Exposed (VIP Book 4) Read online

  “Right.” Killian nods, playing along. “He never does.”

  “Fuck you both.” I say it without much heat. Getting mad never helps diffuse their nosiness.

  Jax ambles over and slings an arm around my neck. “Hey, now, we all know Rye can be an asshole about non-Brenna topics too. The list is endless.” He attempts to put me in a headlock, from which I easily break free.

  “Funny.” Inside, I’m grateful. Months ago, Jax tried to grill me about Brenna, and I asked him to back off.

  “Let’s talk about this lumberjack look you’ve got going.” Jax rubs his palm on my cheek, and I swat him away. “What’s up with the beard, Rye-Rye?”

  “Just felt like growing one.” Not the truth, but it’s yet another thing I don’t want to talk about. When the hell did hanging out with my best friends become something I’d rather avoid? It doesn’t sit right with me. But I can’t shake the feeling.

  “It’s definitely a look.” Killian eyes my growing beard. “A little scraggly, though.”

  “Are we going to start giving one another grooming tips now?” I ask while putting my gear into my bag. I need to get out of here. Be alone until I calm down.

  “You’d have to actually groom yourself once in a while for me to give you tips, big guy.” Killian’s smile is wide and easy. He’s pretty much relaxed and happy all the time now. Which is great for him; he’s getting laid on the regular by someone he loves. Clearly, it works.

  Is that what Brenna meant? That she needed to find the kind of contentment Killian and Jax found with their women? Does sex with someone you care about make so much of a difference? On paper, yeah. Of course, I can understand the logic. But I can’t make the leap into truly believing it. Sex is physical. I know intuitively that it would be better with Brenna, because I want her more than I’ve wanted anyone.

  Brenna never mentioned love. We don’t love each other. But I do care. I’ve always cared about her. How can I not? Officially, she’s the band’s public relations manager, but the truth is, she’s as much a part of the band as any of us. We’ve gone from obscurity to fame together. She’s witnessed the blood, sweat, and tears—hell, not witnessed, she’s experienced them. Brenna and I can bicker like spoiled brats, but I would do anything for her. All this time, I thought she understood that. Sour regret fills my stomach when I think about how much my actions upset her. I feel like a bonehead, an asshole. I want to make it up to her, to prove I’m one hundred percent on her side.

  What if she agrees to give it a try with me and quickly realizes that it’s not going to fill the void in her life? What the fuck do I do then? Because Brenna isn’t one to keep on with something that’s not making her happy. She’ll drop me faster than I can zip my pants up. And shit will get awkward. Fast.

  “You’re zoning out again,” Whip says near my ear.

  The guys are all looking at me with varying levels of amusement.

  Shit. I shouldn’t have gone out today.

  “I’m in a funk. No big deal.”

  I hate the silence that follows. It presses in on my skin and chokes me.

  “Well,” Jax finally says, drawing out the word like he’s struggling to find a topic that will break the awkward-ass tension I’ve dropped on them. “Let’s play ball, then.”

  Good. Great. Anything is better than all this talking.

  I move to grab the ball at my feet. And it happens. My hand seizes up, curling into a claw as white-hot pain shoots from the tips of my fingers up to my shoulder. I go absolutely rigid. The pain is so intense, I can’t move. All I can do is work through it with slow, agonized breaths. No one has seen; it’s only been a few seconds. But it feels like an eternity.

  Casually, as I can, I grab my bag with my good hand and stand upright. Jesus wept, it hurts. Like a molten poker under my skin. “I’m gonna go.” I’m sweating. I know I am. My voice is clipped and tight.

  The guys start to protest, but I’m already backing away. Need to get the fuck out of here. Now. I feel ill. Dizzy.

  Panic attack. Jax has them. He’d empathize. He’d help. He’d ask questions I don’t want to answer.

  Panting, I jog off the court. My hand is still curled into a painful claw.

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  By the time I get a cab and collapse in the back of it with a sigh, my head spins with pain and fear. Slowly, with the cautiousness of a ninety-year-old, I stretch my fingers, wincing at the lingering soreness. I move my index finger the wrong way and wince.

  As soon as I get home, I’ll ice my hand, then follow that with an ointment rub. I could take pain meds, but they don’t fix anything, only mask it.

  Tears smart my eyes, the city a blur outside the grimy cab window. I’m surrounded by millions of people, and I’ve never felt more alone. Cold. Empty. And afraid. Because it’s not getting better. It’s getting worse.

  Brenna

  A sob rips out of me, and I lurch upright in bed, tears rolling down my face. I can’t stop crying. Even as I wipe my cheeks and try to calm my breathing, the utter fear and sorrow won’t abate. Rocking myself in the dark, I cry and cry until my chest hurts and my eyes swell. I don’t need to glance at my phone to know the time. It’s always the same when this happens—4:32 a.m., the very moment I got the call from Killian telling me about Jax, how we almost lost him.

  From that moment on, I have had episodes when stressed, crying jags that tear me out of sleep and leave me decimated. I hate them, but they won’t stop. With a shaky sigh, I flop back on my bed and curl my knees to my chest. I’m freezing cold, from the inside out. The heavy duvet doesn’t help. Nothing will. I’m alone and terrified of some unnamed thing that lives inside me.

  Other people have experienced deep, personal losses in their lives. I haven’t, not really. Not the death of someone I love with all my heart. And I do love Jax. He’s a brother to me. I didn’t lose him, but it was close. Too close. It shattered something in me. I hate that I can’t control this. No matter how many times I tell myself everything is okay now, I can’t actually feel it. Nights like this, when it all comes crashing back in, are the worst.

  I’m so cold, so empty. Scared. I’m scared. Because I am alone, and I don’t want to be. Not right now. I want arms to hold me tight, the warmth of another body pressing into me. But there isn’t anyone I want in my bed with me either. There’s the rub. I want something that doesn’t exist.

  Before, I’d have called Jax, just to hear his voice. Sweet man that he is, he’ll always answer the phone. He never asks why I am calling; somehow, he knows. He simply says, “I’m here, Bren. I’m still here.” That’s enough for me. I’ll tell him I love him and hang up. We never speak of it, never tell the others. But now, Jax has Stella. I can’t call him and wake her too. Besides, I need to cut the cord.

  Doesn’t make the emptiness end, though. For a brief, mindless second, I consider calling Killian. He truly is the closest thing I have to a brother. Growing up together, we’d often have sleepovers. We thought nothing of curling up together in bed and talking about our dreams. His were always grand and colorful but focused on music. Mine were generic—my own horse; kissing Justin Timberlake; making Becky Todd, my archenemy at age ten, eat dirt. Killian’s dreams came true. I followed along for the ride.

  But Killian has someone too. He’s curled up with Libby now, telling her his dreams.

  Do I even have dreams anymore?

  Heaving myself out of bed, I make my way into the kitchen. I know my apartment so well now, I navigate it easily in the dark. Making myself some warm milk with cinnamon and honey and heating a hot water bottle, I stare out the windows to where the city glitters like white diamonds against an indigo sky. It’s a sight I’ve never tired of. But tonight, any excitement I usually feel is gone.

  Unbidden, I hear his voice in my head. It’s a promise. A promise, Bren, of how fucking good it can be if you just let go of your pride.

  “Jesus.” I still can’t believe Rye said all that. It�
��s like some bizarre nightmare. Any time one of our friends even joked that Rye and I were hot for each other, Rye would react with such offended dignity that I started to develop a complex—nipped only in the bud by returning his disdain with equal measure.

  Unease prickles over my skin. He talks of pride. Pride is the only defense I have to protect myself from him. Pride and vigilance. I never let myself slip with Rye. Never let myself think about him as anything other than…What are we to each other? I don’t even know how to define it. He wasn’t exactly my enemy, but we certainly weren’t friends.

  He doesn’t even know why I started to hate him. He only thinks he does. The truth is far more complicated and painful.

  Unbidden the memory comes to the fore as sharp and cutting as it was when it happened.

  “Happy Birthday, Brenna.” Lacey, a sound engineer, gives me a lingering smile as I make my way through the party. There’s been a spark of interest between us, but I push it aside and keep my responding smile light.

  “Thanks.”

  Disappointment flickers in her gaze, but she simply nods as I keep walking. I feel a little bad about it, but since one disastrous and humiliating band meeting where the guys grilled me about my freaking sex life, I made an ironclad rule not to get involved with anyone on the payroll. Scottie once reminded me of the old adage: Don’t shit where you eat. Gross, but true. Getting entangled with someone you have to work with day in and out isn’t a good idea.

  I wish the guys took that to heart. One full tour under my belt, and I’ve already had to deal with tearful encounters with various staff members who fooled around with my bonehead friends. I love them, but they’re idiots most of the time. Well, I love three of them. The other one… Nope, I will not think about him.

  It isn’t easy. Stupid, annoying Rye makes it nearly impossible to ignore him. He’s always there, taunting, teasing, all but daring me to try and forget about him. My face flames with familiar irritation. It’s my damn birthday party, and here I am thinking yet again about Rye Freaking Peterson. No more! That ship is sunk, landed at the bottom of the ocean, and rusted over. His opinion of me means nothing. Nothing.

  I move past well-wishers, people dancing, couples hooking up. I turn a blind eye to the drugs spread out on one table. Jax is chugging a bottle of vodka as a brunette goes down on—fuck, I did not need to see that. I turn from the party and head down a narrow hallway that’s been roped off for all but the band. Kill John has rented the entire top floor party space of the hotel for this stop on the tour, knowing they’d have multiple afterparties and my birthday celebration. Scottie insisted on having a quiet place to unwind and several rooms are ours alone.

  Frankly, I think he’s the only one to take advantage of that, though. The guys have been partying hard and fast. It worries me, sometimes, how they act as if they’re invincible. I’ve already seen enough of the underbelly of this business to know that it will suck you down and spit you out if you’re not careful.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  I stop in my tracks, my heart leaping wildly in my chest. Rye’s voice is unmistakable. And I’m utterly ashamed to admit that, for a hot second, I thought it was directed at me. But no, it came from the open doorway of a small lounge a few feet away. I hear a woman’s pleased laugh, and my stomach sours. Ugh. I don’t want to witness yet another one of his conquests.

  “You are too kind to me, dear boy.”

  My blood runs ice cold. Because I know that voice too. It’s my Aunt Isabella. Alone with Rye the Wonderfuck. What the hell is she doing back here with Rye? I knew she was at the party. Isa is a world-famous supermodel; anytime she enters a room, people notice. We’re in Manhattan where she lives, and she came to say hello. But I had lost track of her hours ago.

  Her laughter, soft with undeniable flirtation, ripples over the silence, and my insides flip.

  With a queasy sense of dread, I edge toward the door, even though my sensible voice is screaming at me to walk away. I’m quiet and slow, and neither of them sees me. But I see far too much. Rye sits in a lazy sprawl against the end of a black leather sofa, his profile to me. There’s a flush of red on the back of his neck and a certain tilt to his head that tells me he’s been drinking too much. No surprise there; all of the guys have been drinking far too much lately.

  The surprise is the way Isa is curled into him, her lithe, toned body practically leaning on his. Oh, God, she’s touching his hair, gently teasing the tips as he smiles at her with a stupid, fucking hazy-eyed grin. “Do you really think I’m beautiful?” she asks in soft wonder. “I’m so old.”

  “You’re not old,” he murmurs. “Any man would be thankful to have you.”

  I don’t hear the rest of what he says, my ears are ringing too hard. My fingers have turned to ice. Jealousy, disgust, rage, disappointment…it’s an oily stew in my gut. I swallow thickly, feeling sick. I watch in mute horror as Rye’s words are cut off by my aunt’s mouth. He makes a noise of what I can only guess as lust as she wraps herself around him and kisses him like he’s…

  With a muffled sob, I wrench myself away and rush back down the corridor. I hate him. He has no shame. No honor. He’s kissing my aunt, his best friend and bandmate’s mom.

  The memory tears away like a bandage ripped off too fast. I take a deep breath to clear my head. But the feeling of that day lingers with sticky fingers.

  Eventually, I let go of what I saw. The health of the band depended on maintaining the status quo. But it broke my trust in Rye. From that day on, I never let him see my deeper emotions. I never let him in the way I let the others. Now he wants in, deep in. Moreover, he wants my trust. I don’t know if I can give him that, no matter how tempted I am.

  I grab the milk and hot water bottle and head for my room. I no longer feel empty and sad. But I still feel alone. And unnerved.

  Chapter Five

  Brenna

  Killian’s loft is filled to capacity, the air humid with the warmth of too many humans and the mingling scents of dozens of perfumes. Usually, these parties are exhausting. But these are our closest friends, fellow musicians, people we’ve met along the way. No one here is worried about being seen or who they should see. They’re just having fun. Sophie, Jax, Libby, and I worked hard to make it that way, only inviting people we knew would get along.

  Though Jax is more of a homebody nowadays, he insisted on having a birthday party for Stella. She spent years as a professional friend—yes, there really is such a thing—but never had any true friendships of her own until Jax came into her life. Add a shitty, neglectful father to the mix, and it meant that Stella never had any birthday parties. Jax wants to give that to her.

  “She needs to see how much she is loved,” he’d said.

  I know for a fact Stella understands how much she’s loved. Jax shows her every day. My cagey, allergic-to-relationships friend has done a complete turnaround to devoted boyfriend.

  On the patio, Jax and Stella dance to The Smiths’ “How Soon is Now?” There’s an inside story to that, I’m certain. Jax requested the song personally, and they’re sharing a look that speaks of intimate connection. Watching them bump and sway, so close they appear as one, both pinches at my chest with undefined longing and makes it swell with happiness for them.

  I turn from the scene and head for the bar where Scottie is making drinks. What few people know is that he tended bar in the early days to keep himself fed and make connections for the band. He’d never been a chatty bartender, but people loved him—maybe because of that. Okay, and probably because he looks like a walking cologne ad. Doesn’t hurt that he concocts excellent drinks, when so inclined.

  He sees me coming and pulls out a bottle of high-end vodka from some hiding place beneath the bar. By the time I lean against the gleaming black marble bar, he’s setting out an icy vodka tonic with peels of lime, lemon, and grapefruit twisted together in an artful multicolored swirl.

  I take a sip and close my eyes for a second. “Despite what I tell the others,
you are my favorite friend.”

  “Obviously,” he says with utter sincerity as he fixes himself a Manhattan with quick and precise moves. Impeccably dressed in a dove-gray bespoke suit and more beautiful than a man has a right to be, he really is something to watch in action. I’m tempted to throw down a tip.

  “This is where you say I am your favorite too.” I take another sip.

  The barest smile curls the corner of his lip. “My dear, there was never any question.”

  “That’s not a real answer, handsome.” Truth is, neither of us is very good at playing favorites, although we’ve tried throughout the years. I settle on a stool with a sigh, and Scottie leans a hip against the bar.

  His cool blue eyes study me, and I resist the urge to squirm. “Should I be concerned?”

  For a hot moment, I fear he knows about Rye’s proposal. But Scottie is the last person Rye would confess to, and if the others knew, they’d have already teased. No, Scottie simply knows me well enough that he’s noticed something is off. This is the problem with being too close to a group of people. Pretty soon, I’ll be facing a group intervention, and I’ll have to run off to Tibet just to get away from all the meddling.

  “You needn’t,” I say with forced lightness.

  “Hmmm.” His eyes squint as he surveys the party and takes a drink of his cocktail. When he looks my way, worry laces his expression. “Whatever it is, I am here for you.”

  God. He’s going to make me cry. My throat clogs, and I hide my distress behind a long swallow. Vodka shoots into my system and warms it up. “Some problems,” I say when I’m certain I won’t sound like a frog, “friends cannot fix.”

  His stern countenance smooths out. “Ah. It’s like that, is it?”

  “Like what?” I huff out a laugh. “I haven’t said anything.”

  “Of course you have. You see your friends settling down. And now you’re thinking about your own love life.”

  “Oh my God. Stop.” How the hell does he do that?