Exposed (VIP Book 4)

by Kristen Callihan

  My parents lost themselves in each other, marrying within a month. Less than a year later, their attraction died a swift death, and they realized they didn’t actually like each other as people. Only it was too late; mom was pregnant with me, and neither of them wanted to admit their mistake.

  It didn’t help that, while Isabella and Xander’s careers went supersonic, my parents’ careers fizzled. Dad kept betting on the wrong investments, the wrong clients, and mom couldn’t secure any more bookings. All they were left with was a little girl neither of them seemed to know what to do with, a small house on Long Island, and a mutual loathing that oddly fueled them. They might have divorced but instead they clung to each other in their misery. And they took me along for the ride. My entire childhood was one long reminder that any misstep or wrong decision I made could result in catastrophe. Work hard but don’t dream big. Dreams easily died in the face of reality.

  “Best you learn now, Brenna,” my father had said in a tone that held years of weariness and failure. “You will never be more than a footnote in those boys’ lives. They keep you around because you’re cheap labor, not because you’re of any real value. Don’t waste another year on them. Go to school and live an ordinary life like the rest of us.”

  As much as I’ve tried to push those ugly words out of my mind, they had become stuck like tar to my insides, a burning weight. I constantly fight an ugly whisper that asked, what if my parents were right? What if I’ll never be more than someone the guys can easily replace?

  With a sigh, I roll my stiff shoulders and watch the window for my car. It pulls up, and I head out. I don’t have an umbrella, and ice-cold water pounds on my head as soon as I step outside. Today is gearing up to be an utterly shit day. Shivering, I huddle deeper into the collar of my sweater and pick up the pace.

  “Bren.”

  Rye’s voice, clear and firm over the downpour, has me halting in my tracks. I turn to find him standing off to the side, soaking wet. It’s a good look on him. The front of his white Henley is so wet, it’s translucent, showing off the swells of his firm pecs and the hard, little points of his nipples. He must be freezing, but he doesn’t move, just stares at me with an imploring look in his eyes.

  “What are you doing out here?” I ask over the rain.

  He steps close. “Waiting for you.”

  Heat flares through my numb limbs, waking them up. I bridge the gap between us. “Waiting for me?”

  It’s a stupid thing to repeat. He was perfectly clear. But I can’t help it. No one has ever waited for me.

  His hand slowly rises, and he touches a raindrop trickling down my cheek. “I came here for you. Of course, I’m going to wait.”

  Before I can answer, he puffs out a harsh breath, like he’s been holding it in until now, and pulls me into his warmth. He kisses me as though I’m dessert, hungry lips and seeking tongue. Right there on the sidewalk in the pouring rain. And I forget about everything else. Here is where I need to be. I’m no longer empty or listless. I’m alive. My senses fire with hot sparks that crackle along my skin.

  I stretch up on my toes to reach him, taste more, feel the strength of his big body against mine.

  His skin is cold and wet; his mouth is hot and slick. He fists the back of my sweater, holding me tight. Oh, but his mouth is so soft. Soft and seeking. Decadent.

  How does he do this? How does he take me apart with just a kiss? I’m grasping at the back of his neck with cold fingers, all but grinding myself against him. I slide my tongue along his with a heady sigh.

  Rye grunts low within his chest, comes at me from one direction, then another, reacquainting himself with all the sensitive spaces of my mouth. I’m dissolving like a sugar cube in hot tea. He tastes of lemon cake and dark nights, and all I want to do is get lost in his flavor.

  A loud wolf whistle cuts through the haze enough that we pause, our lips grazing. Held in his arms, I stare up at him. I can’t think straight.

  Rules. There were rules, weren’t there? “Our day isn’t until tomorrow.”

  Rain drips from the ends of his hair, now the color of old bronze coins. His lashes are spiked with wetness, shading his urgent gaze. “We said we could have other days if needed.” His grip tightens on my sweater. “And, Bren, I fucking need.”

  I sway, stopping just short of falling into him again. From behind me comes the two short taps of the horn, and I know it’s my driver. The service is well paid to wait, but this is New York in a rainstorm. The driver can’t idle forever.

  I turn to acknowledge him with a nod but don’t let Rye go. My hand slips to the side of his neck where his pulse hammers hard and fast. “Come on, then.”

  With a flare of his nostrils, he nods and then follows me into the car.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Brenna

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” Rye says. “But you have a shit-ton of products.”

  He’s sitting on the scroll-arm bench before the makeup table in my bathroom, picking his way through my things. Wrapped in a white terry cloth hotel robe I nicked years back that barely fits his big frame, he’s a bit like the proverbial bull in the china shop. But his long fingers have the delicate dexterity of a musical artist as he lifts up a perfume bottle and takes an investigative sniff. “Smells better on your skin.”

  I pause in the act of brushing out my hair and watch him with a small smile. His interest in my things is cute and sends a wash of contentment and peace through me.

  We’d screwed our way through my apartment, starting in my foyer when neither of us could wait, the living room couch when his knees started to ache, and eventually headed for my bathroom when I said a hot soak in the tub would do us both well.

  My bathroom is my secret oasis, done up in white marble, muted brass hardware, and shades of rich cream. A chandelier of pink crystal flowers hangs over a slipper tub that is perfectly adequate for my size. But we discovered it’s a tight fit for the two of us. Despite what hot movie bathtub sex scenes would have people believe, the reality is awkward and uncomfortable when trying it with a man as big and tall as Rye.

  After a much more accommodating shower, we settled on the window seat bench to dry off. But then I had to have him again; somewhere out there, some lucky person got a nice view of Rye’s sleekly muscled back. And probably my tits. I’m okay with that. Sacrifices must be made in the pursuit of pleasure.

  Now relaxed and on a mission to personally investigate all my products, he opens a jar of face mask and wrinkles his nose. “It’s purple.”

  “I noticed.”

  “What does it do?” A little frown pulls between his brows as he peers at the jar’s directions.

  I put down my brush and sit on his lap. It’s a simple thing to do, but it feels significant, like I’m making a claim. I take the jar from his hand. “In theory, it’s supposed to smooth out wrinkles and rejuvenate tired skin.”

  Rye’s arm wraps around my waist, tugging me more firmly against him. “You don’t need that. Your skin is perfect.” He punctuates the statement with a kiss on my cheek.

  Pleasure hums through me. “Maybe that’s because I have a shit-ton of products.”

  A huff of warm breath tickles my neck as he explores the area. “Doubtful. You’d be perfect without it.”

  I’ve been complimented before, by lovers, potential lovers, idle passersby. I’ve never been fully comfortable with it. The insecure part of me forged by childhood disappointments stubbornly holds on and insists people are only pandering. But it’s different coming from Rye. His quiet conviction of my so-called perfection skitters and bumps along my skin, trying to find its way into my heart.

  I brush a strand of damp hair off his brow. He needs a haircut. And a shave. Rye’s eyes meet mine, and I notice the tired lines around his.

  “You should try the mask. It might do you some good.”

  A wry smile tips his mouth. “Are you saying I look like shit?”

  “Not like shit. But tired.” More than that, in
truth.

  When I’m with him, he’s either hot and urgent with lust or wearing the contentment of a big cat sunning on a rock. I swear, there are times I can all but hear him purr, a deeply satisfied rumble in that wide chest. But there’s something under the surface that I can’t put my finger on. Something off and pained. I don’t want to push, but I can’t refrain from tracing one of the lines of fatigue that run across his forehead.

  In silence, he watches me, not exactly wary but guarded. The moment pulls thick and tight, and then he breaks it with an easy smile. “So put some on me. Rejuvenate my ravaged skin.”

  He’s evading. But then, so am I. Too much emotion isn’t smart. I cannot fall for Rye. Not fully. I won’t survive it. I’ll tumble around with him for a while, but I have to stay safely on the ledge.

  “Let the healing begin.” I grab my mask applicator and smear a big dollop of purple cream across his forehead.

  He closes his eyes as though I might somehow get the thick paste in them. I fight the urge to kiss the tip of his nose. I seriously need to get a grip. Working faster, I concentrate on the task at hand.

  “There!” I sit back and inspect my work. Rye has a nice coat of purple covering his forehead, nose, and cheekbones. “Now just relax.”

  He frowns, creating purple valleys over his forehead. “It’s not going to melt my face off, is it?”

  Rolling my eyes, I toss the applicator brush in the sink. “Yes, that’s exactly what it does. When we skincare lovers get tired of having faces, we reach for this stuff. Instant Wicked Witch of the West meets water.”

  His lips purse at my sarcasm.

  “And stop making faces.” I set the timer. “You’re cracking the mask.”

  He exhales in a long-suffering sigh, but I know he’s enjoying his “spa” time. His body is loose and relaxed, his hand idly gliding up and down my waist. Humor gleams in his eyes, made bright blue by the surrounding lavender cream.

  “You have a bit on your beard.” Leaning forward, I rub my thumb over the spot. He catches me with his teeth, gently biting down before letting it go.

  “Animal.” Laughing, I snatch my hand away.

  The mask cracks like a drying riverbed as he grins. With an exaggerated growl, he grasps the back of my neck and hauls me forward. His kiss is greedy and messy.

  Squeaking, I push off him. But I’m laughing. I can’t help it. Playing with Rye is the kind of fun I rarely allow myself.

  He chuckles, totally unrepentant, eyes alight. Shaking my head, I towel off the smudges of purple he left on my face and then tidy his mask. He grins the entire time, his hands roving as though he can’t stop himself from touching me. I’m not even sure he’s aware he’s doing it.

  “It’s all in your beard now.” I rub away a clump. “Honestly, Rye. This beard is out of control.”

  That has him frowning. “You don’t like the beard?”

  Leaning back a little, I study his face. The strange thing is that I really do like it. Rye has the kind of strong features and square jaw that hold up well to a beard. Coupled with his dark-blond hair, fierce blue eyes, and dark tats, he reminds me of a marauding Viking. And I love the feel of it against my skin, between my legs, or tickling the corners of my mouth.

  I suck in an unsteady breath. “Two weeks ago, I loved it.” My thumb touches a scraggly bit that threatens to overtake his lip. “But it desperately needs trimming and grooming.”

  The frown sinks deeper into his eyes, and he glances away.

  “I’m surprised you even have one,” I say, pushing for lightness. “I distinctly recall you complaining that you hated beards because they make your face itch.”

  The thick columns of his thighs tense beneath me. “Felt like a change, is all.”

  His tone screams, Back off! But there’s something in his eyes that has me looking closer. It’s fear. He’s afraid. Rye is never afraid.

  “You’re usually fastidious when it comes to grooming.” Sure, he’s been a wild child, drank his way through the first three years of fame, has done a bunch of stuff I don’t even want to think about. But Rye is never a slob.

  His gaze narrows. “It’s just a beard, Bren. Let it go.”

  Gently, I rub the curve of his neck where it meets his shoulder. “I’m just curious. It isn’t like you to be so untidy.”

  A long, harsh breath leaves him, and he carefully but firmly moves me off his lap. “I’ll get rid of the fucking beard, all right?”

  “I didn’t ask you to get rid of it.”

  Rye stands, reaching for the washcloth. With brisk movements, he wets it and starts cleaning the mask off his face. “I’m gonna head out,” he says when he’s finished.

  “You’re leaving? Because I asked you about your beard?”

  “No, because you won’t let it go.”

  I can’t believe this. I stare at him in amazement. “It was one freaking question.”

  “It was more than that.”

  “Okay, fine. I didn’t let it go.” I lift a hand in frustration. “Only because I don’t understand. You’re freaking out because I asked why you don’t groom your beard.”

  He snorts derisively. “What are you, a beard detective?”

  “Yes. I have a badge and everything. My unit specializes in unchecked beard growth violations.”

  His glare is cutting. “Cute.”

  “I thought so, yes. Now answer the question.”

  “I don’t give a shit about the fucking beard!”

  The force of his anger has me stepping back, shock prickling along my skin. “Why the hell are you yelling at me?”

  He grimaces. “I didn’t mean to shout.” With that, he moves past me, shrugging out of the robe and tossing it on the hook by the door.

  I gape as he strides away, his beefy butt flexing with each angry step.

  “You’re seriously leaving?”

  “You’re the detective. Figure it out.”

  He’s being a dick. I should let him go. But I can’t. Not when I’ve upset him in a way I don’t understand.

  I follow him into the hall. “Rye.”

  Gloriously nude, and clearly not giving a fuck, he heads for his clothes. “Shit,” he says when he realizes they’re still in a wet heap by the door. He reaches for his jeans anyway, snapping them in an attempt to untangle the legs.

  “Rye, stop. Don’t go like this.”

  “Look, it’s all good.” Viciously, he shoves on his wet jeans. “I’ll call you later.”

  Maybe I should back off. He’s vibrating with agitation, a dull flush rushing up the back of his neck. But the deep creases in the corners of his eyes and the pinched look around his mouth speak of hurt. I don’t know what to do to make it better.

  He reaches for his boots but stops short as if stung. “Shit,” he shouts, recoiling and spinning away like a trapped animal with nowhere to go. “Fucking shit.”

  “Rye?” It’s a breathless whisper because his rage borders on panic.

  A great shuddering sigh escapes him, and he rests his forehead on the wall. His big, clenched fist presses against the wall as though he’d like to punch a hole through the plaster. But he doesn’t. The long lines of his back tense as he stands there breathing hard and fast.

  Slowly, I move to him. He flinches as soon as I touch him, but I keep my palm lightly on the small of his quivering back. “Hey,” I whisper, soothing this time. “Talk to me.”

  He doesn’t say anything. His eyes are closed tight against me.

  Softly I stroke him. “I’m sorry. Okay? You have to know I think you’re gorgeous.”

  A laughing snort escapes, followed by a pained groan. “Shit, Bren. It’s not about the beard, okay?”

  He takes a breath and then turns to lean against the wall and face me. Red rims his eyes, and he blinks a few times, swallowing hard. “I haven’t shaved because I can’t.”

  “You can’t shave?” I don’t understand at all.

  A fair amount of belligerence colors his gaze, but it doesn’t see
m directed at me. “It’s my hands. They…they don’t fucking work right.” A small click sounds at the back of his throat when he swallows. “I move them a certain way and they seize up into this.”

  Rye lifts a shaking hand. His fingers are curled into a painful-looking claw, the tendons sticking out in sharp relief. Bleakly he stares at me. “Hands, wrists, forearms…It’s fucking agony. And I…I can’t play, Bren.” His voice cracks. “I can’t play.”

  The truth surges through me in a horrible rush. The way he’s been evading texting, the missed band meetings, the wariness that lives on the edges of his smile.

  I go ice-cold, all his pain and fear flowing in my veins. My lips part, but I don’t know what to say, and he’s all but glaring at me as if he’s terrified I’ll pity him.

  Silently, I shake my head, trying to tell him without words that it isn’t like that. Never pity. When he tenses further, his body recoiling, I can’t stop from reaching for him. My fingers close around his fist. I cradle it in my hands.

  Rye barely breathes as he blinks down at me. Gently, I run my fingers over his stiff ones, easing my thumb beneath them to rub his palm. “Rye, honey…”

  His chest hitches, and I draw his hand up to kiss his knuckles. He lets me. He seems incapable of doing anything more than watching me carefully massage his hand.

  “Have you seen a doctor?” I ask.

  Another flinch. He makes a furtive attempt to pull his hand from mine. I don’t let go, and he sighs, relenting. “No.”

  My gaze flicks to his. “Why not?”

  Rye tilts his head back and blinks up at the ceiling. “Don’t yell at me, all right?”

  “All right.”