Exposed Page 2

  We soon finish our drinks, and Jules heads out. “Got an early day with Boss Man.”

  I love Scottie like a brother, but he makes drill sergeants look like slackers when it comes to work. So far, Jules is the only assistant he’s had who has been able to handle his exacting standards without running away in tears.

  Before leaving, I head to the bathroom to wash my hands. Standing in front of the sink, cool water running over my wrists, I stare at my reflection. My skin tone has morphed from warm ivory to pasty, the dark auburn of my hair too harsh in contrast. Purple smudges show beneath my eyes despite the fact that I put on concealer. Somewhere along the way, all the polish I so meticulously perfected has hardened into a veneer that’s starting to show its cracks.

  I can no longer see any trace of the wide-eyed eighteen-year-old who just wanted to fit in somewhere. The girl who begged her cousin to let her be a part of his band, at least on the periphery—because even though she didn’t have a glimmer of musical talent, she still wanted to feel the heady rush of excitement that world gave her.

  Confessing to Jules had felt good, a purge. But it also made it worse. I gave voice to my problem, sent it out into the night, and, in doing so, I allowed it more strength.

  Like it or not, I work in a man’s world. Record execs, concert promotors, producers, venue managers, journalists—a good majority of them are male. Over the years, they made certain I was aware that I was in their territory. They tried to make me believe I didn’t truly belong. To survive, I had to develop a tough skin and a guarded heart. I had to be perfect, never take an awkward step, never show weakness, vulnerability, or softer emotions. To be seen as needy was to open myself up to the wolves. If it ever got out that cool-headed, take-no-prisoners, Brenna James yearned to be held… I’ll never be able to show my face again.

  Fuck it. I refuse to be ashamed of my needs. Straightening my back, I reapply my lipstick and leave.

  I’m no more than three steps out the bathroom door when I nearly collide with a hard, looming chest, only narrowly stopping short of running into it. “Excuse me, I didn’t see you…”

  My words trail off in horror as I get a good look at the guy.

  Rye Peterson—personal nemesis, general pain in the ass—leans one massive shoulder against the wall as if he’s been waiting for me. He’s a world-famous rock star, but he doesn’t look like one. Tall, broad, with tight muscles and spiky dark-blond hair, he’d easily be mistaken for a football player.

  Most people consider him laid-back, the guy who will hand you a beer and make you laugh with a dirty joke. And he is that guy—to everyone else. With me? He’s the devil, lying in wait to exploit any sign of weakness. My reaction to Rye may not always be logical but it’s definitely visceral.

  The blood drains out of my face when he gives me that smile of his, the smug, wide one he uses when he has something on me. The one that says he’s going to make me squirm and enjoy every damn minute of it.

  But for once his voice isn’t teasing; it’s dark and deep, almost hard, when he says, “Let’s talk.”

  Rye

  * * *

  Every man has a weakness. Every dog has its day. Those two truths collided in spectacular fashion the second I learned that Brenna James—my one true weakness—is in desperate need of great sex. She aches for it. Every night.

  Goddamn, I’m still hard at the thought. Not just hard—hot, so freaking hot, I’m surprised my skin isn’t visibly steaming. It takes true effort to affect a pose of nonchalance and play the part Brenna expects of me—teaser, tormentor, fool.

  I’m almost sorry I’ve unearthed the knowledge that she goes about her days wanting—needing—hands on her skin, a mouth on her clit. Jesus, it’s almost too much to handle. Almost.

  But dog that I am, this feels like a change in the wind. Her secret is out, and hell if I’m going to ignore it. I hadn’t tried to eavesdrop. Okay, that’s a lie. The second I’d recognized Brenna’s voice behind me, I’d listened in. I’m not proud of it, but the woman has a way of bringing out the juvenile in me. Except hearing her desires and the longing in her voice brought up an emotion I haven’t truly experienced when it comes to Brenna—empathy.

  Not that Bren would believe me; she thinks I’m a dog when it comes to women. In many ways I am—simple things make me happy, and I’m loyal to the people I love. I do not, however, take advantage of women. I just love being with them. So much so that I seek their company as often as I can. But that great, off-the-walls, gotta-have-it sex she’s been dreaming about? It’s as elusive for me as it is for her.

  So, yeah, I empathize.

  But when she’d said she was considering hiring someone to give it to her?

  Hell. No. Just, no. I can’t know this and let it go.

  The question is: What to do now that I’ve cornered Brenna? Over the years, our interactions have become mostly that of pride-based one-upmanship. For reasons I’ve never wanted to examine too closely, we’re constantly trying to prove to one another that we’re invulnerable, that we don’t care what the other thinks. In short, we lie spectacularly to each other. The fact that I’ve overheard her confession must be killing her.

  She’s glaring hate fire up at me, which I know is a defensive measure. When it comes to the two of us, we both come out swinging, so very eager to hide any hint of weakness. God knows what evil deeds are racing behind her amber eyes. Oh, she’s definitely thinking about maiming me in creative ways. She’s always thinking that. The only difference here is that a tinge of mortification pulls at the corners of her shapely lips, and she’s glancing at the floor as if hoping it will open up and swallow her.

  Despite what she thinks, I don’t relish her discomfort. I don’t even like it at the moment. Pushing off from the wall, I take a step in her direction. “I mean it, Bren. I heard what you said…” At this, her nostrils flare, a look of embarrassment flashing over her face. I forge on. “We need to talk.”

  “No, we really don’t.”

  It’s dim in the hallway, the red exit light overhead turning her pale skin magenta and her auburn hair blood red. I can almost imagine her bursting into flames and smiting me with her wrath.

  “Yeah, we do. Come on, Bren. You can’t expect—”

  “Just stop talking.” She shoves past me. “I’m not discussing this with you of all people.”

  “But if you’d just listen—shit! Wait up.”

  She’s fast on those heels, a lithe blade of speed and precision. She weaves through a crowd of guys in suits, and one of them whistles, making some overloud comment about her perky ass. I shoulder-check him as I barrel past, trying to keep up with Brenna.

  Outside, she glances back and scowls when she catches sight of me. Her scathing curse and increased speed make me grin. Does she actually expect to shake me?

  “You might as well slow down,” I say. “I’m walking you home.”

  She lifts her chin and keeps up her pace. “Go away, pest.”

  “That would be a no. Safety first, Bren.”

  “Pfft. I don’t need a bodyguard. I could kick your ass if I wanted to.”

  I shouldn’t find that hot. But of course, I do. “I have no doubt you’re a total badass, babe. But humor me, all right?”

  Something in my voice must have gotten through because she relents with an aggrieved sniff and strides onward. The air is cold and crisp, our breath visible in the night. Brenna’s thin blouse can’t be keeping her warm. But since I know she’d only chuck my sweater into the street if I offered it to her, I shove my hands into my pockets and move to her side.

  Now that we’re walking out in the open, she can’t outdistance me. In those insane heels of hers, Brenna is around five-foot-ten. But I still have several inches on her. Plus, her tight, absolute mind-fuck of a skirt doesn’t allow her to lengthen her stride.

  She must realize this because she slows—just a little—not enough to concede defeat, but she’s no longer half-running. Her heels strike a click-click, clickety-click on the pavement. I hear that rhythm in my dreams sometimes. She’ll never know it, but that rhythm is the bass line for “Forget You.” No one will ever know that but me, though. A man has to keep some things to himself.

  “I thought you were on a date,” she grinds out after a minute.

  My lips twitch at the bitterness with which she says “date,” but I keep my tone bland. “I was. It ended early at the bar.”

  This is a lie. There was no date. There hasn’t been for a while. But I’m not about to tell her why I couldn’t face family dinner tonight.

  “Look,” she says all brisk business. “Whatever it is you think you heard—”

  “Oh, I know what I heard.”

  “—is none of your business.”

  “I know that too.”

  This earns me a fleeting gasp of shock, her amber eyes going wide. Then she huffs as though remembering she needs to stay mad to protect herself. “I cannot believe you eavesdropped on me. You should have said you were there.”

  I give her a level look. “Tell me right now that if you overheard me in a similar conversation, you wouldn’t have listened. Because I call bullshit.”

  She doesn’t say anything for a moment, just walks with that crisp stride. Then a curse breaks free, and she throws up a hand in defeat. “Fine. I would have listened. Doesn’t make it right, though.”

  “Neither of us are angels.”

  “You most of all.”

  My smile probably resembles a shark’s. Can’t be helped. I’m having weird fantasies of eating her up at the moment. “Thank God for that.”

  “And it doesn’t mean you have to bring up what you heard either,” she points out with asperity.

  “No. But I still want to talk to you.” Please, please, please let me talk to you.

  “No.”

  “Come on, Bren,” I say, softer now. “I’m not going to shame you…” Her snort rings loud and long in the night air. Okay, I deserve that. I’ve shamed her before, in lots of different ways. Remorse fills me. “I swear I’m not. I’m not going away either. So you might as well hear what I have to say before you slap me upside my head.”

  Brenna rolls her eyes. “I detest physical violence.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But for you, I’ll make an exception.”

  A grin erupts. “You’ll make it hurt so good, won’t you, Berry?”

  “Argh!” Despite her exclamation, I see the small smile trying to break out. It feels like a small victory to coax that from her.

  I’m still chuckling when we arrive at her building and the doorman opens the door for us.

  “Ms. James. Mr. Peterson.” He gives us a nod.

  “’Sup, Tommy. You got any comment about last night’s game?”

  Tommy’s deadpan expression doesn’t change. “None that I’m willing to give, sir.”

  Saluting him, I step into the lobby and catch Brenna’s narrowed gaze.

  “How do you know my doorman’s name?”

  I can practically hear the frantic thoughts running through her head. I’ve visited many times—not on my own but when she hosts get-togethers and dinners. Certainly not enough to know her night doorman.

  Leaning past her, I push the number to her floor. “I saw Tommy at the Garden during a Knicks game and invited him to sit with me.”

  Killian, Whip, Jax, and I have season tickets on the floor. Not all of us go to every game, and those empty seats are a waste. Stella, Jax’s girl, has been running charity raffles and giving tickets to winners. Once a month, we’ll also take kids who need a little more joy in their lives—either because they’re sick, have mental health issues, or come from broken or disadvantaged homes—to the games. I love those nights and learn something new from those kids every time.

  Brenna makes a noise in the back of her throat but doesn’t comment as we step into the elevator and ride in silence to her floor. Not speaking isn’t a good thing right now. I’ve been alone in an elevator with Brenna before, but it’s never felt this loaded, the air thick with suppressed tension. It’s crawling along my skin and plucking at my insides.

  She needs “truly great, blow-your-mind, ‘gotta have that again and again or you’ll die from wanting it’” sex.

  My skin draws tight. Damn, I want that too. I just didn’t realize how much I needed it until Brenna spoke those words. Overheated, I draw in a deep breath. Mistake. Brenna’s perfume tickles my nose. She doesn’t have a signature scent but wears different ones for different moods. Unfortunately, I know them all. Over the years, I’ve figured out what mood she’s in depending on what fragrance she chooses.

  Tonight’s scent smells of ripe peaches drenched in honey, dark rum, and good tobacco. In theory, that combination should not work, but in reality, it’s pure sex. All I can think of are hedonistic days of lying between a pair of thighs under a Caribbean sun while savoring the luscious taste of slick and swollen…

  I cough and stand up straight. Down, boy.

  Brenna shoots me a look. “Did you just choke on your spit?”

  Drool. Lust-induced drool. And thank you for that.

  “No. Just a random cough.”

  “Hmm.” Her eyes narrow as she peers up at me. “You’re not getting sick, are you?”

  “Why?” I lean in—like a fool, because it’s never a good idea for me to get too close to Brenna James. “Would you wipe my fevered brow if I were?”

  “I’d tell you to go home before you infect me. I can’t afford to get sick.”

  “Now, Berry,” I say as the elevator door opens on her floor. “You know perfectly well that, to pick up my germs, we’d have to get much closer than this.”

  Brenna rolls her eyes, and she’s off again—click-click, clickety-click. It’s the little clickety-click that always hooks me. An audible clue that she adds an extra sway to every other step. I’m not going to admit how many times I’ve watched her walk to figure that bit out.

  When we get to her place, she punches in her security code with lightning-fast speed then flings the door open and strides in, leaving me to hustle behind her or have the door shut in my face.

  To step inside Brenna’s place is to be enveloped by her. It always smells of fresh roses, not overpowering but clean and sweet. The prewar apartment has classic moldings and high ceilings and is decorated in creamy whites and shades of gray with bursts of pink, green, and gold as accents. All very understated luxury. Except for the long empire-style sofa upholstered in leopard-print velvet that sits in the center of her living room—a little visual jolt that thumbs its nose at all that careful coordination and draws the eye with its quirky, glam style. Kind of like Brenna herself.

  She rests her pert little butt on the rolled arm of the sofa and crosses her slim legs at the ankle, those killer heels digging into the thick pile carpet. “I’m tired and have a date with Paul Hollywood.”

  A choking laugh falls out of me. “Paul Hollywood?”

  “Yes. He’s a judge on The Great British Baking Show.”

  “Oh, I know the show.”

  Brenna’s brow quirks. “You watch it?”

  “What’s with the shock? I love baked goods. Gotta feed this body to keep it in optimal shape.” I rub my abs.

  Brenna doesn’t take the bait and look. She simply stares, not bothering to conceal her impatience. Thing is, now that I’m here alone with her, my confidence is unraveling like bad reverb. Shit. The silence goes from awkward to stifling. Heart thumping in my ears, skin still hot, I think of how the hell to start.

  Brenna sighs. “I didn’t—”

  “I understand,” I blurt out.

  She pauses, her amber eyes rounding. “I’m sorry, what?”

  All in, Ryland. Go all in. “I understand where you’re coming from.”

  Brenna crosses her arms, protecting herself, blocking me off. “Oh, you do, huh?”

  “Well, yeah.” I take a step toward her. “I’m a famous guy who loves sex.”

  “No shit.”

  “Hey, I’m not trying to hide it. Why shouldn’t I—we—love sex? Sex is great.” Brenna’s deadpan expression tells me I’m a sinking ship. I take another slow step closer—no need to put her even more on the defensive by rushing this. “But finding someone to trust? Someone willing to tell me what she truly likes—”

  “Oh, no,” she cuts in with a choked laugh, shaking her head. “No, no, no. Do not even go there.”

  I can’t stop myself. “You don’t know what I’m going to say.”

  “Unless it’s about what to get Scottie for his birthday, I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Easy. Handkerchiefs from Henry Poole.” I shrug at Brenna’s obvious surprise. “Boring, I know. But Scottie loves those things. And, you’re right, that wasn’t what I was going to say.”

  “Rye, no.” She holds up a hand. “Just don’t.”

  “You’d rather go to an escort service?” I’m trying hard not to sound panicked at the notion. “Risk all the things that could go seriously wrong with that? Risk your safety?”

  Wrong thing to say. Her auburn brows lower. “You would focus on that. It’s none of your business.”

  “We established that. But, I’m your friend—”

  “We fight all the time.”

  “Yeah, we fight. And, yeah, you’re annoying.” She purses her lips in clear irritation, but a flash of acknowledgment makes me fight a smile. Bicker though we may, we know each other well. “I care about you, Bren. If something happened to you, it would tear me up.”

  The silence that follows is so absolute, the honking from cabs fifteen stories below rings loud and clear. Brenna’s obvious shock is another blow. For fuck’s sake, did she really think I didn’t care? She’s Killian’s cousin. That alone would make her important to me. But she’s also a major part of my life. For better or worse, we’ve been in each other’s pockets since we were headstrong teens.

  Despite my best effort to keep quiet, I grumble low in my throat. To my horror, it sounds a lot like hurt. Damn it.

  Brenna bites the corner of her bottom lip—something she does when she knows she’s stuck her foot in it. Then she sighs. “Of course, I’d care if something bad happened to you.”