Exposed (VIP Book 4) Read online

  “There’s no need to feel ashamed.”

  “I’m not ashamed.”

  His black brow quirks. “Your blush tells me otherwise.”

  Curse my pale hide. “Is this your bartender shtick?”

  “Shtick? What do you mean?”

  “Ten years of living on and off in New York and you don’t know what ‘shtick’ means,” I mutter. “Are you the counseling bartender now?”

  His smile is quick and ruthless. “Actually, I was thinking this was more the role of a shadchan.”

  “A what?” And then it hits me that he’s used a Yiddish word—one I don’t know. The little shit has been playing me.

  Lips twitching, he leans closer. “There’s someone I think you should meet.”

  “Oh, hell.” Horror threatens to swallow me whole. “You’re matchmaking?”

  Scottie winces at my screech. “I wouldn’t normally, but I believe you two would hit it off.”

  “Kill me now,” I mutter. “Just kill me and feed my body to the wolves.”

  “I believe you mean to the hyenas. They prefer carrion.”

  “Scottie,” I grind out. “I’m about ten seconds away from killing you.”

  His eyes gleam with evil mischief. “Make up your mind, Ms. James. Is it you or I who should be murdered?”

  An arm brushes against mine. “Why are you guys talking about murder?” Rye asks with an amused laugh.

  I’m in hell. Who knew it served such good drinks? Shooting Scottie a glare, I answer Rye. “Doesn’t everyone talk about murder at some point?”

  “I don’t know…” Rye scratches the dark-gold beard on his chin like he’s thinking about it, when I know he is not. He gives me a sly smile. “You seem to be inordinately preoccupied with murder.”

  It’s so weird seeing him in the flesh now, I don’t know where to look. I aim for somewhere around his ear. “Oh, please.”

  He shakes his head. “You’re always threatening to kill me.”

  Scottie raises his Manhattan in cheers. “The woman is extraordinarily bloodthirsty.”

  I huff out a laugh. “First off, everyone wants to kill Rye.”

  “True,” Scottie concedes.

  “Hey!” Rye scowls at us.

  “And I wouldn’t be throwing stones.” I point my glass at Scottie. “There are Instagram accounts devoted to the people you have made cry in public.”

  Rye grins wide. “Didn’t you start most of those accounts, Bren?”

  I shrug. “If the content is real, does it matter?”

  “Good point.”

  “Your attempts at shaming are wasted on me.” Scottie turns to mix another drink. “I enjoy making entitled gits cry.”

  “It’s a form of relaxation for Scottie,” Rye agrees with a nod. “Thing is, Brenna loves doing that as well. It’s like you two are the evil Wonder Twins. Partners in terrorizing the music world.” His gaze bounces between Scottie and me. “So, why does Brenna want to kill you?”

  I glance at all available exits. It won’t do any good. Rye will find me.

  Scottie sets a cocktail before Rye.

  “Your cocktail of choice is a Moscow Mule?” I blurt out when Rye gives a smile of thanks and takes a drink. Honestly, these past few years, I rarely see him drink any alcohol other than a beer or a few shots of whatever liquor is on hand.

  “It’s refreshing.” Rye gives me a sidelong look. “And stop trying to change the subject.”

  Damn it, he’s like a tick on a dog’s butt.

  “Brenna objects to my matchmaking efforts.”

  Scottie might as well have dropped a stink bomb. Rye’s nostrils pinch on an indrawn breath. I hold in a curse and force myself to act natural, knowing I’m doing a shit job of it, knowing Scottie is far too observant.

  Rye leans an elbow on the bar top. “Matchmaking isn’t your usual style.”

  I give Rye credit. He’s clearly trying to appear unaffected; his smile holds its usual smirk, and his stance stays relaxed. The problem is, if it’s clear to me that he’s upset, then it’s obvious to Scottie. We all know one another too well, which is both a gift and a curse.

  Scottie’s eyes narrow a fraction, then his expression smooths out. “I loathe the very idea of matchmaking.”

  “Then why are you doing it?” Rye retorts.

  They’re both staring at each other like gunslingers in a cheap Western. I want to run away from this nightmare, but I’m pathetically frozen in place.

  A sly curve twists Scottie’s lips. “I’m a problem solver.”

  “Oh, God,” I moan, unable to help myself. “Make it stop.”

  Rye eyes me and offers a fake frown of concern. “You got a problem, Bren?”

  He knows very well what my problem is: him.

  “Need a little loving?”

  I glare at his smug face. “Yes. And since Scottie cares, he’s going to procure a fine piece of ass for me. Aren’t you?”

  Scottie’s grin is a quick flash of calculated evil. “Of course, love. Let’s bring him over so you can have a look.”

  “What?” Blood rushes to my toes. “Now?”

  No, no, no…

  “Yes, now.” He quirks a black brow. “I told you there was someone I wanted you to meet.”

  “I thought you meant to give me his number.”

  “And not be there to intervene if you don’t find him acceptable? I don’t think so.”

  Before I can stop him, Scottie turns and hails someone in the crowd.

  Rye laughs, though there’s an edge to it that prickles along my skin. “This should be interesting.”

  He sounds like he’s gritting his teeth. Good. We can suffer together. I shoot him a quelling look then straighten my shoulders. When there’s no escape, the only thing to do is let it ride. I can’t imagine who Scottie has in mind; I’ve vetted the guest list. But there are always a couple of strays invited last minute by one of the guys. I never suspected Scottie would offer an invite; the man basically hates everyone.

  Despite the agony of this public matchmaking spectacle playing out in front of Rye, I’m now curious. Who the hell would Scottie like enough to set me up with? Because I know one thing to be true: he would never do this unless he was serious. But I don’t turn to see whoever it is that he’s called over. Neither does Rye. He watches me from under his lashes. White edges his knuckles as he grips the copper mug of his drink.

  In my head, his offer makes a mockery of my outward calm. I want it to be me. I want to be the one you use.

  Damn it all, I actually feel guilty, as though I’m somehow cheating on him. But I haven’t accepted his offer. I don’t even know if I’ll like Scottie’s friend. All I know is that I want to be anywhere but next to Rye right now.

  I’m ready to tell him to go away, stop with the disapproving silence, when someone steps up to the bar next to me. And then my mind blanks because, holy hell, he is gorgeous. With dark-blond hair the color of butterscotch, lake-blue eyes, and an easy smile that promises a good time, the guy towers over me. He’s built like a boxer, lean but stacked with muscles that strain his shirtsleeves.

  “Marshall,” Scottie says by way of introduction. “This is my mate Rye Peterson, bassist for Kill John. And this is my better business half, Brenna James, publicist for Kill John.”

  Marshall reaches out to shake Rye’s hand. “Huge fan, man.”

  “Thanks. Good to meet you.” Rye’s answering smile is tight. The ropy muscles along his arm shift and bulge when he shakes Marshall’s hand, and it hits me like a slap. They look so similar, both in face and form, they could be brothers.

  Heat swarms my cheeks, and I glance at Scottie. The bastard is smugly composed. But I know he’s done this on purpose, dangling a Rye doppelgänger in front of me like a dare.

  Marshall turns toward me and smiles. It’s a great smile, warm and friendly, with just enough interest to flatter. “Ms. James, I’ve wanted to meet you for some time.”

  “Have you?” My mind sticks on his name.
It sounds familiar. And then it hits me. “Marshall Faulkner, from Artists Inc.?”

  “The very one.”

  Wow. Faulkner is one of the top artist managers in Hollywood. His clients are legends. Hell, he is a legend.

  “I thought you’d be older,” I blurt out.

  Marshall laughs as I wince.

  “God, that was rude. I’m sorry.”

  Thankfully, he doesn’t appear offended but truly amused. “No, no, I get that a lot.”

  “It was still rude.”

  He leans against the bar. “Scottie said you were wonderfully blunt. I like that.”

  I’m painfully aware of Rye staring at me, but I ignore him. “What else has Scottie been telling you?”

  Scottie merely grunts. The sound I know to mean: Fishing, Brenna? How needy. Yeah, well, my ego needs the occasional stroking. Sue me.

  “All good things,” Marshall says. “But, really, your work record caught my eye long ago.” At this, he glances at Rye. “Kill John is arguably the biggest band in the world right now…”

  “No arguing about it,” Rye quips. “It is.” His voice has dropped about two octaves and is hard as concrete. I have no idea if he realizes this. Right now, there’s a wall of humming tension dividing us even though he’s standing so close, his arm brushes my shoulder when he reaches for his drink. His proximity to me is far too possessive. And irritating.

  “Fair enough,” Marshall says easily. He smiles down at me. “Let’s just say I’m impressed with your work.”

  Rye makes a noise under his breath. It’s intelligible, but I swear I hear it as “I’ll bet.” The urge to elbow him is high. Instead, I focus on Marshall. “Likewise.”

  “I’d love to trade notes.” He shakes his head slightly as if he’s laughing at himself. “No. That’s terrible. It’s a party. Here’s to not working.” He salutes me with his beer bottle, and I raise my glass.

  “Hear, hear.”

  “Let’s talk of more pleasant things. Such as, do you care for tacos?”

  “Tacos?” I chortle. “Random but, yes, I love a good taco.”

  Blue eyes crinkle with mirth. “Why, so do I. We have exceptional tacos in LA. But I’m willing to go in search of some here if you’d like to join me.”

  “A taco hunt?”

  “If you’re willing?”

  Rye lets out a breath, the sound just shy of a snort. “I’m going to get some air. Maybe give Jax a run for his money on the dance floor.” Tight lines bracket his mouth as he nods toward Marshall. “Nice meeting you, man.”

  I don’t watch Rye leave, but I feel the separation between us with an intensity that unsettles me to the core. My teeth hurt from the effort of maintaining my smile. I probably look deranged, but Marshall simply eyes me with interest, patiently waiting for me to answer. What had we been talking about?

  Tacos. Right. A date.

  On paper, Marshall Faulkner is perfect: hot, successful, and slightly dorky. I’ve admired his work for years and would love to talk to him about it. I even get a pleasant warm tingle in my belly when I look at him. Sure, it’s no wild flip, skipped heartbeat, fluttering pulse, can’t decide if I want to strangle him or kiss him. But that’s a good thing.

  So why am I still smiling up at him like a frozen doll? Snap out of it, girl. This is the first good date prospect you’ve come across in months. Get on it. Not all great loves start with a bang.

  The sharp spike of my heel hits the floor with a definitive click—a trick I cultivated to keep my focus when all else fails. It has the expected effect: I stand a bit straighter, thrusting my boobs out and lifting my chin. Marshall’s eyes dilate.

  “I’d love to go taco-hunting with you.”

  “Great. Let’s set a date.” His smile is warm and inviting. He’s a beautifully put-together man. And yet I feel faintly sick to my stomach.

  Freaking Rye.

  Rye

  Fucking perfect. Brenna is making eyes at Mr. LA Charm. Horny, needy Brenna. Shit.

  I need to let this go. Brenna is lonely. Faulkner, though cheesy as fuck with his “let’s hunt for tacos” line, seems like a good guy. Scottie wouldn’t throw him in Brenna’s path if he wasn’t. Maybe he can make her happy.

  One thing is certain, if the guy has any brains, he’ll make a serious play for Brenna. How could he not? She’s smart, has a killer wit, and looks like a wet dream. I nearly swallowed my damn tongue when I saw her poured into a cream-colored dress that hugged her toned body and fluttered around her knees, highlighting her sleek, endless legs.

  She’s wearing yet another pair of killer heels—rainbow patent-leather with red soles. Rainbows, for fuck’s sake. And still, I took one look at those wickedly high heels and instantly wanted them digging into my back.

  Fucking Scottie. Matchmaking? Seriously?

  Never have I wanted to kick his proper British ass more than I do now. Yeah, he’s a bruiser under those damn suits and likes to pit fight for fun, but I’m a grappler; I can take him.

  “Everyone knows the best MMA fighters are grapplers,” I mutter.

  A surprised laugh to my right snaps me out of my fuming haze. A pretty brunette leans against the balcony railing. Tiny tank barely covering her toned belly, tight jeans riding low, and a wide, glossy red smile.

  “I don’t know if you were talking to me, but I agree.” Her wide smile turns seductive, and she tosses a length of silky curls over her shoulder. “Grapplers have the best takedowns. All that sweaty writhing on the floor…”

  Like that, it’s on. She’s looking for a hookup, preferably with one of the band members—because we always get first choice. It’s all right there in her body language and eye contact. I’ve lived this life long enough to know that I could do the bare minimum of mundane flirting, touch her skin—maybe caress her forearm or a fleeting brush along her cheek—to show I’m interested, and I’ll be in like Flynn. That’s not ego talking; it’s experience.

  She turns more fully my way and extends a hand. “Hi, I’m Jenni, with an I.”

  I take her smooth hand in mine. “Hey, Jenni with an I. I’m Rye.”

  My younger self would have done a goofy comeback and said I was Rye with a Y, but I think I might gag if I tried that shit right now. My younger self was a dillhole.

  “I know.” She steps into my space, her lips parting. “I’m a huge fan.”

  She’s beautiful. The fact that she knows a little about mixed martial arts, or is at least willing to humor me, is a plus because I like to at least have some conversation with potential hookups.

  I roll my shoulders to ease the tight ache there and give Jenni a practiced smile. “You like bassists, huh?”

  This particular game of seduction is as easy as sliding into a pair of well-worn jeans. I haven’t had sex in a while. A nice physical release couldn’t hurt.

  Her finger trails down my biceps. “I like you.”

  She doesn’t know me from Adam. But that’s okay. It’s all part of the game.

  I’m so fucking tired of games.

  She’s stroking my arm now, feeling the definition of my muscles. And I’m utterly numb. No, not numb exactly. All of my nerves seem to be focused along my back. The urge to turn around and see what Brenna and Taco Tuesday are doing rides me hard.

  Forget about them. Brenna isn’t interested. She thinks I’m a joke and out to humiliate her, and there’s nothing I can do to make her see otherwise. Focus on the hot chick feeling you up.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Jenni says. “Was that a Moog Modular IIIp you used on ‘Walk on Days’?”

  My attention yanks back with a jolt. Brows raised, I look at Jenni anew. “It was. How did you know?”

  Aside from a few music producers, no one has ever noticed that, much less cared. Even the guys got a glazed look on their faces when I’d set it up and tried to talk about the Moog IIIp’s merits.

  “I teach history of musicology at NYU.” Her smile is wry. “And a class on musical innovations of the twentieth cen
tury.”

  I just got a mental boner. I didn’t know that was possible. “I’ve always wanted to take some of those classes. If only to be in a room with other people who are willing to talk about musicology.”

  “You don’t find that here?” She glances around the terrace that’s filled with music industry professionals and artists.

  “You’d like to think so, wouldn’t you? But no. Not to what my friend Brenna would call the geek level.” Damn it, why did I have to mention her? She was almost out of my head.

  Jenni leans in, resting her elbow against the ledge, which does great things to her cleavage, I’m not going to lie. “From what I’ve heard, you could run a class.”

  Ah. So she knows about my obsession with all things musical. It’s not exactly hidden, but most people tend to ignore that part of me for fear I’ll drop into lecture mode. The threat is real; I love talking about my favorite subject.

  “I’d probably bore your students to death.”

  The tip of her fingernail travels along the clock tat I have on my inner forearm. “You’re kidding, right? They’d be afraid to blink for fear of missing a second.”

  Nice praise. Why doesn’t it do anything for me?

  Something soft and feminine slams into my back, and I turn to find Sophie hanging on to me like a limpet. Big brown eyes glossy from too many cocktails peer up at me from over my shoulder. “Hey there, Rye-Rye. Why are you so big?”

  Snickering, I wing an arm behind me and scoop her off my back before gently setting her at my side. She leans against me, making herself comfortable. I hold on to her shoulder so she won’t stumble. “Three square meals a day and a genetic disposition toward awesomeness,” I tell her.

  She gives me a dopey grin. “Humble Joe. Reliable Rye. Rye the big man pie.”

  Yep. She’s one drink away from being shitfaced.

  “You seen Scottie lately?” I’m guessing no. If he knew she was buzzing, he’d be following her around and glaring at anyone who got too close. He knows she can handle herself, but his wife is his entire world, and bad shit can happen at a party, no matter how well you think you know the guest list.

  “He’s playing matchmaker,” she slurs, as Libby walks over and stands close to her other side.