Exposed (VIP Book 4) Page 4

  He edges closer. “The question is, why do you react with such vehemence when I do it, while the rest of the guys get a pass?”

  Because they don’t get under my skin the way you do.

  He reads the truth in my eyes far too well, and a gleam enters his eyes. “Face it, we react to each other the way we do because we’ve been trying our damnedest to one-up each other.”

  He isn’t wrong.

  His gaze lowers to my lips. “We could meet as equals here. We could…flip that switch.”

  Was it hot in here? How high had I set the heat?

  I push out a breath. “Maybe I’m just not attracted to you.”

  Oh, such the wrong thing to say. We both know it. His eyes narrow, the corner of his lip curling just enough to taunt. When he talks, his voice is an octave lower, almost a purr. “Is that so?”

  He leans in, his head ducking down, closer than he’s ever been to me. When I tense, he pauses, his breath ghosting over the sensitive skin of my neck. “I’m not going to kiss you. I’m just…checking something.”

  He tilts his head, his nose brushing along my jaw. My eyes flutter closed, the urge to lean into him nearly intolerable. The soft touch of his lips on my pulse point makes both our breaths hitch. He sighs heavily, and I shiver.

  “Your pulse is racing,” he says.

  I can’t speak. Can’t move.

  Callused and warm, his big hand finds my smaller limp one. He gently presses my palm into the center of his wide chest. His heart pounds a frantic rhythm that matches my own.

  “Feel that? That’s just from standing close to you.” His voice vibrates against my neck, tickles along my nerve endings. “From me thinking about all the ways I could figure you out, find all the little things that will make you come.”

  My knees go weak, and I sway. Just once. A small movement. But he notices. His grip tightens a fraction, a rumble sounding in his throat. I take a breath, push back. I haven’t fully prepared myself for the heat I see in his eyes, the unapologetic want he’s showing me. I’ve never had it aimed my way. I rest my butt against the counter before I end up on the floor.

  “Now you know,” he murmurs deep and firm. “I’m physically attracted to you. Always was.”

  God. He isn’t supposed to say these things. We have a silent but very clear deal based on mutual loathing and avoidance.

  “This isn’t attraction,” I manage to get out. “It’s agitation.”

  He hasn’t stepped away. He’s still so close our chests nearly touch with each unsteady breath we take. I wonder if he can smell the lie I’ve just told.

  Blue eyes the color of well-worn denim spear mine. “It’s a promise.” The words come down like a hammer. “A promise, Bren, of how fucking good it can be if you just let go of your pride.” With that, he steps back, his hands open and facing out as if showing he’s got nothing to hide. “Think about it, okay? Just…think about it.”

  He leaves without a backward glance. And I curse his name for the rest of the night because I don’t get a wink of sleep.

  Bastard.

  Chapter Three

  Brenna

  “Rye isn’t here,” Sophie says with an exasperated sigh.

  The tip of my Jimmy Choo Love pump beats a rapid tattoo on the polished concrete floor of the photo studio. I take a moment to admire them—bright yellow leather with a white pointed tip and an elegant black heel. The other pump is white with a black tip and a yellow heel.

  Something in me calms, as it always does when I admire my shoes.

  Vain, yes. But for a girl who grew up with nothing, while watching her rich cousin and his friends get everything, the luxury of being able to buy beautiful shoes for myself is something I’ll never take for granted. Silly as it may seem, just the knowledge that I can afford these shoes, that I made it to this place through my own hard work, puts everything back into focus. More than any other arsenal in my wardrobe, my shoes have become a talisman of sorts, able to bring me comfort, take away my fears, and soothe my nerves.

  So, yes, I stare at my shoes and quietly release the urge to strangle Rye. Because, when he’s late for a band photoshoot, we all have to wait. Sophie has a babysitter who’s on the clock, and the rest of us have various other appointments we have to attend later. But here we are, sitting around waiting for Rye to get his ass to the studio.

  Whip and Jax are playing Minecraft in the small lounge we have set up. They’re arguing about the architecture of the Fortress of Solitude they’re building. Scottie is half on the phone, half watching them and muttering pointers. Killian is on a chair, idly strumming “Stairway to Heaven,” which the guys find hilarious. I know there’s probably some musician joke in this, but I’m too annoyed to remember it.

  “He’ll show,” I say, silently cursing Rye in my head. I haven’t seen him since he dropped the sex bomb on my head last night, and I’m not exactly keen on coming face-to-face with him. Even so, we have work to do, and he needs to get his act together. Not that this is anything new for him. Rye is unreliable. Which is why, when I told him I couldn’t fully trust him, I wasn’t blowing hot air.

  “He hates having his picture taken.” Sophie seems more amused than offended. She sets down her camera and runs a hand through her hair. It’s nut brown at the roots, lightening into marshmallow white at the tips. “Funny thing is, when I started, it was Killian who was most resistant to photos.”

  “That’s just because he was being an ass.” I smile wryly. “Just like Rye.”

  Sophie shakes her head, sending the pale strands of her hair swaying over her shoulders. “I don’t think it’s that. With Rye, I mean.” She picks up a bottled iced tea and takes a long drink. “Something’s going on with him lately.”

  Everything in me freezes in cold horror as if somehow the entire band, all our friends, know what happened last night. My heart clenches with the fear that the next words out of Sophie’s mouth will be to ask me what’s up.

  But she simply caps her tea and looks thoughtful. “He seems…off.”

  “Does he?” I hadn’t noticed. Which is strangely upsetting, because I should notice. It’s my job to notice everything about my boys. Not that I like to think of Rye as “my boy” but… I shake off my wandering thoughts and tap my toe again.

  “He used to be larger than life, the first one to stick his face in my camera…” Sophie grins. “Waggling his tongue and saying something wildly inappropriate.”

  “Inappropriate is kind of his thing,” I say dryly.

  She shakes her head fondly. “He reminds me of me, so I can’t throw stones. We’re both like these eager puppies, wanting attention, but when we have it, we don’t know what to do with it.”

  My tapping toe stills. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but you’re right.”

  She hums in agreement. “But now? Rye’s gone quiet. Like he’s drawing in on himself.” Her brown eyes meet mine. “You know?”

  I didn’t. Not until Sophie pointed it out. An uncomfortable emotion—prickly and itchy, like the weaker cousin of jealousy—fills my insides. Sophie noticed but not me. Deep down, or maybe not so deep, I thought I was the one who paid the most attention to Rye and how he acted.

  I don’t want to consider why that is. I don’t want to think about how he was in my house, asking to be the one that gets to fuck me, and I’d never suspected anything deeper was going on with him.

  I make a noise of agreement and act like I’m fine. Everything is fine. But it’s not. Everything is off and twisted, and where the hell is Rye, anyway?

  My silent scream of frustrated worry cuts short as the elevator dings, and Rye struts into the loft.

  “Finally.” Killian sets his guitar down.

  “Sorry,” Rye mutters, not sounding exactly sorry. He’s not looking at anyone but is focused on carrying a large tray of takeout cups in his hand. “This took a little longer than expected.”

  “This” being the takeout. Instantly, I feel like an ass for cursing him. He sets his mess
enger bag down then starts handing out drinks. I feel even worse when it’s clear he got everyone their favorite.

  “With a twist of lemon,” Scottie says, impressed but trying not to show it as he sips his Earl Grey.

  “Without the lemon, you don’t achieve the proper snooty lip pucker,” Rye says with a wink.

  Whip and Jax snicker. Scottie drinks his tea.

  Rye approaches me last. It’s a struggle to maintain a neutral facade. It gets more difficult as he draws near. His presence takes away my air. He’s just too much. Too big, his body too strong and tight. His voice too deep—not a bass but a low baritone that has a tendency to vibrate along my skin when he’s near.

  My gaze slides away from his knowing blue eyes, skids along the perfection of his round biceps, and halts on the drink in his large hand. It’s wrapped in a thick cloth napkin to keep it warm.

  “You see,” he says in that low, rumbly voice, speaking only to me. “There’s only one coffee shop that makes a truly exceptional flat white, and it’s thirty blocks from here.”

  My gaze flies up to collide with his, shock parting my lips. Months ago, I’d said Nova Coffee was the only place I’d found that makes the perfect flat white—“a truly exceptional one.” Rye went thirty blocks out of his way to get me one.

  His expression is bland, but there’s a small spark in his eyes as he hands me my coffee. A peace offering? An acknowledgment?

  Numbly, I take it, still staring back at him. We’re far enough from the rest of the group that they can’t hear us, but it doesn’t shake the sensation of being stuck under a blinding spotlight.

  “Got you one of those lemon butter cookies you like as well.” Quietly, he slips a small bag into my nerveless grip.

  But not covertly enough.

  “How come Brenna gets a cookie?” Whip complains.

  Rye keeps his gaze on me and raises his voice enough to answer. “She’s the one most likely to kick my ass for being late.”

  “I thought that was Scottie,” Jax says, his green eyes impish.

  Rye doesn’t blink. “He got his twist of lemon.”

  “Well done, you.” Scottie lifts his tea with a small salute. Rye managed to remember that Scottie—the ultra-snob—likes his tea in a ceramic container.

  How do you fault an effort like that?

  “Is this a bribe?” I ask in a low voice.

  That’s how.

  Rye’s expression flickers, the light in his eyes dimming a little. His smile is small and tight. “It’s an extended apology. For the shaming thing.”

  “Oh.” Damn it all, this isn’t what we do. We bicker. Only he’s not playing by our rules. Pressing my lips together, I try to think of something, anything to get us back on familiar ground. But I can’t ignore what he’s done for me. “Thank you. For the coffee. And the cookie.”

  The corner of his mouth twitches, and I know he’s holding in a laugh at my horribly stilted response. Shifting my weight, I clutch my cookie and try again. “It was nice of you.”

  “What bothers you more?” he murmurs idly. “Accepting that I might not be a total asshole? Or the possibility that we might start being nice to each other?”

  A reluctant laugh bubbles up to the surface, but I hold it in. “Right now, it’s a fifty-fifty split.”

  His mouth curls in a lazy grin. “I hope to afford you more clarity in the future.”

  The retort dies in my mouth as realization hits. “Did you just quote Pride and Prejudice?”

  “How many times did you watch that movie on the last tour?”

  Too many, apparently. I stand there, dumbfounded and rudderless in this new Rye world.

  Rye’s attention snags on my parted lips. His lids lower a fraction, and I swear he’s closer. Heat blooms under my silk blouse and tickles my skin.

  “For the record, if I have to resort to bribery,” he whispers. “Then it won’t mean anything.”

  Chapter Four

  Rye

  “Ball!”

  The warning breaks through my fog just a touch too late, and stars explode behind my lids as I’m pinged in the side of my head by a basketball. “Fuck!”

  Laughing, Whip trots over to me. “Dumbass. What the hell are you doing, standing there like a dolt?”

  “Standing like a dolt?” I offer, rubbing my head before bending to pick up the ball. I chuck it back to him as Killian and Jax amble over. They’re both grinning, loving my pain. Assholes.

  “Got good sound out of that head,” Jax says.

  I flip him the bird.

  “You’ve been staring off into space for half of the game.” Killian peers at me. “You high or something?”

  “Just not in the mood to play terrible ball with you guys.”

  Fact is, we pretty much suck at basketball right now. Mainly because Whip is a goof on the court, I’m distracted, my hand fucking hurts, and Jax and Killian keep giving each other advice on what to get their women for Christmas. It’s October, fucking October, and they’re fretting. I’d pity them, except they’re so damn content, I end up envying them instead.

  Which blows.

  A total disaster waiting to happen.

  I wince at the memory of Brenna’s declaration. It’s not like I wasn’t expecting resistance. Or her shock. And she’s likely right. We’re a disaster now. Adding sex to it would be pouring alcohol onto the flames. But none of that stops me from feeling sucker punched. There’s this weird hole of regret and disappointment expanding in my chest. I rub at it as I walk to my water bottle to take a sip.

  Whip reaches for his water and eyes me as he drinks. “Seriously, what’s going on? You look…” His gaze narrows in assessment. “Spooked.”

  “Spooked?” I repeat with sarcasm and toss my bottle into my bag.

  “Yeah. Like you encountered a floating ghost librarian whose face turned into a skeleton right before she tried to jump you.”

  Snickering, I shake my head. “Ghostbusters really did a number on you.”

  “Hey.” Whip points his bottle at me. “You’d piss your pants if that happened to you.”

  “Did you piss your pants when watching that scene?”

  Rolling his eyes, Whip finishes his water. “Stop prevaricating. What’s up?” He’s serious now, frowning with worry.

  We’ve always given each other shit. No one is immune. But after Jax tried to take his own life, things changed. We still give each other shit, but we also make very fucking certain no one is truly hurting. Since I know exactly how awful it feels to worry about one of my boys without knowing how to help, I can’t evade Whip now.

  But I can’t tell him the truth either. Brenna will kill me. As in actual murder.

  I angle away from Jax and Killian. Neither of them has noticed us talking yet—they’re still discussing Christmas—but the fewer people asking me questions, the safer I am.

  “I’m not spooked exactly.” I shrug, scratching the back of my neck. “I just… Shit, I don’t know. It’s like my life was going one direction, and there I was cruising along, content, you know?”

  He nods but keeps silent.

  “And then the thought occurred to me: What if I got off this highway? What if I headed down another road? Even if that road is so curvy, I have no idea where I’ll end up.” With a self-deprecating laugh, I try again. “Shit, I’m babbling nonsense. Maybe I’m just in a rut.”

  I’ve just opened myself wide—shown far more than I’m comfortable with. But this is Whip. Out of all the guys, he’s my closest friend. Maybe it’s because we provide the rhythm and beats in the band and often collaborate. Or maybe it’s because, while Killian and Jax are front and center, taking the lion’s share of the spotlight—and all the crap that comes with it—Whip and I are less scrutinized.

  We’re still famous. Fans will go apeshit if they spot us. But we simply don’t experience the same level of frenzy that Killian and Jax do. There’s a certain freedom in that. Whip and I have always been able to fade into the background and do our ow
n thing. As a result, we hang out a lot more.

  He runs a hand through his black hair, and it stands up in all directions. “We’ve all changed. Why try to fight it?”

  For a tight second, I want to tell him about Brenna. The urge is so great, I can feel the words pushing against my tongue. I swallow them down. Threat of death notwithstanding, it would be a violation of Bren’s privacy.

  “I’m not fighting it. It’s more it finally occurred to me there are things I can’t control. Things that affect my peace of mind. And that sucks.”

  Whip’s eyes narrow again. Cold horror bolts down my spine. He knows this is about Brenna. I know this because we can both read each other like a billboard. It’s all there on his smug yet slightly pitying face. My fist clenches, and I give him a quelling look.

  That he ignores.

  “Man…”

  “Don’t say it,” I cut in.

  “I don’t know what set you off this time,” he goes on as if I haven’t spoken.

  “Nothing set me off.”

  He rolls his eyes, but his expression remains troubled. “She’s a lost cause. You know that, right?”

  His words are a punch in the throat. They spike along my skin with itchy heat and lodge in my chest like a hot, writhing ball. I want to punch back, take him and his truth down a peg. Which isn’t like me. Well, anymore. In my youth, I was a hot-headed asshat.

  I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I know.”

  No use denying or trying to evade anything else. Whip will see right through that bullshit. He eyes me with trepidation, obviously understanding that he’s rubbed me raw.

  My temper snaps. “Stop looking at me like that. I’m not mooning or whatever the fuck you think. You have no idea what you’re talking about this time.”

  “So tell me.”

  “Tell you what?” Killian says, suddenly at Whip’s side. The guy must walk on cat feet or something. Whip and I both visibly jolt.

  “Rye is not mooning over Brenna,” Whip says solemnly.

  He is no longer my best friend.