to forget the world. Which is hilarious, given that Brenna wants to use sex to forget her problems and I can’t stop thinking about giving it to her.

  Damn it. My head is done in. Life was easier when I didn’t think too much. But I can’t stop thinking.

  “I’m sorry.” I take a step back. Then another. “I forgot there’s something I have to do.”

  My friends and Jenni all pause. Silence falls over our small circle as they gape at me. I don’t give a damn. I keep backing away. “Nice to meet you
, Jenni.”

  I don’t turn around and head for the living room. But when I get there, Brenna is gone. And so is Marshall.

  Chapter Six

  Brenna

  Curled up on my big, soft couch before the TV in my den, I finish up the second French braid in my hair then stretch out and wiggle my sock-covered feet. This is more like it. I love my couch. Nice and deep, squishy down-filled and upholstered in pale pink velvet—it’s the kind of thing my parents would have called frivolous and, yes, it cost more than a month’s rent on my first apartment. But I worked my ass off to get where I am, and I like my luxuries.

  I like being home, frankly. I don’t get to be here or by myself enough as it is. After I finally escaped the party, I gave myself a mini spa, taking a nice long shower while wearing a detoxifying clay mask, shaving the essential bits, then slathering on a rich body moisturizer that smells of cookies. It’s late as hell, and I should be sleeping. But sleep eludes me these days. Instead, I’m watching old movies and eating my way through a can of Pringles. What can I say? They’re my weakness.

  I’m happily munching when the bell rings. Given that I have a doorman to keep unwanted visitors away, my hackles rise. Everyone who knows where I live and would visit me at this hour is still at Stella’s birthday party. I’m guessing it’s one of my neighbors, needing help or maybe wanting to borrow an egg…at two in the morning. Shit.

  The bell rings again, and I make my way to the door, remote clutched in my hand like a bat.

  A peek through my peephole has me cursing wildly. Rye glares back at me, obviously aware that I’m peeping. I jerk back from the door then wrench it open. “What are you doing here?”

  “You gonna club me with that remote?” He nods toward my hand where I still clutch it tight.

  “I just might. It’s two in the morning.”

  A long-suffering sigh leaves him. “Bren, I’ve spent the past decade staying up till all hours.” He raises a brow. “And so have you. It’s early for us.”

  “That might have been true a couple of years ago. The thrill is officially gone now.”

  His smile is barely there and weary. “Yeah, it is. Can I come in?” The smile dies, and he attempts to peer past my shoulder. “Or do you have company?”

  “You thought I might have company, and yet you still showed up?”

  That lopsided smile of his turns into a grimace. “No?”

  I will not fall for that helpless hound dog look of his. It is not cute. “No, you didn’t think? Or no, you’re not actually here, and I’m hallucinating?”

  “As much as I like the idea of you hallucinating about me, I meant no, I didn’t know if you had company, but I wanted to make sure anyway.”

  When I gape back at him, he shifts his feet and eyes my foyer. “Well? Are you going to let me in?”

  The petty girl in me really wants to close the door in his face. She’d gain a lot of satisfaction out of that—checking to see if I had a date in here, indeed. But I act like a grown-up and open the door wider, stepping aside to give him room. “All right then.”

  With a nod and a grim set to his mouth, Rye walks past me and waits in the living room while I close the front door. He takes a long look at my pink pajama bottoms and black tank top, swallows audibly, then blinks, but his expression remains blank. The Rye I know would have commented on the pj’s. And while he would never point out that I am not wearing a bra, because though he is an ass, he isn’t a pig, he keeps his gaze on my face.

  At first, I assumed he was here to bug me yet again about my “problem,” but he’s acting as though he’s about to face a firing squad, so now I’m not so sure. Fear that it’s about one of our friends starts creeping up my shoulder blades.

  “Is something wrong?” I ask.

  “Wrong?” He rubs the back of his neck, the action making his biceps pop. A huff of dark amusement leaves him. “I don’t know. I’m at your house alone for the second time in…well, ever, about to make a fool out of myself. Again.” His arm drops, and he frowns, pinning me with a look. “I don’t know if I’d define that as wrong, precisely.”

  My heartbeat has kicked up at his words. “Well, that’s easy to fix. Don’t make a fool out of yourself.” Before he can answer, I head for the den and my movie. I honestly don’t know if I want him to leave or follow.

  He follows, those denim eyes solemn and watchful. He doesn’t sit when I plop myself down on the couch and curl up in the corner. His gaze drifts to the bent glass coffee table littered with fashion magazines and my snack, and the corner of his mouth quirks. “You put your Pringles in a crystal serving bowl?”

  “I like nice things.” I snatch up a chip and stuff it into my mouth to hide my sudden case of the fidgets.

  He glances around the room, taking in the ice-blue paneled walls, the heavy cream drapes, the wall of bookshelves that frame my giant TV, the gold-framed abstract art in splashes of black and indigo. My whole apartment is an ode to 1930s glamour. It’s over-the-top but also comfortable. Rye—with his battered boots, worn jeans, and thick-ass scruff that’s now firmly in beard territory—looks completely out of place. Then again, Jax’s house is done up so fancy, it might as well be Buckingham Palace, so it’s not as though Rye isn’t used to it.

  Even so, I eye him warily, waiting for further comment on my extravagant tastes. But he merely takes a visible breath and sits on the opposite side of the couch, exhaling as though he’s at the end of a very long day and it’s the first time he’s had a chance to rest.

  “You want a drink?” I ask, reaching for my wine.

  He eyes it but shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good.”

  The silence between us grows thick and unwieldy, the sound of me crunching on my chips so loud, it’s almost comical. I take a sip of my chardonnay to clear my throat.

  “Rye—”

  “Thing is,” he says at the same time. “I told myself the same all the way over here.”

  “The same?” I parrot, confused.

  He turns his head, and our gazes snag. His is bloodshot and unsure. “To let it go and not make a fool out of myself.” The corners of his eyes crinkle. “Again.”

  “And yet you’re here.”

  “That I am.” Rye leans back, letting his head rest on the couch. “Scottie said he saw you leave. Without Mr. Taco.”

  “Mr. Taco?” I half laugh then glare when it hits me. “Is that what you’re calling Marshall? Mature, Rye. Truly.”

  He scowls down at his big hands. They’re callused and battered by years of playing dozens of instruments. “Can you blame me with that line? Let’s go taco-hunting? If I said that cheesy shit, you’d laugh me out of the room.”

  “That would be ridiculous coming from you. You’re much more of a hamburgers-and-hot dog-lover.”

  “I like tacos just fine,” he grumbles.

  I make a sound of amazed disbelief. “Do you hear yourself right now?”

  “Yes.” He doesn’t appear happy about that. With a noise of frustration, he turns his body to face mine. The couch feels much smaller because of it. Rye is a big guy: muscles for days, long limbs, and wide shoulders. He takes up space, not just bodily, but with his presence of will. All the restless energy that always seems to simmer just under his skin is now focused completely on me.

  My skin tightens, a flush of…something…warms my chest.

  “Bren…I…fuck it.” He puffs out a harsh breath. “Look, I know we’ve had this holding pattern of mutual irritation and occasional loathing—”

  “Only occasional?” I can’t help but tease.

  He gives me a quelling look before forging on. “And I know you hate that I overheard your confession. But I did. I can’t change that or the fact that it changed me.” He pokes the center of his chest with his thumb for emphasis. “Because it did, Bren. I can’t get it out of my head. God knows I’d love to stop thinking about it, about you.”

  Same here, buttercup. It’s oddly reassuring to know he’s struggling as well.

 
Rye leans in as though he might touch me. But he obviously thinks better of it because his hand drops to his thigh instead. From under his strong brows, his eyes are wide and imploring.

  “When Scottie fixed you up with Mr. Cheese Puff Taco, I thought, Good, great, she might find someone to give her what she wants, maybe even more. Or at least, I tried to think that.” He winces and bites his bottom lip. Dusky red washes over his high cheekbones, surprising the hell out of me because Rye never blushes anymore.

  “I tried, Bren. I really did. But I’m going to be honest here. Jealousy hit me over the head hard, and all I wanted to do was go back in there and throw him out on his ass.”

  With that, he stops and stares at me, clearly embarrassed by his confession, but just as clearly willing me to fully hear him. A gurgle of shock sounds in my throat. Because I heard him loud and clear. And I’m floored. I have never known Rye to be jealous. Of anything. He isn’t built that way.

  He keeps giving up pieces of himself, knowing that my pride took a big hit when he overheard me. The gesture flutters through me like a breath of warm air, finding its way through the small cracks in my resistance. I find myself relaxing just a bit, my grip on the throw pillow I’ve pulled on my lap easing.

  Rye swallows audibly. His long fingers tap an agitated rhythm on his thigh. “You going on a date with him?”

  “I’m supposed to.” The reply is automatic and wooden; my brain is still having trouble catching up.

  “Supposed to? Does that mean you are?”

  I shake myself out of my Rye-induced fog. “Yes. I don’t know. I mean, we exchanged numbers so we could make plans, but…”

  “But?” He slides just a bit closer.

  “I wasn’t feeling it,” I confess without thinking. He stirs beside me, and I catch the faint scent of perfume, sweetly funky and over-the-top, emanating from him. If I’m not mistaken, it’s Montale’s Amber Musk. It’s never been a favorite. I really don’t like it now.

  My nostrils flare, and I rear back, hitting the couch arm. “Wait, you were jealous? I must have been imagining things again, because I could have sworn you had some woman hanging on your arm when I left.”