I wait by the wide staircase, which has been draped in pine garland. The stuff hangs over doorways and snakes around the blood-red marble mantle in the hall fireplace. There’s a twelve-foot Christmas tree at either end of the hall: one is decorated in gold and red, the other in silver and blue. It’s so festive, I feel like I’ve fallen into a Christmas card.
I’m humming “Deck the Halls” when Brenna soon returns, dressed in jeans and a thick Irish sweater. She’s traded her heels for sturdy walking boots and is in the process of putting a white knit cap on her head. She’s so damn adorable, I get a pang in my chest.
A freaking pang.
I’m in so much trouble.
I tuck my hands into my jean pockets and fall into step beside her. We keep silent until we’re away from the house and on a path that leads to a Greek revival folly set by an idyllic lake. I swear this place is insane. I can’t imagine growing up surrounded by this, but it hits me that Brenna spent many summers here.
I try to imagine her as a kid. Did she dream of this life we have now? Had she pictured herself growing old with someone? Melancholy floods me, and my chest aches.
“You were really good with those kids,” she says, breaking the silence. Her lips quirk. “Cute, even.”
“Cute. What every man wants to hear: he’s cute.”
Frankly, I’ll take the compliment with pleasure, but a guy has to at least pretend he doesn’t want to preen with pleasure over being called cute by the girl he’s gone for.
She clearly knows I’m faking my disgruntlement. “Adorable? Is that better?”
“Let’s stick with cute.” I move to the side to let her pass a close pair of boxwood hedges. “I like kids. They’re fun. Uncomplicated.”
We fall into step together as the path widens once more.
“You obviously relate to them,” she says.
A smile pulls at my cheeks. “Is that your way of saying I’m immature? Or simplistic?”
She huffs a sound of dry amusement. “I would never call you simplistic, Rye.”
“So immature is still on the table.”
We’re not teasing each other with the ease we once had. There’s a stilted element that strikes an off-key note. But damn if it doesn’t still feel good to my battered soul, all the same.
That small, coy smile lingers on her lips. “Fishing for compliments, are we?”
“If I was, I’d be reeling up a boot right about now.”
When she actually giggles, I feel it like effervescent bubbles of light within my chest.
Brenna clears her throat. “Fine. How about this? Despite having the body of Ares,”—I stumble a step at her words—“and the musical talent of Apollo, you retain the childlike wonder of…shit, my knowledge of Greek mythology has run dry.”
“That’s still a lot of Greek,” I croak, my cheeks warm.
Her nose wrinkles. “I read a mythology book on the plane. Clearly, the gods stuck in my mind.”
“I have no problem being compared to two gods, Berry.”
Brenna’s head jerks upward at the sound of her nickname. Our gazes collide. And there it is—as strong and hot and insistent as ever—the pull, the need to touch, taste, and hold her.
A fine sweat breaks out along my lower back, and I draw in a steadying breath. She turns away, concentrating on the path, our easy truce falling back to uncomfortable uncertainty. Fisting my hands, I follow her, not knowing how to fix it.
“How was your Thanksgiving?” she asks as we reach the folly.
“All right.” Miserable. I missed you. So much. “Yours?”
“The usual.” Her shrug is almost bored, but her tone is hesitant, as though she’s not sure how to start talking to me again. She stops and leans against one of the stone columns to face me. “I had wondered if you were avoiding me all these weeks.”
The words punch my core, and I let out a strangled breath. But I can’t deny the truth; she’ll see right through me. “I was.”
She bites her bottom lip and glances away. “I was too.”
Yeah, I figured as much.
“I didn’t avoid you because I didn’t want to see you. I just wanted to give you space and try to make things less awkward.” A humorless laugh escapes me. “It still feels awkward, though, doesn’t it?”
Her smile is tight. “That’s probably unavoidable.”
We’re silent for a minute, both of us looking at the small lake that’s gone silver under a pale winter sky. A light but icy breeze drifts over the water, and Brenna hugs her arms to her chest. I step closer, blocking the wind with my body. I want to wrap my arms around her, but it’s not my place to hold her anymore. Maybe it never was.
The thought depresses me.
She hasn’t told the guys she’s leaving. I’ve been waiting for it, keeping my mouth shut until she makes the announcement. But nothing. I don’t know what to make of it but can’t find the courage to ask either.
“I’m sorry,” she says, and my head snaps up. Brenna grimaces. “For avoiding you too.”
My chest hurts. It fucking hurts. I hate this.
“We both did the same thing. Let’s just…Hell, I don’t know. Not be sorry anymore?”
She smiles a little wider. I miss her smiles.
“All right.”
Brenna takes a breath, like she’s gearing up to say something important. I know that look. I’ve seen her wear it when she’s about to give the band bad news and doesn’t want to be the one to tell it.
Panic swells within me. She’s going to apologize for picking her career over me. I can’t handle her pity. I can’t. I am a fucking coward, but I can’t hear the words coming from her lips. I’ll hear them forever.
“I shouldn’t have pressed for more,” I blurt. “It was a mistake.”
She blinks as though surprised by my outburst. I wasn’t exactly smooth with it. Hell, I practically yelled.
“I shouldn’t have pressed,” I say again, trying to gentle my tone. “I’ve got too many things going on in my life for a real relationship anyway.”
The words are heavy in my mouth, but necessary if I want to keep any shred of pride.
She nods, still a little stiff. But her shoulders spread like there’s a weight lifting—which just sucks for me. I don’t want to be relegated back to the sidelines of her life. Doesn’t matter anyway. She wants a clean break. So it’s inevitable.
“Despite everything,” I say past the lump in my throat, “I don’t regret what we did.”
It isn’t technically a lie. If I had to do it all over again, I would still have gone after Brenna. Except, I’d be upfront with what I really wanted: all of her. But life doesn’t work that way. Sometimes you only get one chance, and I missed mine.
She turns back to face the lake, and her voice becomes so low, I have to strain to hear it. “I don’t regret it either.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Brenna
It was a mistake. That’s what he said. A mistake to ask for more.
I asked him to come for a walk with me so I could gather up my courage and tell him yes, let’s do this. Let’s be together. That it doesn’t matter where I am or what I’m doing, I still want him.
But I’m too late. Because he regrets his impulse.
My hand shakes as I try to put on a coat of lipstick. Afraid to risk a smear of brick red across my face, I put the lipstick down and sigh. The face in the mirror is unfamiliar, with her shorter hair and wrecked eyes. Will they all see how much I’m dying inside?
He didn’t. He looked almost pleased with himself when we parted. As if it will be easy to pretend we didn’t lose ourselves in each other for a heady moment in time, that he never asked for more.
I can’t blame him. I had more than enough time to say yes. I should have said yes that day in California. I should have crawled over that bed and gone straight into his arms.
But I didn’t.
And now I’m too late.
Some things are worth the risk, isn’t that wh
at Whip said?
Fuck it, I can’t let this go. I’ll regret it forever.
Earlier, everyone had gone out “hunting,” which really meant they went into the woods to track one another in what Whip happily described as a Highlander—there can only be one!—laser tag extravaganza. I was invited to join, but I couldn’t bring myself to be part of that “fun.” Bruised and remorseful, I stayed in my room.
They’re back now; I hear Killian and Jax debate the merits of the Strat vs the Tele as they walk past my bedroom door on their way downstairs.
I can’t hide in here any longer. Bracing my shoulders, I head out into the hall. A steady throb pulses from a door two down from mine. Rye. He always stays in the Tartan Room—so named for the dark green and blue plaid wool covering the walls.
Music is an intrinsic part of him. If he’s not listening to it, he’s creating it—even if it’s as simple as tapping out a beat with his fingers. The man knows more about music than anyone I know. He loves it all, from classical to obscure bluegrass albums only a hundred people bought. I cannot think of Rye without hearing a rhythm.
It’s early yet, about an hour before dinner. But this is prime nap time for a lot of the house. Rye blasting music isn’t the best idea. Besides, we need to talk.
I freeze, my heart slamming against the cage of my ribs.
Get it together. You can do this.
My fingers are ice.
Don’t be a wuss. Knock on the fucking door!
I rap on it hard, convinced he won’t hear me, but it opens fairly quickly, releasing a surge of music—“Pit Stop” by Lovage. Rye’s large frame is backlit by the room’s lamplight.
“If you wake up Felix with that music, Sophie is going to—ah!”
Rye grabs hold of my wrist and gently but firmly tugs me into the room, kicking the door shut. He pulls me into his arms and starts dancing. His grin is wide and boyish. “Be bad with me, Bren.”
I have things to say. But it’s impossible to resist him. He’s too good a dancer, moving me with competence that’s utterly sexy. The song is bluesy, funky-dirty sex. His thick thigh slides between mine as we bump and grind.
Rye’s arm wraps more firmly around my waist, and he spins me. I’m on air, alive and pulsing with the beat, flowing with him. Flick-bump-sway. I’m no longer worrying about tomorrow or regretting yesterday. I’m young and free in his arms, laughing breathlessly, feeling the music in my blood and bones.
Then our gazes collide, and everything changes. God, the heat in his. The way he looks at me as though I’m the only thing in his universe. This isn’t the look of regret.
Heart pounding, I lift my arms, dip my hips. His thigh hits my sex and everything clenches. I suck in a breath, my breasts brushing his chest. Rye’s lids lower. Mouth pursed in concentration, he works me to the pulsing rhythm. Flick-bump-sway.
It’s too much. He’s all around me, the scent of his skin, the firm, warm feel of his body moving with mine. I’ve missed touching him. I’ve missed him touching me. And this is all I’m going to get anymore, this parody of sex, a quick dance. No more skin to skin. No more of his mouth, his taste, his touch.
I swallow hard, my step faltering.
Rye frowns, and I swear he’s about to pull away. But he simply watches me.
“I remember the first time I heard this song,” he says.
“You do?” I’m too flustered to remember anything right now.
Rye spins me again, popping his hips against mine. “It was the 2010 fall tour, at an after-party in Paris.” His palm spreads wide on my lower back, bracing me, drawing me closer. “You were wearing black leather pants like you’ve got on now, a pair of wicked silver heels, and a little beaded top that flashed your cute belly button every so often.”
My lips part on a breath, and I can only stare at him.
His smile tilts. “You climbed up on a platform with one of the roadies and danced to this song. I watched you move—all sex and grace and utter perfection—and I wanted you so much, it was a physical ache.”
I can’t breathe. I can only hold on, my hand cupping the warm column of his neck.
“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he says, almost lightly, like he’s not slicing into my heart. “I’ve spent my entire adult life either wanting you or wanting to forget you.”
Holy shit. I feel his truth like a hot grip along my body and stumble against him.
He pauses. “Did you know?”
My voice trembles. “Yeah. I think I did.”
Not so deep down, I had known. And I’d been doing the same, wanting him, wanting to forget, knowing he was my weakness and resenting him for it.
Something flickers through his gaze. “But in all that time, I never tried being your friend.” He glances away for a second, giving me his tightly drawn profile, before meeting my eyes once again. His are dark and troubled. “I should have tried.”
A lump swells in my throat. It hurts. This hurts.
He shrugs one big shoulder, smiling tightly, moving me like we’re fucking. The combination scrambles what’s left of my brain. “Better late than never, huh?”
It’s not better!
The words won’t come out, and the song ends. He must have just been playing the one, because nothing follows. We stop in the middle of the room, me panting lightly, Rye staring down at me with an expression I can’t read, sad maybe. But then he steps away, releasing me.
“Song is over.”
I fear I might fall and never get back up.
“Yeah,” I rasp.
A mix of regret and hopefulness shines in his eyes. We’ve hurt each other. Many times. And yet he’s been the one who kept me going, a driving force to prove my worth—both to him and to myself. He’s the one who told me I could fly, who gave me hope that everything in my life would someday be okay.
“I should have tried harder too, Rye.”
His shoulders droop in apparent relief. “We’re here now. That counts for something.”
“Of course it does.”
Rye runs a hand over his beard then smiles. “Friends, then?”
“Always.” Because I need him, in whatever way I can have him.
The truth of him—of what he means to me—sweeps through my body in a rush so strong, I brace a hand to my middle. What do I do? Beg, maybe.
“Rye…”
The door opens with the effect of a gunshot. Rye and I both visibly jump. Whip stops in the doorway, cringing as though he knows he interrupted something.
“Sorry,” he says. “But your parents are here, Bren, and we’re supposed to head into dinner soon. I thought you’d want to prepare.”
I glance at Rye and hesitate, but then my shoulders sag. Facing my biggest mistake and my parents in one night is too much. I sigh and head for the door. All the preparation in the world won’t be enough for what’s coming.
Chapter Thirty
Rye
Family dinner at Varg Hall is a bit different than our normal band family dinners. And by that, I mean it’s a formal, uncomfortable trial. With food.
Okay, the food is good. I’ll give them that. And there’s a lot of it. If you don’t mind being served endless courses by waitstaff in black ties. A woman fills my wine glass with Cabernet then slips away just as another waiter sets down a plate of prettily cut rounds of roast beef, dribbled with a glossy brown sauce, which probably has some fancy name, but I could give fuck all about it at the moment.
Not when Brenna sits at my side, her pretty, long neck and graceful shoulders so stiff, it’s a wonder she doesn’t crack. I don’t blame her. Her parents have been complaining about this or that for much of the meal.
Patricia and Neil James are, in a word, killjoys. At a distance, Brenna looks like a younger version of her mom, albeit about four inches taller. They both have the same red-brown hair, the same amber eyes. Patricia’s hair is faded, a washed reddish gray like the undercoat of a fox. Frown lines crease her slightly rounder face, and her nose is more s
nub than Bren’s. Brenna has her father, Neil’s, height and narrower, longer features. Neil looks like a version of his brother, Xander, gone to seed.
They both wear a perpetually pinched expression, as if they smell something bad. And they’re not afraid to speak their mind. As in all the fucking time. With every damn snipe and whine they dole out, Brenna’s slim body flinches, the softness of her lips pressing tighter. It breaks my heart, and it’s all I can do not to reach under the table and set my hand on her knee. To hold her or say, Fuck it, let me take you out of here.
But I know she won’t want that. Brenna has pride. She wears it like armor and strides on five-inch heels made of brash confidence and pure guts.
It doesn’t stop me from wanting to toss her parents out on their ears. I slide a look Brenna’s way, inwardly aching at how even the golden candlelight can’t hide the pale cast of her creamy skin.
“I thought tonight was family dinner,” Neil says with a wary glance around the table. He’s across from me, with his wife at his side.
We’re all sitting like good little soldiers around a table that can easily fit twenty. Three enormous antique silver candelabrum march down the center of the table festooned with sugared fruits and evergreen garland. Porcelain vases, filled to bursting with lush red hothouse roses, sit on either end of the table. Candlelight glitters on the celadon and gold china, silver flatware, and cut crystal glasses.
It’s all very pretty. For hell.
Xander, who’s at the head of the table, glowers at his younger brother over the rim of his wineglass. “I’m not sure what you mean, Neil. Are we not eating?”
I’m fairly certain everyone knows what good old Neil means. But he makes sure he’s very clear by pointedly glancing at me, Whip, Jax, Scottie, Sophie, and Stella. “Looks more like a party for your son’s friends than family dinner.”
Killian makes a noise like he’s about to rip into his uncle, but Libby touches his wrist, and he merely glares.
Exposed (VIP Book 4) Page 30
