Exposed (VIP Book 4)

by Kristen Callihan

  “Are they? Because that particular act drove a wedge between you and me for nearly a decade.”

  Her lashes sweep down over her eyes for a brief moment before she faces me, all hard determination. “That’s different.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “It is, because I saw it happen. Killian doesn’t know and doesn’t need to know. It will only hurt him now.”

  Tightness pulls at my shoulders, and I roll them. “I buried that night deep within me, because I couldn’t stand it—”

  “Rye—”

  “You don’t understand. My dad is a cheater.”

  At the sound of her indrawn breath, I give her a wry, tired look. “Always was. It hurts my mom and pisses me off. It ruined our family.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says, and I know it’s out of sympathy. Surprisingly, the sentiment warms me.

  “I am too.” I shrug. “Mainly, I’m sorry my mom can’t get out of the cycle of forgiving him.”

  “I wouldn’t,” she blurts out then pinks. “Forgive someone for cheating on me, I mean.”

  “No,” I agree with a weak smile. “I suspect they’d search for the body and never find it.”

  Brenna huffs in amusement, but her lips pinch. “You haven’t forgiven him either.”

  Not a question.

  “I’m trying. He’s a good dad—aside from that. He’s always been supportive of me. I think that bothers me most of all, how he can be so good in one aspect of his life and so crap in another.”

  “I guess we’re all flawed in some way or other.”

  “I don’t want to be like him,” I spit out.

  Brenna considers me for a long moment. “I don’t want to be like my parents either.”

  “I can’t be…” Damn my tight shoulders and stiff-ass neck. “I like sex, women, having fun…” This is coming out well. Fuck. I clear my throat. “But I’d never be a cheater. Never.”

  I want her to understand I wouldn’t do that to her. Maybe she’s been afraid to trust me in that way. After all, she witnessed my worst moment and came to the worst conclusion.

  Pride shaken, I fist my hands and turn away.

  “I believe you,” she says, softer now. “I should have believed it from the start. But I didn’t know you like I do now. You have a sense of honor and loyalty that shines bright, Ryland. I admire it. So much.”

  Shocked, I wrench around, my mouth falling open.

  But she isn’t looking my way. With a sigh, she shakes her head ruefully. “I’m guessing we’ll simply make our own types of mistakes.”

  “I don’t want us to be a mistake, Bren.”

  It’s her turn to be shocked. She blinks, her pretty mouth falling open. But it’s only for a second, then she visibly collects herself, and I’m faced with the woman who smoothly runs our public relations. “We won’t. We’ll be careful.”

  Careful. Like I’m a campaign to be managed. Disappointment is a kick to the gut. But she’s only playing by the rules we both set down. That’s the way Brenna is. She makes a plan and sticks to it. If I want more, I have to spell it out, make demands. Right now, I’m too drained to do anything other than take her hand and give her a reassuring smile, because I know she’s drained as well. We’ve exposed too much of ourselves too quickly.

  “Come on. There’s a fashion exhibit on high couture that has your name all over it.”

  “I don’t know if I like how much you get me.”

  Get used to it, sweetheart. I intend to get a lot more.

  Chapter Twenty

  Brenna

  Work is the last place I want to be. It occurs to me that I’ve begun to resent going to work more and more lately. I thought being with Rye would end this restlessness within me. I thought this hole inside of me was about needing a good sexual release. But it’s not.

  At least not entirely. Yes, I am sexually satisfied. And, yes, that’s great. But it isn’t the quick fix I’d been hoping for.

  All morning I am bombarded with texts from the guys, texts from Jules and Sophie. Questions about the band. Questions from their record label. Questions from my staff about fan clubs, concert passes, upcoming events. It’s all about the band. All the time. But nothing from Rye.

  I have to fight the compulsion to pull out my phone and check. I haven’t spoken to him since we went to the museum two days ago. It’s as though we both needed to pull back and regroup. But he’s been on my mind ever since.

  God, how could I have gotten things so wrong? On the surface, the whole incident between Rye and my aunt appeared clean-cut. I’m horrified to know how it really happened. But I can’t find it in myself to judge my aunt. The whole thing makes me tired now. And unsettled.

  It’s as if the smooth foundations of my life have a hairline fracture that’s slowly spreading out in all directions. I want to fall to my knees, plaster over those cracks and get on with my life. But I can’t. I’m changing, my well-ordered plans shifting into something uncontrollable.

  It’s enough to make me curl up into a ball and hide. It shames me. Who am I to complain about my life?

  Rye hasn’t complained. Even though his hands, his beautiful, talented, perfect hands are letting him down. I want to seek him out and wrap him in a hug.

  He’d hate that. The man has recesses of pride I never considered. His sense of honor is rock-solid. The more I’m with him, the more I learn about him, which in turn makes me want to know more and more. I have to stop thinking about him. Work. I need to work.

  Only, I don’t want to talk about Kill John. With an ugly start, I realize I could go months without carrying on another Kill John related conversation and be happy.

  I set my head in my hands let out a groan.

  “Bren?” Michael leans into the office, a small frown of concern wrinkling between his brows. “Your phone is going off nonstop.”

  Which is unheard of for me.

  “I wanted to make sure you were still alive,” he says with a wink.

  Sighing, I sit back and rub my face. “Just taking a breather.”

  I don’t think he buys it, but he’s smart enough not to ask any more questions. The phone rings again. I pick it up and do my job.

  “Brenna, babe!” Tim Wilks. Another reporter. Lovely. He starts in on all the things he needs to know about Jax and Stella.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell Wilks. “But as I’ve said, Jax is not taking questions about his personal life. If you ask any, don’t be surprised if he walks.”

  And I won’t blame Jax one bit, I think silently. Ever since the world got wind of his relationship with Stella—and the fact that she used to be a professional friend, something people find either fascinating or unbelievable—he’s made it clear he won’t drag her into the harsh light of public scrutiny. Well, any more than she already is.

  For as much as people love their heroes, they’re exceptionally good at tearing them and their loved ones down if they don’t act exactly as expected. Truth is, most rabid fans don’t like the idea of the guys pairing off and finding love. Not that they don’t want the guys to be happy, but it kills the fantasy that someone out there might eventually snag one of them.

  Jax and Killian being off the market is both an endless source of speculation, fascination, and disgruntlement. It is my job to protect them all from the brunt of it.

  “I hear you loud and clear,” Tim says. “But you have to know his fans keep asking. They deserve to know—”

  “Exactly dick about Jax’s personal life,” I snap.

  Silence greets me.

  For a moment I just sit there, mouth slightly open as if gaping at my rudeness and stupidity. Rule one in my job is not to lose my cool. Getting defensive or snappish with a reporter only makes them dig in further.

  But I can’t help myself. I’m tired of fielding the same questions. It’s a horrible shock to realize that I’m sick of even saying Jax’s name. Blood drains from my face, and I pull in a deep, quiet breath. I feel like the most disloyal friend in the world righ
t now. And a shitty PR manager.

  “Send me the questions,” I say before Wilks can respond. “I’ll have Jax go over them. He has final approval. That’s all I can promise.”

  Wilks grumbles, and I get the hell off the phone with him as fast as possible. My hands are shaking. I need fresh air. Putting my phone on silent—a cardinal sin in Scottie’s book—I head for the coffee shop down the street.

  “I’ve worn that frown before,” says a masculine voice over my shoulder while I’m standing in line.

  Startled out of my pout, I turn and find Marshall Faulkner grinning at me.

  “Have you?” I ask wryly.

  “Sure,” he says easily. “It’s the, ‘I’m at my wits’ end and need to mainline coffee stat’ frown.”

  Laughing, I shake my head in resignation. “Guilty.”

  His blue eyes crinkle at the corners. “But you’re still itching to look at your phone, aren’t you?”

  “You are good.”

  Marshall shrugs. “It’s the curse of the workaholic.”

  The line moves, and we amble onward. “I don’t know,” I find myself muttering. “I’m kind of over work at the moment.”

  As soon as I say the words, I want to take them back. I don’t complain about work to outsiders. Ever. But confessing to someone who doesn’t know the guys, or the entanglements of my life, feels like a balm. Marshall might not know me, but he does understand PR.

  It’s clear in the way his expression is both sympathetic and amused. “I’ve had those days as well.”

  My turn comes up to order. I place mine and pay before stepping aside and letting him do the same. When he’s done, we move to the waiting line.

  “Thing is,” he continues as though we hadn’t paused our conversation, “I usually turn my focus to other projects. How does it work when you only have one client?”

  A grimace twists my lips before I can school my features. “It doesn’t, sadly. I just…push through.”

  Marshall nods, and an awkward air falls between us, brought on by my painful honesty and the uncomfortable feeling that I’ve betrayed Kill John by complaining. It’s broken by the arrival of our coffees. It’s my cue to go, but I find myself walking out with him as if by silent agreement.

  It’s one of those perfect New York autumn days where the air is crisp but not too cold and the sun is shining lemon yellow in a lapis sky. We stroll toward Central Park, which is at the end of the block. Tourists are wandering up Fifth Avenue, heading for the Met. We ease past them and go into the park.

  “You ever think about taking on more clients?” Marshall asks as we amble down a path.

  “I work for Liberty Bell too.” A small, wry smile tilts my mouth. “Although that’s more of a ‘keeping it in the family’ kind of thing.”

  “You all really do think of yourselves as a family, don’t you?”

  An image flashes through my mind, of Rye kneeling between my spread thighs, his eyes searing with hot need. Cheeks hot, I’m grateful for the cool breeze that cuts across the park. “I suppose we do. Perhaps that’s my problem. Family matters are always complicated.”

  “You’re burnt out, aren’t you?” He doesn’t so much accuse as ask, as if it just hit him and he empathizes.

  And I find myself telling the truth.

  “I think I am. I’m just not into work these days and that’s utterly foreign to me.”

  Marshall ducks his head as he walks, and I’m struck by how similar in appearance he is to Rye. But where Rye exudes a kind of kinetic vitality, Marshall is more grounded and serious. My body doesn’t hum with want when it’s next to his, but he does make me comfortable. It’s a rare talent, given that I don’t let my guard down with anyone.

  “I’d been planning to ask you something…” He pauses and glances over at me. “Now I feel like an opportunist.”

  My stomach tightens just enough to make my steps slow. If he’s planning to ask me out, it will be awkward. Before Rye, I’d be all over this man. But I keep my voice light. “Well, now you have me intrigued.”

  Marshall huffs out a small laugh as if to say, Well, I tried, albeit not very hard. “My firm has been looking for top talent to recruit.”

  “You’re looking at Kill John?” The very idea slides like ice inside my stomach.

  His laugh is heartier now. “No, I’m looking at you.”

  I stop in my tracks. “Me?”

  Marshall pivots to face me. “You’re the talent I’m interested in. The firm is growing leaps and bounds, and our PR division is having trouble keeping up.” His expression is kind, persuasive. “We’d be lucky to have someone like you leading it.”

  He’s offering me a job. Surprise prickles over my skin. “And here I thought you were about to ask about going out for tacos,” I blurt out. Like an idiot. Because I don’t want tacos.

  He chuckles and takes a step closer. “I am not opposed to doing that either.”

  Shit.

  Wryly, I shake my head. “Sorry, that just slipped out.”

  Heat enters his gaze. “I’m not sorry. We can do both.”

  Even if I weren’t doing whatever it is I’m doing with Rye, the idea of going on a date with the man offering me a job doesn’t sit right. “I couldn’t, not if you’re serious about the job offer. It would be a huge conflict of interest for me.”

  Marshall winces. “God, that was inappropriate of me. I’m usually better than this. Please, accept my apology.”

  “It’s all right. I’m the one who mentioned tacos.” I shake my head slightly. “It came out wrong, anyway. I’m seeing someone.” Jesus. It’s true. I’m in a relationship with Rye. The truth of that hits me in the knees and makes them weak. I brace myself and push on. “Although, I’d love to take you out for tacos as a friend.”

  A flicker of disappointment darkens Marshall’s eyes, but it’s gone quickly, and his smile seems genuine. “Ah, well. I suspected someone like you wouldn’t be available for long. But my offer about the job remains. In fact, it’s stronger than ever. You speak plainly, and I like you.”

  I can’t help laughing. “That’s succinct.”

  He winks, and it is surprisingly not cheesy. “You haven’t said anything about the position. Tell me you’re thinking about it.”

  Am I? God. Am I?

  Excitement over the prospect of something new to work on bubbles through my veins. But the very thought of considering leaving Kill John feels like the ultimate betrayal. I’m guessing Marshall knows this because he leans in slightly, his expression one I’ve used on reluctant record executives and promoters over the years. “We’re offering an equal partnership position. At least come to LA and hear us out.”

  Ah, yes, and that’s the other thing. The job would be in LA. All the way across the country. It isn’t as though the guys don’t have homes scattered around the world. Hell, Scottie has more houses than any of us. He’s a hoarder that way. But I’m always here, steadfast and loyal in New York. And completely out of sorts.

  A lump fills my throat, and I swallow it down.

  “No pressure,” Marshall says. “I swear. We’ll just give you the nickel tour, throw money at you, and beg.”

  A reluctant laugh escapes me. “No pressure, huh?”

  “None whatsoever. You can meet the team, see how we operate. Spend a few days in the sun and find out if it’s a good fit.”

  There’s no harm in one visit. It doesn’t mean anything.

  I tell myself this, and yet my fingers feel like ice when I finally say, “All right. When would you like to do this?”

  His smile lights up his face. “Next week?”

  “Wow, you’re fast.”

  “I have to be if I want to snare you.”

  Smooth. But then he is at the top of his game for a reason.

  “Good answer. All right, give me the details, and I’ll make some arrangements.”

  “Bren?”

  The sound of Rye’s voice behind me has my entire body seizing up like I’ve been caught
skipping school. Heart thundering in my chest, I turn to find him behind me. Dressed in black track pants and a Nine Inch Nails T-shirt molded over his broad chest, he’s damp with sweat and clearly out for a run. He’d come upon Marshall and me without either of us noticing. Sweet mercy, how much had he heard?

  By the pinched look on his face, enough.

  “Rye,” I get out. “Hey. I didn’t see you…”

  The cutting glare he gives me all but screams, Yeah, no shit, Brenna. He turns his attention to Marshall and gives him a bland smile. “Faulkner, right?”

  “Call me Marshall.” He extends a hand for Rye to shake.

  I almost want to shout a warning not to do it, because the not-so-hidden glint in Rye’s eyes says he’d gladly crush Marshall’s bones if he could. But he simply does a brief handshake and then lets go before leveling me with another look.

  “You’re going to LA?”

  Not subtle. The very fact that he’s asking sends another wash of guilt over my skin. I shove it down. “I am.”

  Oh, he doesn’t like that answer. Not at all. And though I feel like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t, the fact that he’s here, standing before me in the sunlight, makes my heart beat faster. I drink him in, wanting to step close, wrap myself around him and hold on. He’s clearly pissed, and I should be wary because I don’t know how to explain Marshall’s offer, but he’s also a familiar comfort. One I suddenly need very badly.

  I turn a fake, too wide “please don’t say anything else about this now” smile on Marshall. “Can I call you later?”

  Marshall might be a talent manager, but he’s clearly adept enough in public relations to read me well. “Sure thing.” His smile is tinged with an apology as if to say he’s sorry for any awkwardness he caused. And because it’s my job to read people too, I know he’s just figured out who I’m seeing.

  My cheeks heat again.

  “I have a meeting to get to in about twenty minutes,” Marshall tells us. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  Rye grunts. I say goodbye in some stilted fashion, but I’m not fully paying attention anymore. Blood rushes through my ears, and my limbs buzz with unaccustomed anxiety.