Exposed (VIP Book 4)

by Kristen Callihan

  Then he’s kissing me. Slow and soft and so damn good, I forget where we are. I kiss him back, swallow down his moan. My bones melt. I am liquid heat and wanting.

  “I love kissing you,” he says against my mouth. “I could do it forever.”

  Forever.

  He’s devouring me. Slowly taking me apart. I let him do it. I want more.

  A polite but pointed throat-clearing catches my attention. Rye and I separate enough to glance over at a guard who gives us a censorious—if slightly amused—look. Right. Public museum.

  Rye’s answering smile is not the least bit repentant. He drapes an arm over my shoulders and leads me out of the temple.

  We don’t speak for a while but simply look at artifacts and artworks.

  “I’m having fun,” I announce as we enter the Arms and Armor wing.

  “You don’t have to sound so shocked about it,” he teases. “I’m a very fun person to be around.”

  “Yes, I know,” I deadpan. “Except when you’re around me.”

  Rye flinches. And I realize what I just said. “Shit. I didn’t mean that.” Flustered by my utter boobery, I wave a hand in the air. “I meant before. The way we were before.”

  Rye sucks the inside of his cheek, as though he’s figuring out how to answer. His eyes meet mine, and I’m struck anew by how gorgeous he is. I don’t know why it hits me so hard now; maybe it’s the pure filtered sunlight that fills the room and illuminates every inch of him. Maybe it’s simply that I can’t look at Rye and not feel an overwhelming attraction.

  He’s beautiful in his raw and utterly masculine simplicity. Clean lines, strong bone structure, the dark blond of his hair spiking up in wild disarray. Faint laugh lines grace the corners of his expressive dusky-blue eyes. Even when he’s serious, it’s as if his natural inclination is toward happiness and any other emotion is just temporary.

  “That’s why I wanted you to come out with me,” he says. “I don’t want us to be stuck in the past. We’re not those people anymore. We’re…new.”

  “New, huh?”

  He nudges me with his shoulder. “New and improved.”

  “Goof.”

  Grinning, he gives me a swift, affectionate kiss on the cheek. “You need goofy in your life.”

  “Because I’m so serious?” I say it lightly. He’s not telling me anything I haven’t heard before or thought of myself.

  “You can be, and someone has to brave that death glare of yours to remind you how fun it is to let go.”

  “I suppose you’re the brave someone in this scenario?”

  “Of course. Sir Ryland, the noble sex knight. Able to tame the savage Brenna beast one orgasm at a time.”

  “That is painfully bad.”

  His eyes twinkle with good cheer. “And yet you’re laughing.”

  “Yeah, at you.”

  “Good enough. Face it, Bren. You need me.”

  It hits too close to a tender spot I’ve been trying to ignore.

  Rye, being observant as hell when it comes to me, notices. His happy expression slips away. I’ve made it awkward again, and I don’t know how to fix it. A stupid joke would be obvious, and frankly, insulting to Rye’s intelligence. But what can I say? You’re coming to mean too much to me, and I’m not sure I can take that.

  Rye’s deep voice breaks the silence. “Can I ask you something?”

  I stop beside a group of knights on horseback with lances up and at the ready. “That question never bodes well.”

  “Probably not.” He rubs the back of his neck before turning the full force of his attention on me. “Back when we were having tea with Killian, I said I’d go to his dad’s birthday party, and you flinched.”

  I flinch again, sliding my gaze away. “Did I?”

  He’s closer now. I can feel him even though he’s two feet away. “Bren, come on. It’s me you’re talking to. You flinched and made a face, the one that says you have to deal with an uncomfortable situation but will try your best not to let it get to you.”

  It’s irksome that he reads me so easily. Worse, I know him well enough to realize he’s going to keep at the question until I answer. Hot, itchy panic crawls up my chest.

  “Rye. Can we not do this? Let’s just go back to having a good time.”

  “I don’t want to pressure you, but it’s been bugging me.” He stands in front of me, so I have nowhere to run. “Do you not want me to go? Is that it?”

  Damn it. I don’t want to do this. “Rye…”

  He takes my hand. His has gone clammy, and it hits me how hard it is for him to ask. He thinks I don’t want him around. I don’t, not at my aunt and uncle’s house. But not for the reasons he probably assumes.

  “Just tell me,” he says with that same soft but insistent tone. “If you think I can’t be discreet—”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Then what? We get along well now. What can it possibly—”

  “I saw you,” I burst out, my voice ringing in the gallery.

  Rye’s head jerks at the sound, but his eyes narrow. “Saw me? When? Where?”

  Glancing around at the few people in the room, I tug Rye to a smaller alcove. No one appears to have recognized him as a member of Kill John, but I have no desire for our conversation to end up on some social media account.

  My heart tries to beat its way up my throat. I swallow hard and face him. “I didn’t want to do this. It’s history, but you won’t let it go, will you?”

  His chin kicks up with a stubborn stare. “If whatever the hell is bugging you was actually history, you wouldn’t be this upset. And, yeah, I’m not letting it go. Not now, at any rate. What the hell are you talking about, Bren? What did you see me do?”

  Letting out a harsh breath, I lick my lips. “With my aunt.”

  His expression goes blank. “Isabella?”

  “Aunt Isabella. Otherwise known to the public simply as Isabella, one of the most beautiful and successful models in the world.” As if he doesn’t know this.

  Cuban American with tanned legs for miles, Isabella was the star of a major lingerie campaign for most of my childhood. One of my first memories of her is when she strode down the catwalk wearing the now-famous bikini made entirely of diamonds and rubies.

  Killian had a hell of a time dealing with his schoolmates panting over his mom. As for me, most of my friends didn’t know she was my aunt, but if they found out, they wanted to meet her, be her. I’d wanted to be her too, for a time. To this day, she’s idolized, adored, pursued.

  “It was your twenty-first birthday party,” I continue woodenly. “Isabella was in town and popped in to join the party…”

  Something clears in his eyes. His lips part, but he doesn’t utter a sound. He doesn’t have to. I see the guilt starting to stir. The horror of being caught.

  A wave of old anger rises within me. “I saw you, Rye. Kissing my aunt. My fucking aunt! Killian’s mom—”

  He cuts me off with a sharp sound, something close to pain. “Bren—”

  “You had your tongue down her throat.”

  Rye makes another sound, like it’s ripped from deep within him, and takes hold of my arm. His grip doesn’t hurt but holds me still. I’d been backing away without knowing it. I don’t move, don’t try to break free. I want to face him now.

  “No,” he says. “No fucking way are you walking out thinking that’s what happened.”

  A high, humorless laugh breaks from my lips. “I saw it with my own eyes.”

  He steps into my space, his voice low and urgent. “It’s your interpretation of what you saw that’s the problem, Bren.” He takes a quick, hard breath. “I was drunk off my ass—”

  “That’s no excuse.”

  “Would you just listen?” he hisses.

  My mouth snaps shut, and I raise a brow, silently prompting him to continue. He grits his teeth then speaks again.

  “I was drunk off my ass, and Isabella walked in. We chitchatted in that sloppy, stupid way only the except
ionally drunk can manage. Suddenly she was sitting closer. Too close. It freaked me out, because, yes, she’s an extremely beautiful woman, and it was becoming too clear that she was hitting on me.”

  “What?” It comes out high and shocked. Because I am. Shocked. Shaken.

  There’s something desperate about Rye’s expression. “She was, Bren. She knew it. I knew it. And, trust me, I was painfully aware that she was Killian’s mom. Frankly, it scared the hell out of me. I moved to go, and…” He closes his eyes with a wince. “Fuck, she kissed me. I was so fucking shocked—”

  Blood drains from my head so quickly, my skin prickles. “Are you telling me that Isabella jumped you?”

  He ducks his head until we’re almost nose to nose. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. You don’t have to believe me, but it’s the truth. I would never, never, do that to Killian.” A flush washes over his cheeks. “Loyalty means everything to me, Bren. Killian, the guys, they are my brothers. I would die before I hurt any of them that way.”

  I stare up at him, searching his gaze. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink.

  “I thought you knew that much about me, at least,” he says in a broken tone.

  “Why do you think I was so upset?” I rasp. “It killed something in me to see that.”

  His eyes narrow to slits. “Why didn’t you confront me back then?”

  “Because it would hurt the band. Hurt Killian. It was my job to keep you guys going. No matter what.”

  Rye hasn’t let me go. His grip burns through my shirt. “That’s why you really hated me all these years, isn’t it?”

  “I was so disappointed in you,” I whisper through numb lips. “I couldn’t look at you without seeing it. For so long, I truly hated you for that.”

  “And yet you let me into your bed.” It isn’t an accusation. He’s surprised. Moreover, he’s clearly confused.

  “It’s been years at this point. And I’ve seen the way you’re always there for the guys.” I shrug weakly, my shoulders weighed down. “I knew you were drunk, and I figured maybe it was time to let it go.”

  His hand slips from my arm. “But you didn’t. Not really. It’s been oozing between us like sewage.”

  Dully, I nod, glancing down at my feet. “I don’t like to think of it. But when you said you’d be at the party…”

  “And Isabella will be there too,” he finishes succinctly.

  My breath hitches. “I didn’t want to remember, Rye.”

  Rye runs a hand over his jaw. “And now? Do you believe me?”

  We’re standing close enough to touch, but there’s an ocean of history flowing between us now. It would be easy to say he’s lying to save his ass. Except I know this man better now. I know he has a core of integrity that is stronger than steel.

  I’ve been quiet too long. He moves, as though to go, and I hold out a hand. “Of course, I believe you.”

  Pressing his lips together, he stares at me as though he’s trying to see if I really mean it. But then he shakes his head and turns away. “You know what exhibit I never remember to visit? The eighteenth-century French and English rooms they have set up—”

  “Rye…”

  He keeps walking. Not fast, but steady enough that I know he’s not going to stop. I have no choice but to follow, my heels clicking loudly on the limestone floors. They say the truth shall set you free. Doesn’t feel that way at the moment. It feels like I’ve sent us back to the beginning.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Rye

  I’m running away from an argument with Brenna. I promised myself I wouldn’t do that anymore. But I can’t shake the weight of disappointment and frustration crawling down my throat. I can’t joke right now. I can’t be the guy who pretends nothing matters.

  Brenna’s heels click in that familiar pattern of hers. I hear that clickety-click in my sleep some nights and wake up smiling. Damn it, why did it have to be her? Out of all the women in the world, the one that thinks I’m dirt is the one I want.

  “Rye…” She sounds tentative, remorseful. And even though I want to ignore her, I can’t. Never could.

  Letting out a breath, I slow my stride so she can catch up. But I can’t look at her. Not yet.

  We’ve reached the American wing, another light-filled, glass-covered courtyard. There’s a cafe at the far end by the windows, and the scent of stale coffee and warm bread fills the air. I hang a left and step into the relative quiet of a neoclassical interiors gallery.

  Brenna follows, and when I stop to stare unseeing at an exhibit, she stands just behind me like she’s afraid to face me. The idea sends a wave of exhaustion through my body.

  “All this time,” I croak, my throat too thick. “You hated me for something that I didn’t do.”

  The air stirs with her sigh. My skin twitches when her hand settles on the back of my arm. “Rye, I’m sorry.” With another sigh, she rests her forehead between my shoulder blades. When she slides her arms around my waist, I close my eyes tight.

  “It’s okay,” I get out. “I’d have come to that conclusion if I’d seen the same.”

  She holds me a bit tighter, her hand spreading wide over my abs. “You would have confronted the person and demanded an explanation.”

  “I get why you didn’t.”

  Brenna hums in doubt, her fingers pressing into me like she’s afraid I’ll move away. “I let my feelings for you color my judgment. You weren’t exactly my favorite person back then.”

  “I know.”

  The movement of her lips against my shirt tickles, and yet it feels so good, I want to lean into her. I hold steady as she talks. “It was so petty, that dislike. You rejected me, and I acted like a spoiled brat, hating you when it was your prerogative not to want me that way.”

  Surprise whips through me, locking all my muscles tight. I knew that was why she stopped liking me, but never in all these years did I think she’d ever admit to it or be sorry.

  Throat thick, I turn in the circle of her arms, sliding my own around her. She stares up at me, her expression almost blank, her slim body so stiff, I know she’s bracing herself.

  “I wanted you,” I say. “Jesus, Bren. I wanted you so badly, it scared the hell out of me.”

  A wrinkle forms between the auburn wings of her brows. “You don’t have to say—”

  “I sought you out after every gig, every practice. Why do you think I did that? Because I was attracted to you. I liked you, Berry.” My thumb strokes a circle over the small of her back. “I knew you liked me too. But Killian had made it clear he’d kill any guy who got too close, and you were so young…”

  “You were young too,” she points out, high color coming over her face. “And Killian should have fucked off. He had no right to go all Victorian protector on me.”

  A small laugh tickles my throat. “No, he didn’t. But you’re right. We were both young. It would have gone pear-shaped and messed with the band’s dynamic. Back then, I wasn’t willing to risk that. So I acted like an asshole to make you dislike me. I handled it badly.”

  “We both did.” All the stiffness drains out of her, and she rests her head on my shoulder. But I don’t make the mistake of thinking she’s okay. A fine tremor runs through her body. I slide my hand up her back and wrap the silky length of her ponytail in my fist, knowing she likes to be held that way. It works, and she melts into me. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Ryland.”

  Sometimes the guys will say my full name, mostly when they’re giving me shit; it’s what we do. But when Brenna says Ryland, it feels like a secret between us, like she’s pulled back my armor and sees the man beneath all the bullshit. I have no defense against it.

  Dipping my head, I press my lips to the crown of her head and breathe her in. “I’m ashamed of that night,” I confess heedlessly. “It was my fault.”

  Her voice is muffled against my chest. “Why would you think that?”

  “I gave her the wrong idea. We were talking about nothing in particular, then I said somet
hing about how cool it was that she showed up at my birthday party, that I was honored, you know?”

  Brenna stays silent, and I swallow audibly. “She laughed it off and said it was nice to be around people who appreciated her, that her husband didn’t have time for her.”

  A sharp sound escapes Brenna, and she stiffens. I’m guessing she didn’t know that about her aunt and uncle’s relationship. I stroke her back, an automatic gesture because I don’t like upsetting her. But my words keep flowing out of me. I can’t seem to hold them back. “I was all sloppy drunk, but I remember leaning into her space and saying that she was the most beautiful woman in the world and any man who didn’t have time for her was an idiot.”

  Brenna huffs out a shaky laugh. “You always were a smooth talker.”

  I don’t smile. The past sits too heavily on my shoulders. “I wanted to make her feel better. And I’m not going to lie, Bren. I honestly couldn’t understand how your uncle could ignore this beautiful, intelligent woman who loved him.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with any of that, Rye.”

  “Yeah, well, it was a mistake, because she got a look in her eye, and it hit me that I was inches away from Killian’s mom. Your aunt. And…shit. My hand had ended up on her thigh. I didn’t even remember doing it. But I’d said those words, touched her…I wasn’t thinking. And then suddenly, she was kissing me.”

  With that, Brenna pulls away. I let her go because I’m not about to hold her against her will. A frown mars the oval of her face.

  “It took me too long to react,” I blurt out. “My mind went blank. And then I was so fucking horrified. I pushed away, mumbled some excuse, and got the hell out of there.” My hand shakes as I run it through my hair and clutch the back of my tight neck. “I threw up all night. I couldn’t look Killian in the eye for months.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Brenna says, quiet now, pensive.

  “I should have told him. But I just…couldn’t.”

  The wrinkle between her brows grows, and she turns her head to stare off into the distance. “Some things are better left unsaid.”