Exposed (VIP Book 4)

by Kristen Callihan

  “Ha! I actually like that one. He tried to get me to watch The Fly.” She makes a face. “Disgusting. I made him turn it off, but I still had nightmares for a week.”

  “Poor Berry. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to comfort you.”

  She chuckles like she thinks I’m only teasing. But I’m not. I almost want to push it, but once we’re on the bike and her thighs are bracketing mine, I forget what we were talking about. The entirety of my concentration goes to Brenna and keeping her safe. Maybe we should use a car.

  An impatient pat to my abdomen has me snapping out of it, and I start the bike. For a while, I just drive, soak in the sun, air, and the feel of my girl pressed up against my back. Brenna wraps herself around me like I’m her favorite pillow. I’m cool with that.

  Eventually, I head towards downtown and find a place to park.

  “So,” she says, pulling off her helmet in a move worthy of Charlie’s Angels. “Where are you taking me?”

  I incline my head to the corner building behind me. “The bookstore.”

  Her eyes light. “You’re taking me book shopping?”

  “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go, but yeah, I thought you’d like it.”

  “I thought you’d assume I’d want to shop for shoes.” She says it lightly, but there’s a glint in her eyes that has me grinning wide.

  “Babe, I might be ignorant when it comes to relationships, but I’m not a total fool. That statement is bait.”

  Brenna laughs and shakes her head. “It so was. Good evasion. Let’s go look at books.”

  The place is massive and smells of knowledge and sunlight. Brenna and I stroll along together and split up when we find something that interests us. But we never stray far. I always have her in my periphery, something inside me not wanting to give up the sight of her. It’s a strange thing. Brenna and I have been in each other’s orbit for over ten years. I know her face as well as my own—better; I look at her face more than mine. But being with her like this makes it all feel new.

  She catches my eye and smiles. For the first time in my life, I fully understand those old-timey cartoons where the wolf is struck by love darts and his heart is trying to pound its way out of his chest. I’m pretty sure there’s a lovelorn grin on my face, pink hearts dancing around my head. Whatever the case, it’s enough to draw Brenna over to me.

  Without a word, I take her hand and lead her onward. There’s a tunnel made entirely of stacked books that crests over us like a wave. No one is around, and I pull her close. Her lips are soft and welcoming. I fall into her kiss the way I’m falling for her: completely, like a man denied sustenance. She tastes like cherry-sweet sin. I lick into her mouth chasing that flavor, my back hitting the wall. Brenna eats at my mouth with the same fervor, her arms winding their way around my neck.

  A snicker from the right has us pulling apart to look. A group of teen girls walk by, giving us wide grins. I don’t know if they recognize me or not. I don’t care at the moment, because Brenna is still pressed up against me. I turn my attention back to her, my hand drifting to palm her peachy ass.

  She smiles, soft, flushed. “Hey.”

  Those pink hearts are probably circling my head again. “Hey.”

  Right now would be the perfect time to tell her why I really came all this way. But the words are stuck in my throat. I don’t want to ruin this moment.

  Tell her.

  With surprising gentleness, Brenna brushes my hair back from my brow. Her amber eyes look into mine.

  Fucking hell. Tell. Her.

  “Apparently there’s a vinyl section here,” she says in the face of my silence. “Did you know that?”

  Shit. Busted.

  “Ah, yes? I mean, yes, I did. But I wasn’t planning on going there. Today is for you.”

  Brenna’s laugh is husky. “So self-sacrificing.”

  I’m about to protest, swear my innocence, but she lifts on her toes and kisses my cheek. “Today is for us. Come on, buttercup, I want to see this collection.”

  Yep. I’m a goner.

  I grab her hand and all but drag her to my favorite spot in the store. Vinyl records and Brenna. What could be better? She stays with me, browsing LPs, pulling out old favorites for me to look at. Paradise.

  I hand her a battered old copy of “Masterpieces by Ellington.”

  “Duke Ellington wrote his compositions to highlight his musicians’ individual styles and talents,” I tell her. “I mean, we do that now with Kill John, but for a big band composer back then to say, this isn’t about showing off my skills but to elevate the talents of those around me and take the music to its highest level…” I sigh in appreciation. “He made it an all-encompassing visceral experience, a masterpiece of that perfect moment in time.”

  “You know,” she says as I inspect the back of a Shirley Bassey album. “I think my true appreciation of music came from you.”

  The record almost slips from my fingers. “I…What?”

  Brenna leans a hip against the display stand. “I’m serious. You’re so passionate about music. The way you’d talk about it, the endless songs you’d have us listen to, the history of it all…” She shakes her head, ponytail swaying, a fond look on her face. “It made me hear it, feel it, in a whole new way. A better way.”

  All these years, I never knew she was truly listening. I never knew she liked what I said.

  Amber eyes hold mine. “Music is part of your heart and soul, Rye. Whether you play or not, that will never change. You will always be able to express yourself through it and move people with your love of it.”

  Hell.

  “Bren. You can’t say that to me here. Not when you’ve gone and cut my heart wide open, and all I want to do is kiss you until…Damn it.” I expel a harsh breath and rake my hand through my hair to calm down.

  She studies me with interest. “Don’t stop. Until what?”

  “Until you’re slick and swollen and begging for my dick.”

  A laugh breaks from her, but she eyes my mouth like it’s ice cream and all she wants to do is lick it. “I wouldn’t have to beg. You’d give it to me without hesitation, fast and hard, wouldn’t you, big guy?”

  Flames of lust burn my skin, as her voice lowers. “All I’d have to do was spread my thighs and show you just how wet—”

  “Not fair, Berry.” I shove the record back into place. “Not fucking fair.” I march her cute little ass out of the store. And she laughs the whole way. I pretend I’m disgruntled, but I’m not. I am so far from not it isn’t funny.

  I distract myself by taking her to one of my favorite hot dog spots. We opt for carryout, and I drive us up into Griffith Park, stopping at a secluded spot so we can eat. There is a bench nearby, but before I can get off the bike, Brenna surprises me and climbs up to straddle my lap.

  “Well, hello,” I say, my arm instantly going around her waist.

  She settles in. “Much more comfortable than a bench.” She reaches down and grabs one of the takeout boxes. “You up for eating this way?”

  “You think I’d ever turn down a chance to have you in my arms?” I shake my head and help her out by holding the box steady. “Think again, Berry.”

  The hot dogs are messy; bacon-wrapped and loaded with toppings—Brenna’s has corn, cotija, and spicy aioli, while mine is drowning under fries and cheese. But Brenna doesn’t hesitate to pick hers up. It’s cute as hell the way she holds the unwieldy dog, her nose wrinkling a little as she tries to take a huge bite without spilling. I chuckle as she almost gets there, and then I wipe the little bit of sauce that lands on her chin.

  “Good?” I ask.

  “So good.”

  Because it’s not polite to stare, I dig into my own dog. We’re silent for a bit, eating in the sunshine. Brenna sets the remnants of her hot dog back in the takeout box and grabs some napkins from her lap to clean her hands. I hand her a frosty bottle of her beloved Diet Cherry Coke. After she’s had a drink, she sighs with contentment.

  “There
,” I say with the satisfaction of a man who has seen his woman well-fed. “Tell me a taco is better than this.”

  She dabs at the corner of my mouth with a napkin. “I hate to break your little dream here, buttercup, but this is basically the love child of a hot dog and a taco.”

  Damn. She’s right.

  I rally. “But it is still called a hot dog. Thus better than a taco.”

  “A technicality.”

  “Which is another way of saying I’m right.”

  “Or that you’re not.”

  Chuckling, I lift what’s left of my hot dog to her. “You haven’t tried this one.”

  With a dubious hum that I know she does to tease me, Brenna opens her mouth and dutifully waits for me to feed her. Fuck. I stare, trying not to get turned on.

  Her smile is pure evil. “Come on, Rye. Give me a taste of your wiener.”

  I burst out laughing, even as I get hard as a pike. “Oh, you’ll get more than a taste.”

  She takes a large, snapping bite, and I laugh again as she chews. By the times she’s swallowing, she’s laughing too, resting her forehead on my shoulder. “All right, you got me,” she says straightening, cheeks flushed and eyes alight. “These are excellent hot dogs.”

  “Better than a taco?”

  Hell, why am I pushing this? I shouldn’t. It’s stupid. Petty as fuck. I’m thinking Brenna might agree because she goes silent. Her expression is thoughtful as she packs up the mess, shoving it all in the boxes lying on our laps. Heart thudding, I hold up the takeout bag for her to put the trash in. Only when I’ve set it on the ground does she speak.

  “Is this really about tacos?”

  She knows it’s not. My chin lifts, stubbornness rising with it. But then I sigh. “No.”

  She hums again, her gaze searching mine. I brace for more questions. But, instead, she reaches out and softly runs her fingers through my hair, brushing it back. “Right now, right here, whatever the meal, I’d prefer to have it with you.”

  My heart knocks hard against my chest. “Bren…You asked Scottie to check up on me.” I hadn’t meant to say that. But I don’t back away from it.

  She searches my face in wariness. “You needed your friends.”

  I need you too.

  I cup her cheek. “Thank you.”

  She touches the edge of my jaw, delicately, like I’m something she needs to handle with care. Physically, I’m the stronger one, but she’s breaking through what’s left of my armor with ease.

  “Rye, you don’t ever have to thank me for having your back, because I always will.”

  Just like that, I’m done for.

  I don’t know who moves first but we’re kissing. And it fills all the empty aching places I didn’t know I had. I take it slow, savor her mouth, her flavor, breathe in her soft sighs. My hand wraps around the silky rope of her ponytail as I hold her where I want her, lick the gentle curve of her upper lip, suckle the sweet, plump give of her bottom lip.

  I lose time kissing Brenna. But, beneath all the pleasure, I know mine is running out. This arrangement is measured in stolen moments. It isn’t real. I need real with Brenna.

  Risk.

  One that would mean a potential loss, of my pride, of her.

  Brenna

  With a gasp, I tear out of sleep and lurch upright. The room sways like a drunken dancer then settles. But my heart doesn’t stop thundering within my chest. Cold empty terror and helplessness shake me so hard, I pant, gripping my knees to hold in a sob. No control. No way to keep them safe. To keep myself safe.

  A warm, broad hand settles on my back. “Hey,” Rye whispers, at my side. “You’re all right. It’s okay.”

  The sound of his voice and the heat of his touch grounds me, and I’m finally able to take a deep breath.

  “Sorry if I woke you.” It comes out weak and thready.

  Rye sits up further and rubs a hand over his face as if to wake himself. “It’s okay.” His eyes glint in the semi-darkness as he looks me over. “You dreaming about Jax?”

  I jolt. “How did you know?”

  He rests an arm on his bent knee. “It’s four thirty-two in the morning. That’s when we all found out.”

  For a moment, I can’t speak. A lump swells within my throat. I swallow hard. “Yeah. I didn’t realize that you…”

  “Remember it so clearly?” he offers wryly.

  “No.” I squeeze the back of my stiff neck, and instantly his hand slides up to take over, massaging me with calm competency. “No, that you also made note of the time. Does it haunt you too?”

  “Not in the same way. But there are days when I’m up for whatever reason, see the time and…” He rolls a massive shoulder like it’s too stiff. “It messes me up so badly, I want to cry.”

  The confession has me leaning into him, and he wraps me up in his arms, holding me close. We’re silent for a moment, Rye stroking my hair and me running my hand up and down his chest just to know he’s there, solid and alive.

  We’d spent the day together, and it was fun, perfect. A moment of peace. And the whole time I struggled to find a way to tell him...But I couldn’t. Not when he was so happy. So I swallowed it down, held in the truth as we crawled into bed and cuddled together. I fell asleep listening to the sound of his heartbeat.

  But now it’s a new day. And all the tension, all the horrible twisting fear of being too close to someone, of feeling too much, is back. My throat feels too tight, and my words come out a rough rasp. “Before that night, I thought we were all invincible. Nothing could hurt us.”

  “I thought so too,” Rye whispers. He heaves a ragged sigh. “I felt like such a self-centered ass for not noticing that John was hurting. Or that we were all just…I don’t know, careening into disaster in our own ways.”

  Because we were all out of control back then. “None of us noticed, Ryland. Not even John. That was the problem.”

  He nods, but his body remains tight and tense. “I know. I just wish to God that I had.”

  In the dark, I find his hand. Our fingers thread in a comforting clasp. Over the last year, all of us have spoken about John’s depression, and we’ve tried to talk things out more, voicing our burdens when they become too much to bear. It’s helped. But I’ve never shared any of this with Rye. The comfort of doing so is strangely relieving. He lets me be open without feeling weak.

  “I used to call John,” I say at last. “When I woke up.”

  Rye’s breath stalls for a second. “Me too.”

  A soft, brief laugh escapes me. “God, maybe we all did.”

  “He doesn’t seem to mind,” Rye says with a smile in his voice. But he’s raw. I can feel it.

  “He has Stella now, though.” I ease back a little and rest my head on Rye’s shoulder. “So I stopped.”

  “Bren…”

  The quiet sorrow in his voice has me speaking over him. “It’s okay, you know? I don’t need—Killian thinks I need to go on vacation, get away from the band for a while. I think he’s right.” Shit. I can do this. I can. “About the break.”

  Rye turns my way. I feel the weight of his gaze. Everything is about to change. We both know it. There’s only the matter of who goes first.

  “We could stay here,” he finally says, slowly, like he’s forcing the words out. “Take a break.”

  God, that sounds so…I close my eyes, my fingers digging into the bedding. “Rye—”

  “Don’t,” he blurts out then pauses with a harsh breath. “Don’t say anything for a second.”

  “Okay.”

  But he doesn’t speak. Instead, he throws back the covers and sits on the side of the bed. Rye has a tattoo of sheet music for “Amazing Grace” inked in black across his shoulders. To those who don’t know him, it might seem a strange choice, but he once said music was his grace. It saved him more times than he could count. Of course, he never confided that to me. He told the guys when he returned from the tattoo parlor. I simply was within earshot and overheard.

  Beca
use, before we started this, we never really spoke past trading insults or basic verbal exchanges. Yet, somehow, he knows me so very well. And I know him. I know by the tense lines of his back and the way he’s staring off, unmoving, that he’s not angry. He’s upset.

  I can handle angry Rye. That’s familiar ground. Upset Rye is another story. At some point, his hurts became mine as well. “Rye?”

  He sucks in a breath then stands in one fluid motion. “I need to be dressed for this.”

  “O-okay…” I don’t know where this is going, but I know instinctively it won’t be easy.

  He heads to the clothes he threw on a chair before we went to bed earlier. His movements are easy, tugging on his boxer briefs and jeans, but the bunched hinge of his jaw betrays him. He pulls on his black T-shirt and runs a hand over his stubble. For a moment, he stares down at his bare feet, his hands braced low on his trim hips.

  “Why are you standing there like that?” Foreboding settles over me like an itchy blanket. The sensation grows stronger when his lips flatten.

  But then he gives me a wry and tired half smile. “For once, I’m trying to follow your advice and think before I speak. I want to choose my words wisely here, Bren.”

  “Just say it, Rye. Whatever it is, just say it already.”

  He draws in a breath and then lets it out in a rush. “I can’t do this anymore.”

  Blood drains from my face, as my chest caves in on itself. “You want to end our arrangement?”

  “Yeah. I do.”

  Shock explodes over my skin in hot spikes of pain. I knew it would come to this eventually. It had to. We’re in different places in our lives. Even so, I didn’t expect this level of hurt. Not the desolation. I went into it with eyes wide open. Only, I thought…I don’t know what the hell I thought. Coherent thought escapes me at the moment. But maybe that we would ease out of it gently. And, God, I’m ridiculous because I’ve been trying to find a way to tell him my news. Yet here I am feeling rejected when he’s the one being adult about this. The irony almost makes me laugh. Almost.

  Standing—because no way am I having this conversation while curled up on his bed—I gather my fractured thoughts. “I understand. I’ll go.”