The second Marshall is out of sight, Rye and I round on each other.
“Rye…”
“You’re going to visit that guy in LA?” Rye says at the same time. “What the fuck, Bren?”
He’s too close, smelling of hot skin and fresh sweat. And, damn it, that scent is forever associated with fucking him. My body reacts accordingly, pulling tight and achy. I ignore it because what Rye said finally registers.
“Hold the phone,” I say. “Are you implying that I’m hooking up with Marshall?”
His brows lower, the muscles along his shoulders bunching. “What am I supposed to think when I hear him talk about snaring you, and you’re…giggling like some smitten kitten!”
The last part booms out, startling a pigeon into flight.
I cast a hasty glance around, noting the people watching—and God help us if anyone recognizes Rye and starts recording—then turn and walk away. If Rye wants to follow, he will. If not, screw him.
He follows, easily keeping up with my quick steps.
“I was not giggling,” I grind out. “But that’s beside the point. Why don’t we start with why you think it’s okay to have a go at me like some irate, neanderthal boyfriend. Because that is bullshit, Rye.”
“What, am I supposed to grin and bear it? Because that is bullshit.” He flushes red. “Are you fucking him?
“Are you kidding me? I can’t believe you have the nerve to even suggest it. Hell. And to think I was actually happy to see you.”
At that he blanches, then takes a step closer to me. But I hold up a hand to ward him off, still too pissed for contact.
“I’m sorry,” he says with a rasp. “Okay? I shouldn’t have…fuck. All right, you wouldn’t do that. Of course, you wouldn’t. But…” He lifts his arms in a helpless gesture then flops them back down, defeated. “Do you want to? Is that it?”
The hurt in Rye’s expression levels me. I instantly feel terrible. I know now what cheating means to Rye and how badly it unsettles him. And hadn’t I jumped to horrible conclusions about him with Isabella?
“No, Rye. No. Not even a little.”
His nod is tight and quick, but the line of his jaw bunches stubbornly.
“I’m with you now,” I say. “I promised my fidelity, and I meant it.”
He doesn’t speak for a moment. Instead, he frowns at his feet. “I saw you with him and… Shit, Bren. You two flirted at Stella’s party, now you’re making plans to visit him in LA. I reacted. Badly.” His gaze collides with mine. “I’m sorry, Berry.”
Now that I’ve calmed, when I view the situation through his eyes, I know that if I were faced with the same set of circumstances, I would flip out. It isn’t easy to admit, but I would be jealous. On the heels of that comes the strange dizziness of knowing he’s jealous.
He’s jealous.
It should turn me off. It doesn’t.
With a sigh, I walk over to the trash and chuck my cold coffee. There’s an empty bench facing the Bow Bridge, and I head for it, knowing Rye will follow. At the very least, we’ll have a little more privacy.
He sits next to me, close enough that I feel his warmth, but not touching.
“He offered me a job, Rye.”
I feel the impact my words have on him, the shock, the way it upsets him, and the way he rallies to lock it down. When he speaks, his voice is gravel. “You want to leave us?”
Leave us. Leave him.
“No,” I whisper. “I don’t. But I’m not…”
When I trail off, he speaks again, softly. “You’re not happy?”
God, this is horrible. I feel small and petty and disloyal.
“Rye, your music is your passion. It’s something that is part of you. But this is a job for me. One that I’ve always loved and been proud of, but it’s still a job. And lately…” I take an unsteady breath. “I feel…tired, uninspired. Off.”
He turns my way, his gaze on my face as if he’s seeing me anew. “I get it, Bren. The well has gone dry for me before. It isn’t fun.”
“Maybe that’s all it is,” I say, keeping my focus on the lake in front of us.
“But maybe it isn’t,” he says, knowing I’m thinking it. “Maybe a change is what you need?”
He says it tentatively, as though it kills him to voice the truth out loud, but he will accept it because my happiness is important to him. Horrifyingly, tears prickle against my lids, and I have to blink rapidly to clear them.
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
His big hand engulfs mine. His strong, rough, messed-up hand. He holds on to me like I’m precious, like I matter. He holds on to me as though he knows how much I need it.
The blunt tip of his thumb runs along the sensitive skin of my palm. “How long will you be gone?”
“A few days. I wasn’t looking, you know. His offer came out of the blue. Surprised me, really. But his firm is legendary. I couldn’t turn down the opportunity to at least take a look.”
Rye holds my hand more securely. “Bren. It’s okay. You don’t have to explain.”
I close my mouth abruptly, the lump in my throat growing. Ducking my head, I focus on our intertwined hands. It is surreal to sit on a park bench, holding Rye Peterson’s hand, but, in this moment, it feels like the safest place in the world. He’s not judging me; he’s giving me exactly what I need. He keeps doing that. How will I ever be able to let him go?
“Maybe I have to explain it to myself.”
“Yeah, I get that.” Somehow, he’s moved closer. Our shoulders brush, and I lean into him. I’m not leaning on him. I’m just…resting with him for a minute.
Rye’s thumb keeps sweeping across my palm, over the tips of my fingers.
“I’m afraid.” I close my eyes against the confession.
Rye pauses, his body lifting on a breath. “Of what?”
Don’t say it. Don’t let yourself fall to weakness.
The words come anyway. “I’m afraid I’ll like it there.”
His grip tightens, as warm and secure as a hug. “No matter where you go, you will never be alone. Do you understand?”
I’m going to cry. Right here on a park bench with Rye Peterson holding my hand. My throat works as I swallow convulsively. “Yes.”
A tender squeeze of my hand is his reply. Two little girls in matching red coats run across the bridge, followed by a harried woman pushing an empty double stroller.
“I have a house in LA,” Rye says. “Up in the hills.”
“When did you buy that?” Our voices are quiet, easy as though we’re not talking about the prospect of me leaving everything I know and love behind.
“Last year. I had it renovated.” He turns his head. Lines of strain still bracket his eyes, but they’re clear and steady on me. “Stay there. It’ll be more comfortable than a hotel.”
“I’m used to hotels.”
The wide curve of his lips kicks up on one end. “Maybe I just want to know what you think of my house.”
His cautious yet excited tone catches my attention.
“What are you not telling me?”
He gives a careless shrug. A breeze picks up the ends of his bronze hair and lifts it back from his brow, and he squints into the sunlight as he looks over the lake. “It’s just something I’m working on. I haven’t told anyone else about it. You can see it if you stay there.”
Another gift. He keeps giving me these pieces of himself. If he isn’t careful, I’ll soon have all of him.
“I’ll stay at your house.”
He keeps his gaze on the lake, but he can’t hide the pleased glint in his eyes. “Cool.”
Without thinking about it, I lean in and give him a quick kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Ryland.”
He inhales swiftly as though not expecting a kiss but then looks down at me. “I want to kiss you,” he says, low, urgent.
“Right here on this public bench?” I tease, stalling the moment.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The chances of being see
n are low, but there’s still a chance. We’re a few blocks from my office. Rye uses this particular route for running and so does Scottie.
But Rye looks so good, that wide firm mouth of his perfectly framed by his close beard, and he’ll taste so good…My breath grows short.
“Kiss me, then,” I whisper.
His nostrils flare, then he’s cupping my cheek, dipping his head. He kisses me soft and slow but with such depth that I feel it behind my knees, in the empty ache of my sex. My breath catches, and he gives me his with a little nuzzle and suck.
“Do what you’ve got to in LA,” he says against my mouth. “And then come back to me.”
Late that night, I pack for my trip, but I can’t shake the feeling of wrongness within me. I shouldn’t be leaving Rye. He backed my trip with unfailing conviction. It means more to me than he’ll know. And yet he’s still alone and floundering. No one knows about his hand, his fear, his pain. It isn’t right.
I shouldn’t be leaving. But I have to try. I have to see if…
With a hard swallow, I bat at my prickling eyes. I have to go. But that doesn’t mean I have to leave him all alone. I pick up my phone and call Scottie.
“Brenna.” His voice is warm and slightly amused. Why, I have no idea, since I call him at least twice a day for the most part.
“I’m going to LA for a week on personal business.”
Silence follows, and damn it, he knows. I have no idea how he does it, but he knows I’m going to see Marshall. Refusing to squirm, I wait out that silence. Scottie likes to draw it out, hoping his victim will roll over and blab away all their secrets.
Not today, Satan!
“All right,” he says finally, grumpy because I didn’t fold.
“I need you to do something for me, though.” My hands have gone ice-cold, and I clutch the phone tighter.
“If it’s to water your plants, be warned, I once killed a silk fiddle leaf fig tree. Sophie called it dark sorcery.”
“Ha.” My throat is dry, and the sound comes out far too rough. I lick my lips and try for cool cynicism. “It’s about Rye. He’s been evading his PR schedule…” God, I’m the worst betrayer. “And I know he’s missing band meetings. And…Check on him, will you?”
If I thought the silence was bad before, it’s freaking ominous now. But, to my surprise, Scottie breaks it quickly. “You want me to check on Rye?”
We both know how out of character it is for me to show any concern about Rye.
Cheeks hot, I grip my phone like a lifeline and close my eyes. “We both know something is off with him.” I’m sorry, Rye. I’m so sorry. But I’m leaving and he’s hurting. I can’t stomach knowing he’s alone with this. “Just…take the guys with you and check on him, all right?”
I know I’ve shocked the hell out of Scottie. But his voice remains cool as silk. “All right.”
Relief sweeps through me. I’ve betrayed Rye’s trust by pushing this, but I can’t regret it. Not when I know how much he needs his friends, not when I know he won’t ask them for help when they’re the only ones who will truly understand what he’s facing. Maybe before everything happened with Jax, I could let it go, but now I just can’t. I won’t ever leave someone I care about in the dark again.
It’s how much I’m beginning to care that scares me and makes my reply to Scottie stilted and stumbling. “Okay. Good. Thanks.”
I move to hang up when Scottie’s voice stops me. “Brenna?”
“Yes?”
He hesitates for a fraction of a second. “Take care.”
The worst part is, I’m not certain it’s myself he’s asking me to take care with.
Chapter Twenty-One
Rye
I’m playing “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore” on the piano when they invade. And by “they,” I mean Jax, Whip, Killian, and Scottie. The Four Stooges.
“I’m beginning to regret giving you guys the code to my door,” I say while I keep playing smooth and easy. It feels good to make music that doesn’t hurt.
Jax stops by the baby grand and sings, “‘Thought I’d visit the club. Got as far as the door…’ Nah, it’s like I’m serenading you.”
“I’m crushed. Your melodic voice makes me all warm and fuzzy. Maybe something a little livelier? Without lyrics.” I play a few lilting bars of the classic Gershwin Jazz piece “Rhapsody in Blue.”
He shakes his head. “Doesn’t work as well without the full symphony to back you. Not nearly as stirring.”
With a dramatic sigh, I move on to “Für Elise,” taking it nice and slow, drawing out the notes. It was the first song I’d learned on the piano—at the sweet and innocent age of five. Part of me misses those days. My parents had been over the moon about their musical prodigy.
Music, music, music. It is part of the fabric of my being. Pull it away and I unravel.
Scottie looks me over with a narrowed gaze. “You’ve groomed yourself at last.”
Leave it to Scottie to notice that first. I resist the urge to touch my jaw. But I can’t hold back the memory of Brenna’s fine blush, like cherry wine spreading across her creamy cheeks when she confessed she liked the feel of my beard against her skin. I spent the rest of the night between her legs to show my appreciation for her taking care of me. Too bad she’s on her way to LA. I’d rather be with her right now instead of facing the firing squad glaring down at me.
The memory of Brenna must show on my face because Scottie’s eyes narrow. “Looking rather smug about something too.”
I shrug, my fingers dancing over the keys. “Not particularly.”
“You’re well enough to play piano, at least,” Jax says.
“Which makes us wonder,” Killian puts in, “why the fuck you keep blowing off band meetings?”
I play a few more notes and then trail off. A lump fills my throat, and I spread my hands over the cool keys.
Whip sits on the bench next to me and taps out the beginning of “Chopsticks.” He doesn’t look up when he speaks. “Why don’t we ask Rye what’s up before laying into him? It’s not like he’s ever disappeared on us before.” He glances up a Killian with a pointed look.
Killian flushes a ruddy color and glares. But he catches my expression, which I’m trying really hard to keep blank, and his shoulders sag. “Whip’s right.” He says it so grudgingly that I huff out a laugh. But neither of us is smiling. He stares at me, hard. “Rye, man, what’s up?”
“Is this some sort of weird intervention?” I quip, the lump in my throat growing bigger, sharper. The fucker has tips that puncture deep.
“Avoiding it is only going to make it worse,” Jax points out.
Given that he knows this better than anyone, I don’t make a joke. Even though I’m dying to make a joke, to do anything to put off the inevitable.
A finger twitches, hitting the E-flat. “I…ah…I went to the doctor today.”
The words slap down onto the room like a thunderclap, and I know my friends are collectively unsettled. But no one says a thing. So I keep going.
“Been having pain in my hands, wrists—fuck, my whole arms.” Goddamn, that lump is getting too big to manage. “They seize up and I can’t…” I draw a deep breath. “I can’t play sometimes.”
Someone makes a strangled sound. Maybe Jax or Killian. I can’t tell because I’m staring at the black and white keys of the piano. “Turns out, I have acute tendinitis. Nothing for it but to rest and let it heal.”
“Then why the fuck are you playing the piano?” Whip snaps, visibly pale as if he expects my hands to seize up at any second.
“Different angles of motion. Keeps me limber, I guess, and I…” My voice breaks, and I swallow convulsively. “Fuck, Whip, I can’t not make music. I can’t.”
A hand comes down on my shoulder and squeezes. It’s Killian. A world of sorrow darkens his eyes, and it almost does me in. But then he blinks and smiles tightly. “So you play the piano. You rest. You get better.”
Scottie already has his phone out an
d is typing away. “I’m redoing your schedules. We’ll work this out, mate.”
They’re killing me. It isn’t that I didn’t expect their kindness; we’re best mates, as Scottie likes to say. But the swiftness of it, the way they’re instantly all in…even if I’d do the same for them, being on the receiving end of it is a comfort I didn’t know I needed.
I sit on the bench, unable to form the proper words of gratitude. “Thank you” doesn’t feel adequate.
Whip nudges my other shoulder with his own. “You’ve always healed fast as fuck. Remember how quickly the bone mended that time you broke your ankle diving off the stage in Edinburgh?”
The guys snicker, and I purse my lips, not wanting to laugh, yet also wanting to so badly my chest hurts. “Thanks for the reminder, William.”
“No problem. Although I don’t know how anyone could forget.” He smiles wide and evil. “It was pathetic. No one wanted to catch you.”
Jax starts laughing. “Oh, God, the way that crowd parted.”
“Like the Red Sea,” Killian says with a snort.
“Oh, look.” I lift my hands to flip them off. “I still have the use of my middle fingers. Fancy that.”
But they ignore me.
“They’re no fools, the Scots,” Scottie says dryly. “They bloody well knew a bloke Rye’s size would crush a man like a grape when he landed.”
“My size?” I repeat incredulously.
“Yeah,” Whip confirms. “Mountain-sized.”
“More like a sequoia,” Killian says, eyeing me.
All at once, Whip, Jax, and Killian call out, “Timber!”
They dissolve into childish laugher, while Scottie looks on with twitching lips. And I find myself chuckling. It feels good, but it doesn’t linger. The heaviness is too settled in my chest.
“Maybe…” I clear my throat. “Maybe you should consider finding a replacement for a while.”
The suggestion goes over like a lead balloon.
“Rye,” Jax says, snagging my attention. His jaw is set. “Hear me now. No one is fucking replacing you.”
Exposed (VIP Book 4) Page 23
