He huffs a laugh and then says the one thing he’d promised not to. “Good luck, Berry.”
I almost hate him for that. Almost.
Rye
I go to Chicago with Whip. Nothing left for me in New York, so why not? It’s a nice distraction from all this thinking I’ve been doing.
Only, and this is a damn annoying problem, I quickly find out that you cannot run away from thinking about certain things. I’ve spent a lifetime cramming down the bitter disappointment I felt when my dad cheated on Mom. I did a pretty good job of not dwelling on how, as a kid, when he left her, it felt as though he left me too.
Surely, I can spend a few days hanging out with Whip and not let myself think about a certain redhead. And if my chest feels a little too tight, my stomach a bit hollow, that’s easy enough to ignore.
“Why the hell did we decide to go to Chicago in November?” I ask, as we leave the warmth of our hired car and step into the frigid air. It’s got to be twenty degrees already—and that’s not counting the freaking wind that cuts to the bone, which I am most definitely counting.
Whip hunches into the collar of his coat. “Stop being a wimp. If you stayed in New York, you’d still be playing sad songs on the piano.”
“At least I wouldn’t be freezing.” We hustle our ass down an alleyway, flanked on each side by a security guard. “All I’m saying is that we could have gone somewhere warm like—”
“California?” Whip supplies dryly.
I don’t dignify that remark with a response. But given that Brenna told everyone she was headed out to LA on “business” and the fact that Whip is smirking, I’d say he’s on to us.
We’re almost halfway down the alley when a side door opens, releasing warm air that steams in the cold and a wall of thumping bass. A man steps out, his solid frame silhouetted in the light. He catches sight of us and smiles.
“You made it.” He clasps Whip’s hand and draws him in for a shoulder bump then turns and catches my hand next.
“Tariq, long time,” I say when we half hug. The world knows him as ShawnE, but I met him as Tariq and the name is stuck in my head.
“When was it?” he asks. “London, 2016?” There’s a gleam in his brown eyes that says he’s remembering our mischief.
“Think so.” We’d hung out at a private club we’re both members of. I have fuzzy memories of getting drunk, willing women on our laps, and doing something downright dirty with a bottle of Creme de Cacao—however, the details of that remain scant. Probably for the best.
With a chuckle, he leads us into the blessed warmth of the hall. Inside, the music surrounds me like a much-needed hug, pounding into my flesh and pumping my heart rate up. A surge of energy follows as Tariq heads down a narrow staircase.
The club is an underground lair, filled with dancers and flashing lights. I only get a glimpse of it through a two-way mirror before we enter a private room. Tariq gets us settled with a couple of beers, and we chat for a while. The club is Tariq’s baby, bought after his first album went platinum. He hosts a variety of artists and has made many an up-and-coming DJ famous.
“So,” he says to Whip, “you ready, man?”
Whip rolls his shoulders and then bobs his knee in an agitated rhythm. “Need to let off a little steam.”
Tariq chuckles because he knows how it is. Guys like Whip and Tariq have an energy that can only be burned off by creating beats. Tariq raps and Whip plays the drums, but they’ll both go out some nights and DJ at a venue for a couple of hours just to recharge their creative wells.
Right now, I get all the highs I need from Kill John. If I want to refill the well, I get it by producing on the side, helping others find the right sound and smoothing out rough tracks. Tonight, however, I’m Whip’s wingman.
The door opens, and the club manager pops his head in. “Whip, Rye, how you been?”
“Jay.” I give him a wave.
Whip greets him. “My set all right, man?”
Whip likes to do things old school, which means he spins using vinyl. It’s an unwieldy process hauling crates of records around then setting everything up. He’d come to the club earlier today to arrange things.
“Good to go.” Jay glances at Tariq. “Need a word. You got a minute?”
“I’ll be out in a second.” Tariq turns to us. “You good to go in thirty?”
“Yep.”
When Tariq leaves, I stand and wander around the room. I’m restless in a way that no amount of performing will settle. It’s her. She’s in my blood now. When I’m with her, it’s like nothing else. No better high. When I’m not with her?
I am lost.
I’m lost, and she’s in LA—thinking about moving there.
Shit.
What the hell am I doing with her?
I stop at a vintage arcade Donkey Kong that’s in the far corner. The big screen is bright with its glaring, simplistic ‘80s graphics. “You ever played this?” I ask Whip.
He gets up and ambles over. “Nah. To tell you the truth, these old games freak me out.”
A laugh bursts out of me. “What?”
Whip grimaces. “It’s ridiculous, right? But there’s something about the twitchy-ass way the characters move that makes my stomach clench.”
I can’t help it; I laugh again. “Sorry,” I say after a moment. “It’s just so…”
“Whack?” he supplies with a self-deprecating smile.
“Random. It’s random as fuck.”
“Yeah, well…” He glances at the game. The intro is playing and Donkey Kong paces—in an admittedly twitchy fashion. Whip scowls and looks away. “Nope. Still drives me bug fuck.”
Grinning, I push away from the machine and start pacing again.
“You nervous?” Whip sounds a little surprised. As he should be; we never get stage fright. That’s Jax and Libby’s specialty.
“No.” I’m not. I’m…I don’t want to think about it anymore.
But Whip watches me with those ice-blue eyes of his that see far too much. He leans against the couch back, crossing his arms over his chest. “We ever going to talk about this?”
About her. The one person I’m trying to forget for the moment.
I kept it secret. But, fucking hell, Scottie knows, Jax knows. Why can’t I talk about this with my closest friend?
With a sigh, I find an armchair—some ultramodern piece made out of metal and leather straps—and flop down. The damn chair groans in an ominous fashion. “She doesn’t want anyone to know.”
“But I guessed it,” Whip fills in. “So you’re not really breaking her secret.”
A snort escapes. “That’s a thin-ass excuse, and we both know it.”
“But it’s the defense we’ll go with if asked.”
“Sometimes I forget your mom is a lawyer.”
“Try growing up with her. I couldn’t get away with shit.”
“That’s why you’re cagey as fuck now.” I rub a hand over my face. “All right. I’ll talk. Mainly because I’m…Well, shit. I don’t know what the hell I am anymore.”
In the halting tones of the reluctant and confused, I explain what happened, starting on the night I eavesdropped on her conversation with Jules. I leave out the personal bits and give him the bare bones of the situation.
“Problem is,” I say when I finally get to the present situation with her going off to LA and me sitting here twiddling my thumbs, “I can’t think straight anymore. I miss her when she’s not around. A lot. I hate hiding what we’re doing, but I understand why she wants to. At least that’s what I tell myself. But in here?” I thump a fist to my chest. “It feels like bullshit, keeping quiet and pretending we are the same as we were before. Because we’re not. We’re…Shit. That’s the other problem. I don’t know what the hell we are.”
When I finish, Whip sighs. “What made you think getting physical with Brenna without the possibility of any kind of real relationship in the cards was a good idea?”
I stare blankly at him
. “My dick?”
He chuffs. “Yeah, I just bet your dick was doing all the thinking.”
“To be clear, I’m not regretting the decision, and neither is my dick, because the sex is off-the-charts fantastic—shit, I didn’t say that! You did not hear me say that.”
Whip laughs and takes a long drink of water. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he looks away, clearly thinking about something. When he turns back to me, his expression is considering. “This arrangement you’ve got going with Bren isn’t working for you, is it?”
The words gut-punch me so hard, I hunch over, pressing the heels of my hands against my tired eyes. “No.”
It tastes like betrayal. Like the end. At this moment, I’m not sure what hurt more to say, that my hands were jacked or that I can’t continue like this with Brenna and keep my head up.
My body is tense, wired. I close my eyes. The rhythmic thump of bass and the occasional cry of the crowd in the club punctuate the silence in the room.
Whip’s voice, soft yet insistent, slides over me. “You gotta end it. I know it seemed like a good idea at the time, but you keep going like this and it will get so twisted, neither of you will come out of it intact.”
“I know. I know, all right? I just…” Can’t. Not yet. I need more time. More of her. Our official “day” is tomorrow, and I’m going to miss it. My throat closes in on me. “I like her, Whip.”
Like is too weak a word. But it’s the only one I can say.
“Yeah, I know.” His quiet acknowledgment cuts deeper. He pauses. “Bren asked Scottie to check on you.”
My heart starts trying to pound its way out of my chest. “What?”
But it’s not a question; it’s shock.
Whip nods in acknowledgement. “She knew you needed us but were too stubborn to ask for help.” His smile is brief but fond. “Probably because she’s stubborn about showing her feelings too.”
Brenna always had to be tougher than any of us. To her, revealing any hint of emotional weakness meant the possibility of losing everything.
I rub a hand over my tight chest, as Whip lets it all sink in.
“I think you know what you have to do to fix this.” Whip and I have a connection deep enough that I understand what he means. Of course, I do, because he’s read me too well and knows exactly what I’ve been thinking. It’s not an easy decision to make.
Truth is, the whole thing scares the shit out of me. But a person can only lie to themselves for so long, and I’m no longer willing to play myself a fool.
“It’s a risk,” I say.
Whip shrugs. “Everything worth having is a risk.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Brenna
I am seriously messed up. I acknowledge that much in the privacy of my head. I had a great time with Marshall and his team. Anyone who possesses even a modicum of passion for publicity and marketing would kill or die to work with them. Dream job is an understatement. Yet I couldn’t wait to get back to Rye’s house, wanting nothing more than to burrow my head under a blanket and forget everything.
I have the period from hell. My body hurts. I’m so bloated, I imagine this is what a tick feels like. All of that, I expect; I live through it every month. The true horror here, the totally twisted part, is that I’m moping and feeling sorry for myself because I can’t have sex with Rye for nearly a week.
No, it’s not sex that I want right now. And that’s not why I miss him. Truth is, my desire to be with Rye has never been solely about physical gratification. That was simply the lie I told to allow myself to get closer to him. Stupid pride has kept me from admitting that he is one of my favorite people—maybe my absolute favorite. When he is near, I hum like a struck tuning fork. Everything is more with him.
So why am I here? Why does the prospect of forging a new career path fill me with excitement but also feel like a betrayal?
“Stop it,” I mutter while putting on my rattiest but most comfortable nightshirt. “This is a golden opportunity, damn it.”
And I’m talking to myself now. Yay.
Muttering, I curl up in bed and pull the covers up high. I have to get a grip. I will not wonder what he’s doing now. I do not want to hear the sound of his voice, or to tell him how my day went.
“Ugh.” Flipping onto my stomach, I hug a pillow close. It’s cool and lumpy, and what I really want to hug is his big, strong body. Which means I’m definitely screwed. “And an idiot.” With a huff, I flip onto my back. “An idiot who can’t stop talking to herself.”
Great.
An idiot who stares at the clock. It’s two minutes to midnight. Our witching hour. Only he won’t show tonight. He’s in Chicago.
Yesterday, he sent me a short video of himself and Whip performing at a club. And though it appears as if all he’s doing in the video is fiddling with knobs on a console and dancing along to the beat, I know the level of skill it takes to create music like that on the fly. It’s sexy as hell. Pure competency porn.
I suppose it’s for the best that we’re in different sections of the country. I’d never be able to stay away otherwise.
The thought barely crystalizes when I hear the front door open. Ordinarily, I’d be terrified. But security in the house is topnotch, and there is only one person who would be able to get through it without any problem.
Then again, it could be a killer or evil rapist. Clutching my phone, I sit up and wait, ready to scream bloody murder if I need to. From the way my heart is doing a little happy dance within my chest, I don’t think I will.
The sound of footsteps draws closer. I shouldn’t be able to identify anyone by the cadence of their step, but I recognize the pattern anyway. The bedroom door pushes open, revealing an all-too-familiar silhouette. A smile threatens to spread over my face. I hold it in ruthlessly.
“Sneaking into a woman’s bedroom is a great way to end up in jail,” I tell him, fairly proud that I don’t sound breathless and giddy.
Rye pauses at the threshold. He’s a hulking shadow, his head tilted to the side as though he’s studying me. I doubt he sees much; the room is cool shadows and inky darkness. “I was trying not to wake you.”
“And that I’d eventually wake up to find a man in my bed? That wouldn’t freak me out?”
“Well… Okay, when you put it that way, this wasn’t one of my best plans.”
I bite back that smile even harder. “It was a horrible plan. Besides, you’re too big to tiptoe effectively.”
He huffs out a laugh, slowly walking closer. “What did you used to call me? Big oaf?”
“Only when you were treading on my feet and taking up all the room in the travel bus.”
With a nearly full moon and sheers covering the windows, there’s enough light to see him clearly now. Weariness deepens the natural laugh lines on his face, but he appears happy, his gaze on me.
“All failed attempts to get closer to you, Berry.” He says it like a joke. But there’s a ring of truth underneath that makes my heartbeat stutter. It begins to pound when he reaches behind his head and casually tugs off his shirt. “I’ll do my best to be more careful with you in the future.”
“Um.” I don’t even know what I’m saying. He’s slowly stripping, matter-of-fact about it and not in the least bit teasing. It’s holding my attention all the same. His belt buckle clinks, a sound that goes straight to my happy bits, and then he’s popping the buttons of his jeans.
Pop, pop, pop.
Good God, when did getting undressed become a symphony?
“You’re supposed to be in Chicago,” I blurt when his jeans hit the floor.
He stands perfectly still, that long, strong body bathed in the ambient light coming in from the windows. For a brief second, I almost pity those who can’t see him now, this Greek statue made into living flesh. Hercules on the prowl. My gaze drifts down. No tiny dick of antiquity there. A raging erection stands proud and waiting. I’m so distracted by that particular length of flesh that I almost miss his reply
.
“Am I?” he asks.
“Are you what?”
Another soft laugh. “Supposed to be in Chicago. And stop looking at my dick unless you’re going to play with it.”
A flush hits my cheeks and snaps me out of my lusty fog. “Stop pointing it at me.”
His hard-on twitches. He grins. “It’s waving in surrender.”
I meet his gaze. “What are you doing here?”
“I got a craving for dogs.”
“Dogs?”
“Hot dogs, Berry. We’ll go get some tomorrow.”
“You came all the way out here for a hot dog?” I don’t know why I’m questioning him. I should be sending Rye on his way to one of the other bedrooms. But I’m too stupidly happy to tell him the sad truth, that we can’t have sex right now.
“They’re excellent hot dogs.”
“Better than Portillo’s?” The guys drag me there any time we go to Chicago, usually with Rye leading the charge.
“Are we really debating hot dogs? Or is this some weird foreplay talk?”
I can’t help grinning, but I fall back onto my pillow with a sigh. “Not foreplay.”
“Too bad. There’s like ten hot dog puns running through my head now.”
Rye is in the act of lifting the covers to slide into bed when I stop him. “I have my period, so you might as well go to another room.”
His forward momentum is too much for him to stop with any grace, and he ends up settling down next to me. “I know.”
“You know?” I turn on my side to face him. “How do you know I’m being tormented by Aunt Flo?”
Rye’s smile is quick as a flash of light. “Aunt Flo? Why the hell do you call her…oh, wait. Okay. Yeah, that’s a visual I didn’t need.”
Snickering, I burrow down farther in the bed, hugging a pillow to my belly. “Try living with the bitch.”
“Thank you, no.” Rye rests his head in his hand and smiles down at me.
The mix of tenderness and contentment in his eyes unnerves me, and I break eye contact, focusing instead on the massive swell of his shoulder muscle. That’s a distracting sight too, because I suddenly want to lick his skin. It’s safer than dealing with emotions when I’m currently a hormonal mess.
Exposed (VIP Book 4) Page 25
