Even though we only spent two full nights together, I reach for him in my sleep, my body aches for him when I wake. The ghost of his scent haunts me, because I swear I catch a whiff of it at odd times. And it doesn’t matter how many times I wash my sheets, he’s still there.
I miss the sound of his voice. I miss his joking manner, the way he forces me to see the world in a different way—not so dire, not so serious. I miss talking to him.
I would have talked to him on Thanksgiving, but he spent it with his mom. Given that my mom sent me a message saying they were going to Florida for Thanksgiving and would see me in England, I spent the day with Scottie, Sophie, Killian, Libby, Jax, Stella, and Whip. And little Felix, who amused himself with flinging whipped sweet potatoes around the table. He managed to ping Scottie’s ice-blue silk tie dead center. Fun times, but the absence of Rye was glaring.
It occurs to me that I’ve always noticed his absence. Anytime he’s not with the rest of us, the group feels smaller, dimmer. At least for me. And the crazy thing is that this has been true the whole time, even when I convinced myself that he drove me up the wall. Oh, the games we play.
Sighing, I collect my things and disembark the plane. It’s the middle of the day, and I’ve arranged for a car to pick me up at the airport and drive me to Varg Hall in the Cotswolds. It’s about an hour and a half of driving, not ideal given that I’ve been on a plane for seven hours. But it’s either get it over with now or rest a day or two in London first. I’d rather get on with it.
Besides, he’s there.
I shove the thought away and head out to baggage claim. It’s a surprise to see Whip waiting for me. Oh, he has a beanie shoved on his head and is wearing mirrored aviator sunglasses in an attempt to be incognito, but I spot him immediately and head his way.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
He smiles wide and adopts an affected English accent. “I’m your driver, Lady Brenna. Varg Hall awaits. Let us away posthaste so we may indulge in decadent revelries.”
I roll my eyes but smile. “I hired a car. You didn’t have to come all this way.” I ignore the small—tiny—pang that Whip is the one here and not…No. Nope. I’m not thinking about him.
“A hired car?” Whip makes a noise of disdain. “So you can be stuck with a stranger and spend the entire drive with your nose in your phone?”
“You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”
“It is.” He points to a set of pale pink bags coming around the carousel. “Those are yours, right?”
“I am horrified that you know my luggage.”
Whip gives me a sidelong glance. “Custom-made Gucci luggage has a way of making a lasting impression, Bren.”
My cheeks warm. “Yeah, well, blame Scottie. They were a gift from him for my twenty-first birthday.” The guys took me out drinking, and I got a killer hangover in return. Scottie gave me luggage. Is there any wonder why he’s my secret favorite?
Whip chuckles and retrieves the luggage. “I know. You know what he gave me for my twenty-first? Mutual funds for my retirement years.”
I stumble a step. “He did not!”
“Yep,” he says cheerfully. “Those fuckers have already made me a ton of money too.”
We both laugh and head for the parking lot. Whip leads me to his car, and I halt. “You thought this would be preferable to lounging in the back of a Range Rover?”
“Hey.” Whip smooths a hand over the hood of the car. “This baby is a blast to drive.”
The “baby” in question is a vintage ruby-red ‘70s Austin Mini with white racing stripes. It’s been lovingly restored. But it’s tiny. “I don’t think my luggage will even fit.”
“It’ll fit. My kit fits, so…” He shrugs.
“You brought your drum kit?” I shake my head. “Uncle Xander will love that.”
“Not to Varg Hall,” he says as if I’m daft. “I dropped it off at my place in London. I’m going to spend some time there after the party.”
“Ah.” With that, I get into the tiny car. And somehow, Whip manages to fit my bags in the back. The Mini isn’t what I expected. It’s not just restored but a custom job, with modern cream leather seats, a stereo, and probably dozens of other upgrades under the hood.
Whip confirms this when he gets in and gives the glossy wood grain dashboard a loving pat. “This little sweetie has been soundproofed, given an upgraded suspension and drive train.” He starts in on engine specs, and I hold up a hand.
“You’re speaking gibberish at this point. Can you simply assure me that you won’t drive like a complete maniac?”
He’s too quick to grin. “I promise I won’t be a complete maniac.”
I’m in trouble.
Twenty minutes later, we’re flying down the M40, and I’m clutching my seat. “When you’re no longer driving, remind me to thank you again for picking me up.”
He chuckles. “What, so you can kick my ass? No way. I’m running for it as soon as we park.”
“Good idea.” I try to relax against the seat and take in the few glimpses of the countryside that we streak past.
Whip turns on the radio, and Ella Fitzgerald croons Christmas songs with her smooth-honey voice.
“God, I love Ella,” Whip says wistfully. “If I lived back in her day, I’d have begged for a date.”
Chuckling, I turn my body a little in the cramped space to face him. He’s almost too tall for the car. While he’s not huge like Rye, he’s six feet tall, and his seat is pushed all the way back. But he doesn’t seem to mind and handles the car with efficiency.
“I have a weakness for women with beautiful voices.” Whip flashes a quick, secretive smile. “Don’t tell Killian, but the first time I heard Libby sing, I got a mini crush on her.”
“No!” Killian would have flipped. Like me, he’s a bit of a hothead, though well-intentioned.
“Yep. But she was Killian’s girl, so I ignored it.”
“Good idea.”
Whip nods, his eyes on the road. “Once had a crush on you too.”
“What?” I sit up straight, shocked. And a little unnerved.
He huffs a sound of amusement. “Don’t freak. It was back when you were eighteen and I was twenty. Lasted about a week, if that.”
“Well…that’s…Okay, it’s a shock but kind of funny too.”
Whip shrugs. “You’re smart, pretty, and fun. And we hung out all the time. Seems inevitable that feelings might build. I might have tried something, but I knew you were Rye’s girl.”
He sucker-punched me. Right here in this tiny car. I breathe in sharply, and Whip glances over. “It’s true, and you know it.”
“Whip.” It’s a warning.
He ignores it with a stubborn tilt to his chin. “I told him to take the risk.”
My skin prickles with heat. “What?” It sounds woolen to my ears. Can’t be helped; they’ve started to ring. It’s fairly clear why Whip offered to pick me up today, and I don’t know if I can handle talking about Rye with him—or anyone.
He glances at me again. “He didn’t rat you out. I guessed. Wasn’t hard, considering the way you two have been acting, trying too hard not to look at each other, and failing each time. I figured something was up. Rye freaked, told me to mind my own business. But he was…confused. So we talked.”
I turn my head, unable to look at Whip. I can’t truly be upset. Whip is Rye’s best friend. And hadn’t I spilled everything to Jules? Because some things needed to be sorted out with a sympathetic ear. Still, the idea that Rye and Whip had talked about the arrangement…I squirm.
Whip clearly sees that I’m embarrassed, and his voice softens. “I told him some things were worth the risk of losing them. He thought you were worth it.”
Shit. I squeeze my eyes shut for a quick, painful second. The absence of Rye doesn’t just hurt; it’s a void of loneliness opening up in my chest.
“He caught me off guard,” I whisper.
“Yeah,” Whip says sadly. “He
doesn’t know how to be subtle.”
A broken laugh escapes. “Oh, and you do?”
Whip shakes his head, smiling slightly. “No. That’s the point. None of us guys do. We never had to work for anything other than our music. And that was so long ago, we tend to forget. We live in this weirdly insulated world where everything we want is handed to us. It makes us…stupid.”
I laugh again, but it’s a pained sound.
“Doesn’t mean that we don’t care,” Whip says. “Or that we don’t hurt when we fail.”
With a sigh, I tilt my head back and stare out of the window. “You’re killing me here.”
“I’m not trying to make you feel guilty, I swear. I just…” He exhales loudly. “Shit, I don’t know. I feel responsible for pushing him. Maybe if I didn’t, he would have taken it slowly and…” He trails off with a helpless shrug.
“It’s not your fault. Rye’s a big boy, capable of making up his own mind.” I fight a smile. Damn it, I miss him. My smile fades. “I didn’t mean to hurt him. I don’t want to hurt him.”
“I know. And I probably should have kept my mouth shut with you, but he’s…Just handle him with care, Bren.”
Whip says it kindly, but I’m thoroughly chastised all the same. I also love him with my whole heart in this moment, because he’s protecting Rye in a way few people would. Overwhelmed, I lean across the seat and kiss his cheek.
“You’re a good guy, William.”
He blushes, his pretty face scrunching up. “Okay, okay. But don’t go kissing me when we get there. I don’t want to deal with Rye trying to kick my ass.”
We ride in companionable silence for a while, then chat about our favorite Marvel movies. Whip turns onto a small one-lane road and arrives at a pair of open gates. The drive up to Varg Hall is long and flanked by stately elm trees that have lost their leaves for the winter.
The estate comes into view, and we both let out an appreciative sound.
“Hello, Downton Abbey,” I murmur. Though really, it’s more of a Pemberley estate.
Varg Hall sits on the crest of a gentle rise. Surrounded by meticulously kept parkland and formal gardens, it’s the type of great old English mansion that, aside from national trusts and peers offering up house tours to foot the bills, only extremely wealthy men like my uncle can afford to own and maintain.
Built in the fifteenth century, the original house was remodeled and added onto in the Georgian era and now has graceful neoclassical lines. The old limestone facade gleams golden in the low, slanting winter light, the mullioned windows glimmering like gemstones. It’s utterly beautiful.
My parents hate the place.
I bore the brunt of my parents’ complaints every time we visited—they never turn down an invitation; they enjoy their misery and like to spread it. And even though they often spend a week here at Varg Hall or one of my uncle’s other houses, I’m the one they treat as a traitor for having fun here, for spending summers with Killian instead of staying in Long Island with them.
They arrive tomorrow. I plan to relax while I can—and avoid them as much as possible the rest of the time.
We pull up in front of the wide front stairs, and Paul, my uncle’s butler—yes, he has a butler—comes out to greet us.
“Miss Brenna. Lovely to see you again.”
“Hello, Paul. How are Louise and the children?”
We exchange pleasantries, and the whole time I try to acclimate myself to the grandeur and wealth surrounding me. I’ve been coming here since I was a baby, and yet it never truly feels real. Which is saying something, considering I live in a world of pampered and protected rock stars.
I’m offered the opportunity to go up to my room and relax, but if I do that, I’ll fall on the bed and sleep for hours. Besides, it would only put off the inevitable. So I follow Whip around the terrace and toward the rear gardens where everyone is having cocktails.
I spot Rye immediately. Mainly because he’s lying prone on the lawn, his big body sprawled at an awkward angle, his eyes wide open and unblinking. I’d be alarmed, but everyone is looking on with a smile as a gaggle of small children approach him with caution. I recognize some of them as the kids of Xander and Isabella’s various friends.
“Is he dead, then?” one boy asks.
“Poke him,” a girl of about six offers.
From his seat on Sophie’s lap, little Felix squawks and waves his fist, as if to say, Do it, mates!
The brave pair of kids tiptoe closer to Rye, and the girl nudges his ribs with her toe. Rye remains limp.
“He’s faking,” she says, but she doesn’t look certain.
She tries it again.
With a roar, Rye explodes upward, jumping to his feet with impressive speed. The kids squeal and scatter like a flock of birds. Screaming and laughing, they run for it as Rye goes after them, snarling like a bear. That is until he somehow catches sight of me. He halts, spinning more fully around to face me, and stands straight. Our gazes snare and, oh sweet sin, he smiles.
That smile, it’s the sun rising over a dark hill. It spreads over his face and lights his eyes.
A warm wave of sparkling happiness fills me, and I am helpless in its wake. All I can do is smile back, my entire body humming with want and anticipation.
We grin at each other like proper fools. That is until the children regroup and swarm Rye. He goes down in a tumble of tiny limbs and children’s happy screams. And all I can think is that resistance is futile.
Rye
She’s here. It’s the only coherent thought I have. She’s here. The absence of her was a cold fist in my chest all these weeks. Weeks I spent pretending everything was fine, just the same as ever. Weeks lying to myself. Because the whole time, that cold, hard fist in my chest was there, hurting, aching, reminding me that she wasn’t around.
In the quiet, still hours of the night, I’d lie in my bed and wonder if it was for the best, ending things early, telling myself how bad it would have truly hurt if I’d stayed longer, pretending that I was okay with keeping things how they were. My insides were shredded. They’d be completely liquidated if I’d grown even more attached.
Still, I can’t regret having her for those brief moments in time. She made me realize I can have something more out of life, that it’s okay to want more.
But what I truly want is Brenna. And she wants a clean break. How the hell do I act around her now?
The question runs through my head as I extract myself from the pile of small children I’d been playing with in an attempt to distract myself from her inevitable arrival. I sic them on Jax and Killian and make my way to where she’s accepting a pink, fizzy gin drink from a passing waiter.
It’s cold on the terrace, but they have large braziers set up around the spot and the outdoor fireplace is crackling away. Brenna huddles near it and sips her drink while some guy named Ned that I’d been introduced to an hour ago chats her up. He’s an investment banker from London and is wearing the kind of tightly tailored suit those guys seem to favor. I don’t like him. Mainly because I’ve become a jealous fool when it comes to Brenna. Not proud of that, but I can’t seem to shake it off.
It’s a strange, uncomfortably weakening relief when Bren turns my way and gives me a small smile.
“Hey,” we both say at the same time. With the same, awkward hesitation.
Ned must be as smart as he looks because he fucks off fairly quickly. I don’t acknowledge him but keep my eyes on Brenna. God, but she’s sharp-edged beautiful in this faded watercolor world of mine. She makes my knees weak and my heart ache. And all I can do is stare at her, afraid to blink and find she’s gone.
My palms start to sweat, my breath coming in short. This is what she does to me. And, fuck me, but I like it. Well, except for the fact that I seem to have become tongue-tied. I swallow thickly and force my voice to work.
“You cut your hair.” It’s all I can get out. And it’s probably the worst way to start, because she flushes deep pink and touches her
hair.
Her nose wrinkles as she lets out a self-deprecating sound. “I spent over an hour in the car with Whip, and he never noticed.”
It chafes that Whip picked her up. I wanted to. And yet when I saw him heading for the car, announcing what he was going to do, I hadn’t protested, fearing that the last person she’d want to see at the gate was me.
“It looks good.” It does. But different. I’ve only ever seen Brenna’s hair in a sleek ponytail or running down her back. But it’s now cropped to the tops of her shoulders, the deep-red mass swinging around her face with the slightest movement. It makes her look softer, drawing attention straight to her amber eyes and petal-pink lips.
I want to kiss her so badly that I find myself leaning in but freeze the second I realize what I’m doing. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to notice the slip because she’s staring off into the distance. Hell, this is awkward. I hate it. Hate that I’ve done this to us. A lump settles in the base of my throat.
A waiter comes by with a tray of drinks, and Brenna sets her half-empty glass on the tray then turns to me. “I’m tired as hell.”
I guess that’s my cue to fuck off like Ned did earlier. It hurts. Shit, it hurts. But I can’t force my company on her. But then she takes a small breath. “But if I sleep, I’ll be a mess for days.” Her gaze, filled with hesitation I’ve never seen from her, clashes with mine. “You want to go on a walk with me?”
“Yes.” Fuck yes.
“All right. Let me change first.” She’s wearing her trademark heels—these are pale pink—and one of her sexy, tight skirt suits in dark green that reaches her knees. Sleek and gorgeous as always. Every time I see Brenna James, I want to unwrap her like the gift that she is.
But she’s not mine anymore.
Fists clenched, I follow her into the house—not that you can really call a place like Varg Hall a house. The main entrance is an enormous double-height space with a black-and-white marble checkerboard floor. Classical statuaries flank the various doorways, and massive portraits of stern Englishmen and women from centuries past hang from the walls. Soaring overhead is a ceiling mural of frolicking angels that is probably the work of some master artist. But I zoned out when we were given the tour years ago.
Exposed (VIP Book 4) Page 29
