Exposed (VIP Book 4)

by Kristen Callihan

  Jules gapes at the massive screen where animated polar bears frolic in the snow. A frown forms between her brows. “They’re drinking Coke. I hate it when they make animals eat or drink human food.”

  “Or make animated food items look cute and dance around.” I wrinkle my nose. “I’m supposed to want to eat them later?”

  “How about when they eat each other?”

  “It’s never the type of eating I approve of, sadly.”

  We both snicker. A mother sitting next to Jules shoots us a repressive glare while her two-year-old tries to put his fist in his mouth. It’s kind of impressive how she can glare so effectively while wearing 3-D glasses, though. It must be a mother thing.

  Jules eases closer to me. “When is this over? I want to see old-timey Coke advertisements and try weird drinks like ginger-lime Coke.”

  “I heard they have a pine nut flavor.”

  “They do not! Why!”

  We get another glare from the mother. Her kid, on the other hand, has taken to kicking the seat in front of him. Hard.

  I don’t blame him. I want out too. Thankfully we opted not to sit in the moving theater seats for the 4-D experience. I’d probably want to vomit at this point.

  “Thank you for coming with me,” I murmur to Jules.

  When Scottie told me he’d set up a meeting in Atlanta with Al Rasken, one of Kill John’s A&R men, to discuss their upcoming record, I’d jumped at the chance to join in. Record labels can be notoriously stingy with the promotion and marketing budget. Kill John is their biggest artist, so we have much more leeway. Even so, a bit of finessing never hurt. The more promotion money I can get for them, the better. At least that’s what I told myself was the reason for going.

  “Hey, it’s a mini vacation from work. I’m not complaining.”

  She doesn’t realize it, but her words hit a weak spot, and I suppress the urge to wriggle. Because we aren’t working anymore. There is absolutely no reason for me to still be in Atlanta. No legitimate reason, that is.

  Days later and I still feel Rye on me. If I close my eyes and let my concentration slip, I’m haunted by the ghost of his scent, salty-sweet lust, citrus and spices. Someone should bottle it; I’d rub that stuff all over my skin at night and sleep in it.

  God, I miss him. I miss him! How the hell can that be? We had sex once. I shouldn’t be craving him like this. Oh, but I do. Before, I ached for physical touch. It was a nebulous need, strong but not rooted in one specific person. Now, it’s him I ache for. Damn it.

  “Don’t you start sighing,” Jules says out of the side of her mouth. “This was your idea.”

  “I slept with Rye.” The words burst free without warning.

  “What?” Jules squeaks.

  “Hush,” the mother next to us admonishes.

  Jules pinches my arm. “You and Rye? Rye Peterson?”

  “What other Rye would I be talking about?” I grump, regretting my loose lips. But I need to tell someone, anyone, and Jules won’t judge. She’ll tease me a little, but that’s to be expected.

  “Certainly not the one you insisted you’d like to drop in a vat of boiling oil.” She rolls her eyes then glares. “What the hell, Brenna?”

  “Ow!” I rub my skin. “Would you quit pinching me?”

  “Shhh!”

  Jules waves off the irate mother then turns my way. Her oversized 3-D glasses reflect the light of the screen as her lips purse. “Spill it.”

  “You’re going to get us kicked out.” I dart an apologetic look at the mother. She’s too busy trying to prevent her kid from eating floor candy.

  “You dropped this bomb on me here so I couldn’t properly freak out, didn’t you?” Jules accuses.

  She’s not wrong. Sighing, I focus on the screen but then close my eyes because I freaking hate 3-D movies. “Remember that night we talked about my little problem?”

  “The need for a good fucking?”

  Thankfully, Jules whispers that.

  “Yes. Rye was there. He overheard.”

  “Shut the front door,” Jules says, part scandalized, part anticipatory.

  “He offered…”

  “To butter your buns?” she says. Loudly.

  “There are children here,” the mother hisses.

  Jules gives her a level look. “Like he’s going to understand that?” She shakes her head and glances at the little boy, who is utterly oblivious to our chatter and is clapping at the screen. “I’m sorry, I assumed you’d be pro-sex. My mistake.”

  I bite my lip to keep from laughing as Jules turns back to me. “I’ll be quiet now so Ms. Buttered Buns here doesn’t have a fit. But when this show is done, we’re having words.”

  We shut up until the lights go up, and finally we’re let into the museum. As soon as we’re free, Jules grabs my elbow and hustles me to a corner where a cherry-cheeked Santa lifts a bottle of Coke high in the air. “All right, now tell me everything.” Her eyes are alight and avid with curiosity.

  “I don’t know…” I hedge, feeling weirdly protective of it now that I’ve opened my mouth. “It was a moment of weakness.”

  “Uh-huh. Sure.”

  “What can I say? He was persuasive.”

  Jules gives me a get-real face. “He’s Rye Peterson. He doesn’t need to say a word. Just looking at him is enough. I mean, those arms? That ass?”

  “I didn’t realize you’d noticed.”

  “Am I dead?” She pinches my arm again with her quick fingers. “Don’t be jealous. I’m not into him. But I can appreciate the package.”

  “Apparently I do too.”

  “Of course, you do. It’s Rye. He’s always been your weak spot. Not that I blame you. Few can resist that aw-shucks grin. The beard thing is a surprise. I didn’t think it would work for him, but it’s like when Chris Evans went from wholesome, cute ‘how do you do, ma’am?’ Captain America, to ‘who’s your daddy, you’re gonna like the spanking I give you’ Cap.”

  “God, don’t say ‘Daddy,’” I moan, remembering Rye’s stupid texts. Call me Daddy, indeed. The arrogance. Why had that turned me on? If it had been anyone else but Rye, I’d be intrigued…No, that’s not true. It turned me on more because it was Rye. Which makes me twisted. Totally twisted to get hot at the idea of playing Daddy with Rye freaking Peterson when I’ve spent the whole of my adult life trying to prove to myself that he has no power over me.

  Silence greets me, and I realize what I’ve said. I wince at the utterly gleeful expression on Jules’s face.

  “Oh, really?” she drawls.

  “There’s no really.”

  “I knew he’d be a dirty bird in bed.”

  I clear my throat and catch a glimpse of grinning Santa. Edging away from him, I roll my stiff shoulders and try again. “We did not go there!” Texts don’t count. “I just don’t want that image in my head.” Too late. “But, okay, it was…good. Really good. But it’s Rye.”

  Jules hums thoughtfully under her breath then pins me with a curious stare. “Can I ask you something? You and Rye have always been at each other’s throats, and I assumed it was simmering repressed sexual tension—”

  “Oh, for crying out—” I shut up, because she lifts a brow as if to say, Get real, Brenna. And she isn’t entirely wrong. Damn it. With a sigh, I make a motion with my hand for her to continue.

  Jules sniffs delicately. “As I was saying, I’m pretty sure we all thought that. But how did this animosity between you two start? Where’s it coming from?”

  Part of me wants to turn tail and run. But I squeeze the bridge of my nose and answer her. “In the beginning, it was a simple case of immaturity and my inability to handle rejection.” I tell her about my crush on Rye, the way he effectively squashed it, and the resulting low-key feud. “We started relating to each other by bickering and sniping. But a few years later…”

  I grit my teeth. I don’t want to remember. I put it aside a while ago. Remembering only pokes a sore spot that I’ve worked to heal. Remembering only
threatens to make me view Rye in a way that will make everything harder. But Jules asked, and maybe it’s better to get it out instead of burying it away.

  “I saw him doing something he shouldn’t.”

  “What, like a crime?”

  “No. He was with a woman—”

  “Please don’t tell me he hurt her.” Horror shimmers in her eyes.

  “Jules!” I huff out a weak laugh. “Stop interrupting. No, he didn’t do that. I’d have told someone, and he’d have been out of the band in a blink. He was just kissing someone he shouldn’t have.”

  I close my eyes and will away the memory, the utter disappointment and rage I’d felt toward him, knowing that he put his drunken lust over the happiness of his friends.

  “I’m not going to say who, because it’s been ten years at this point, and it does no good to stir the pot.” I give Jules a sad, wane smile. “But it set the tone for how I related to him for so long. I held on to that rage for years, let it feed me when it came to him. But it wasn’t healthy, and he never did anything like that again—not that I know of. So, I let it go. Only by then, we’d settled into the pattern of animosity like a pair of favorite shoes.”

  “Does he know about this?” Jules asks.

  “No. I never said a word. I didn’t want to hurt the band.” I snort. “It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? I protected him from a blowup, when he deserved everything that he would have gotten.”

  “Not really,” Jules says. “Your job was to protect them. I can see how that would put you in a tough spot.”

  “And I resented that too. I took it out on Rye, even though he had no clue why I was so pissed.”

  She peers at me, and I have the urge to squirm. When she talks, her tone holds no judgment, only curiosity. “Despite all that, when he made you this offer, you took it.”

  “Sometimes, I can’t believe it myself.” I laugh without humor. My chest hurts, and my head feels as if it’s stuffed with wool. “I’d like to think we’ve both grown. And the truth is…Shit. I like this Rye.”

  Saying it makes it real. Saying it also lifts a weight I didn’t know I’d been carrying.

  Jules nods as if understanding. “And you’re running scared.”

  “Scared,” I scoff. “I’m not scared.” I am, though. I’m terrified of falling.

  “Of course not.” Jules pats my arm. “That’s why we’re talking about sex in front of St. Nick instead of you being in New York getting some dick.”

  “Ugh!” I turn away and start walking through the museum. But I can’t outrun my memories.

  Ride me, Bren.

  He’d been so thick. So hard. So good.

  “Shit.” With a silent groan, I toss up my hands in defeat. I can lie to myself all day, but it won’t change the truth. My body doesn’t feel right anymore. Like it’s waiting for him. “I ran, all right! I know I ran. But I couldn’t face him. I just couldn’t, okay?”

  Not after he’d taken me apart in the best of ways. He’d taken me apart and then put me back together. I’m this new needy woman who can’t stop craving one more touch. I don’t know if I like it. But I want it.

  Jules is silent for a moment, letting me stride along, my heels clicking double time on the linoleum floor. “Brenna, you are my idol, the woman who told the head of RAI Records that the day he started staring at guys’ dicks when he talked to them was the day it would be okay for him to talk to your tits.”

  I snort at the memory.

  Jules smiles fondly. “Do you know how many times I’ve seen you set down random drunk and disorderly dudes at events without breaking a sweat? Or make power-hungry executives quake in their loafers? You’re never fazed. You’re a badass in five-inch heels. No one takes advantage of you.” Her gaze is serious now. “If I could harness half your confidence, I’d be a happy woman. So, I have to wonder why you’re running from the one guy who lights you up.”

  My steps slow to a halt. Lights me up? As much as I want to, I can’t deny that I feel something when I’m around him. Alive. Energized.

  “I don’t know.”

  But I do. I’m a sham. I am not cool and collected. Half the time, I’m terrified to take any risks. I’m afraid anything I truly want will get ripped away and I’ll be that insecure girl on the outside looking in once more.

  When it comes to Rye, he has the power to pull the rug out from under me. When I got physical with him, I only gave him more of that power. That knowledge lies on my skin, making it feel too tight. And yet I cannot lie to myself: I crave more of him.

  Jules watches me carefully. Whatever she sees in my face has her tone softening. “I know one thing. You don’t let a man like Rye see you sweat. He’ll never let that go. Get back to New York and face him head-on.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rye

  Berrylicious: Michael says you haven’t answered any texts regarding next week’s appearance schedule. What gives?

  TrueAceOfBass: Sorry

  Berrylicious: Sorry? That’s it? That’s all you have to say to me?

  TrueAceOfBass: This a 16 Candles skit?

  Berrylicious: If you fucking forget my birthday, we’re going to have words, Peterson.

  TrueAceOfBass: 8/16 will nvr 4gt

  Berrylicious: Even your texting is bad. Are you drunk?

  TrueAceOfBass: No

  Berrylicious: High?

  TrueAceOfBass: Wish

  Berrylicious: Are you avoiding me? Because I went to Atlanta? Is that it?

  TrueAceOfBass: No ???

  Berrylicious: Damn it, Rye. Will you please be serious?

  TrueAceOfBass: K

  The phone rings, and I know I’ve stretched Brenna’s patience too far. With a sigh, I prop the phone on the arm of the couch and hit Accept.

  “Seriously, what the hell is going on?” she starts in without pause.

  I have to smile a little. She’s cute when she’s pissed. Not that I’d tell her. She’d kill me if I said so… “You’re cute when you’re pissed.” Shit. Painkillers are not my friend.

  A growl rumbles over the phone. “Am I on speaker?”

  “Yes.” I stare up at the ceiling. My entire right arm throbs from shoulder to fingertips while my left only burns from elbow to thumb. “But no one is around.”

  “Your voice sounds weird. You’re drunk, aren’t you?”

  “I’m not drunk, Bren. I’m…” In pain. Freaked out. Scared. “Tired.”

  Her snort is elegant and full of disbelief.

  “I swear, I’m not drunk.” I want to pick up the phone and put a little less distance between us, but I’m afraid to move. Moving tends to suck right now. “I’m sorry I didn’t respond to Michael’s texts. I must have missed them.”

  Or, you know, couldn’t type. It’s been a nightmare responding to the few texts Brenna has sent. And clearly, I haven’t done a good job since she thinks I’m drunk—or high. I’ve been thinking about finding some weed and zoning out. Except weed gives me cottonmouth. Maybe CBD oil would work.

  “Rye? Are you even listening?”

  Right. Brenna. She sounds as irritated as a cat who’s been stroked in the wrong direction.

  “You caught me napping.” I struggle to sit up and clear my head. My arms scream in protest. The pain shoots down my back and hits my hips. Shit, I feel like an old man. An old man who got hit by a crosstown bus. “I’m a little out of it.”

  Her silence is so loud, I feel it against my chest. When she finally talks, her voice is crisp.

  “Is this how it’s going to be now? You acting all weird?”

  “Now?” I husk out a laugh. “You always accuse me of acting weird.”

  She’s paranoid about fucking me. Awesome. It’s a real ego boost. She can pretend otherwise, but it’s a damn fact that she ran off to Atlanta to get away from this. From me. I still don’t know if I should be grateful or pissed. Both. Definitely both.

  “You know what I mean, Rye. Now that we…”

  “Bumped uglies? Did the nasty? Knoc
ked boots?”

  “Jesus. Have you been watching bad nineties teen movies?”

  No, I’ve been listening to Jax. Same difference, I suppose.

  “I was always partial to American Pie.”

  “Yeah, I bet,” she grumps, then says with clear trepidation, “What’s going on here, Rye?”

  Slowly, I flex my left hand. It protests, but I push it. Pain is a part of playing. There were nights when we’d get off stage, dripping with sweat, Killian, Jax, and I mopping blood off our hands because we’d played until our fingertips split and bled. Whip would have to ice his arms to ease swollen muscles.

  But this? This isn’t just pain. It is weakness. My hands and arms lose all strength with this hideous pain, and I can’t fucking play.

  What am I if I can’t perform music?

  I glance at the phone where Brenna is waiting for an answer. “This might surprise you, honey, but not everything is about you.”

  It comes out pissier than I want. But Brenna is used to that. It’s our normal.

  She snorts, but it’s softer now. “Coming from you, that’s rich.”

  I smile even though I have nothing to laugh about at the moment. “My ego is rather huge. You know what else is?”

  “Your head?”

  “The head is part of it,” I concede lightly, still trying to get my hand to unfurl.

  “You’re such a child,” she says with an aggrieved sigh, but I hear the reluctant amusement behind it.

  “But you love me anyway.” I meant it as a tease. I’ve said the same thing many times before. But now, with this thing looming between us, we both pause in awkward silence. The thud of my heart sounds overloud in my ear.

  Brenna finally rallies. “You wish.”

  Her standard answer. But the thought strikes a nerve this time and weasels its way into the dark cracks of my mind. I’ve never been loved like that. My parents love me, sure. But that isn’t remotely the same thing. What would it be liked to be loved by someone not required by blood to do it?

  Sitting alone in my apartment, which is admittedly too big for one person, I am suddenly hollowed out by loneliness. I’ve been lonely before. Who hasn’t? But this is different. Terrifying, like I’m on the edge of a cliff and the only way out is down. It’s cold, empty, humbling. I close my eyes against it, turning my head in the direction of Brenna’s voice.