Exposed by Kristen Callihan

 

 

Chapter One

Brenna

There isa time in a woman’s life when her friends start finding their true loves and suddenly everything is a couple’s deal, complete with private looks and inside jokes that you’re no longer part of, and ugh! Somebody hand me a drink already and get me out of this nightmare.

Not very eloquent, I realize, but that’s my general sentiment at the moment.

I mean, who among us hasn’t watched the great Adam Sandler bellow “Love Hurts” in The Wedding Singer and empathized? Maybe that’s just me. God, I hope it isn’t just me.

Not that I don’t believe in love; I dwell under the blinding light of its shining splendor almost every day. I see the happiness being in love has brought my friends. I’m a believer. But after years of dating, years of searching for that spark and getting only tiny flickers, I’m done waiting.

More to the point, I’m busy.

Even so, I’m in a tetchy funk as I head into my favorite neighborhood bar for a much-needed vodka tonic.

Thankfully, my still-single—and thus not moony-eyed—friend Jules is waiting for me in a booth near the back. It’s Thursday night and crowded with young professionals like myself who just want to let loose and perhaps get laid if opportunity strikes. Unfortunately, I’m also done with hookups. They’ve given me nothing but annoyance and mild regret. The kind you have when you order the dinner special because it sounds fantastic, but it ends up leaving you with raging heartburn.

“Hey,” Jules says with a smile. “I’ve already ordered for us.”

After three years of working together, she knows exactly what I like to drink. And I could kiss her right now for saving me from needing to flag someone down. “You are a goddess of the highest order. You know that, right?”

“Of course, I do. You’re in a mood, aren’t you?” Jules asks as I plop down opposite her.

“I just came back from dinner with Jax, Stella, Sophie, Scottie…” I hold up a finger to ward off her comment. “And Killian and Libby.”

Jules’s nose wrinkles in sympathy. “Stuck in a lovefest, eh?”

“You know it.” And she does. Jules and I both work for Kill John, the best rock band in the world—that’s fact, not opinion, if anyone asks. I’m the head of publicity, and Jules is an assistant to Scottie.

Singer-guitarist Killian is my cousin, and he’s married to Libby, who is an exceptional singer in her own right. Jax, also singer-guitarist, is now living with his girlfriend, Stella, who handles our charity fundraising efforts. And band manager Scottie is married to the band photographer and social media liaison, Sophie. I love my guys. I love my ladies. All of them are my closest friends. That doesn’t mean they don’t get on my nerves now and then.

A server drops off our drinks, and I take a long, cooling sip of vodka tonic before sighing in contentment.

Jules toys with the little spear of cranberries in her pink martini. “How did you end up being the oddball out? Where were Whip and Rye?”

Whip and Rye make up the other two members of Kill John. Whip, the drummer, is a sweetheart but is becoming more and more distant from the rest of us. “Whip is nursing a cold and didn’t want to risk anyone else getting sick.”

I’d missed hanging out with him, but I have the feeling that, like me, he’s weary of all the couple love.

Jules raises an expectant brow. “And Rye?”

Rye. The bass guitarist. The ass. The constant thorn in my side.

Rye and I can’t spend more than ten minutes together before wanting to kill each other. I guess we both get off on it. It isn’t productive, but we haven’t found a way to stop.

“Date,” I grind out. “If you can call any of his encounters ‘dates.’” Which I don’t. I don’t care who he does or how many he does. I do care, however, about putting sex before our family dinners. Because that’s what we all are: a family of our own making. Not that I particularly want Rye in my family. But the rest of my family loves him, so he’s part of it, for better or worse. The least he can do is show up.

Scowling, I take a sip of my drink. I’m not going to let him get me worked up when he’s not even around. He doesn’t get any more space in my head than he’s already claimed.

“Dinner was fine, really.” My shoulders slump. “I’m just…jealous.” God, that stings to say.

Jules leans in, her pretty brown-hazel eyes shining in sympathy. “You want to fall in love.”

It feels as though the entire bar holds its breath, which is weird since no one is paying attention to us. Or maybe it’s just the way Jules watches me intently. I find myself laughing, the sound full of snark.

“God, no.” When she gives me a dubious look, I laugh again, this time more easily. “No, really. It’s not that. It’s…” I take a deep breath. “I’m jealous of their sex lives.”

Jules blinks, her lips twitching. “You’re jealous that they’re having sex? Because, you gotta know, if you want sex, it’s pretty easy to get it around here.” She sweeps a slim hand in the direction of the bar. “We’re in a virtual buffet of hot singles. Great sex at the ready.”

“At the ready” is true enough. Both of us are attractive. Jules, with her sandy-brown skin, high cheekbones, and lush lips, could grace a magazine cover. She’s been drawing looks of interest the whole time we’ve been here.

As for me, I don’t know if it’s my resting bored face or the fact that I favor pencil skirt suits, sky-high heels, and sleek ponytails, but I tend to attract businesspeople. Arty types don’t seem to know what to do with me, which is fairly ironic since I spend much of my life around musicians, producers, and artists. Even so, if I want sex, I can find it easily. Great sex, however, is another story.

“Please tell me you don’t actually believe that, Ju-Ju.” I stab one of the lemons floating in my drink with a straw. “The great sex part.”

“You’ve never had great sex?” she asks, clearly on the edge of pitying me. Maybe she should.

“You have?” I counter. “I mean, truly great, blow-your-mind, ‘gotta have that again and again or you’ll die from wanting it’ sex?”

At this, Jules stares into her glass then sighs and looks back up at me. “No, damn it. Not like that. I’ve had good, but not transcendent.”

Nodding, I lean forward until we’re both half-hunched over our table. “I’ve had good sex too. But most of the time, the guy has no idea what the hell he’s doing. It’s all pump and dump. And I’m left unsatisfied.”

Her nose wrinkles. “Maybe we should be with women.”

I shake my head. “You’d think having the same equipment would give women a leg up, but I’ve had the same frustrations in that department.”

I swear I hear someone choke on their drink behind me. I want to roll my eyes. This is Manhattan, and if a dude can’t deal with overhearing a frank conversation, he’s not going to make it in this city. Besides, my sexuality isn’t something I’ll ever be ashamed of. In general, I tend to gravitate toward men, but I also think attraction is a fluid notion, and that, for me, it isn’t confined to one gender.

“Some women are just as selfish and clueless as men,” I say. “Believe me, there’s no golden ticket when it comes to finding great sex.”

Jules’s eyes go wide. “I don’t know if I should be jealous of all your experience or thankful I don’t have it, given what you’re saying.”

I find myself grinning, but it fades quickly. “Definitely don’t be jealous.”

I’m still alone and still unfulfilled. Actually, it kind of blows to realize I’ve struck out with two genders.

“I’m serious, though,” I say, frowning now. “Whatever the gender, whatever the sexual orientation, we all suffer the same pitfalls and have to weed through the same bullshit when it comes to finding happiness.”

“Well.” Jules sits back against the booth. “I guess we’re doomed, then.”

I sit back as well, letting the sounds of the bar move over me. I’m tired, and my feet are aching to be free of the heels I stuffed them into eight hours ago. Not for the first time, I consider no longer wearing them. But they are, in a very real way, defensive weapons, armor against a business that is ruthless.

My aunt Isabella, a famous fashion model, bought me my first pair of heels—black patent leather Manolo Blahnik Mary Jane pumps. She told me then that, whether we like it or not, women in the entertainment industry would always be judged by their appearance, and underestimated, compared to their male counterparts. But put on a pair of killer heels with a sleek suit and the naysayers would be too dazzled to notice you climbing over them. She’d taken me under her wing back then, taught me about fashion, poise, how to handle obnoxious assholes, how to charm people. Mercenary, but I found her lessons to be painfully true.

Over the years, I had to cover myself in a shell of icy perfection. My power is in maintaining the illusion that nothing can get to me, and I accept that as part of doing business. But some days? Some days, I want to crumble. I want…comfort, touch, release.

I should go home and crawl into bed. But I can’t shake the restless feeling swelling within me.

I catch Jules’s eye, and my shoulders slump. “I know we’re not supposed to admit this for fear it might make us sound pathetic or some other bullshit, but I’m horny. Not in a general, I-want-to-have-sex way, but in a deep, irritating, can’t-stop-thinking-about-it way. I ache, you know? As in, I go through the day actively hurting for release.”

Jules watches me with solemn eyes as if she knows at least a little about that pain.

Shaking my head, I go on. “And, yeah, I can take care of it myself. Hell, I’m so good at it now, it’s only a minute or two before I get off. But it isn’t the same as feeling someone else’s hands on my body, not knowing exactly where they’ll touch me next or how. It isn’t the same as being mouth-to-mouth, skin-to-skin, sweaty and frantic.”

My smile is wry, but my heart hurts. “I’m twenty-eight years old. I am at the top of my profession, have awesome friends, fabulous parties every night if I want to go. I own a kick-ass condo on the Upper East Side and have a shoe closet most women would kill for.”

“Truth,” Jules says with a laugh.

“I have the world at my fingertips. But I can’t fix this problem.”

It pisses me off, this weakness, this damn need that won’t go away.

Jules licks her lips and hums. “Then go find someone tonight. Take the edge off.”

“I’ve tried that. One-night stands aren’t enough.” My fingers curl into the leather booth beneath me. “Truly great sex, for me anyway, takes time. More than one night. More importantly, it takes trust. On both sides. We need to trust each other enough to give and take and learn what really works.”

“In short,” Jules says. “A relationship.”

“Except I don’t want one.” A humorless laugh huffs out of me. “Outside of sex, that is.”

The utter bitch of it is, I know I haven’t explained my problem properly. Yes, there is this need for sexual release, but it’s more. I want that on a deeper level. It’s not the daily minutiae of a relationship I crave, but the simple physical connection. I want to be wanted. Craved above all things. Needed with a breathless devotion.

I want to be seen, not just as a quick fix—but as something essential. And I want to crave someone too. I want to learn their body, know what sets them off, and what brings them to their knees. To own and be owned. But in admitting that, I’ll expose too much of myself, and the hurt of the open wound will be too hard to ignore. “I want the ease and trust of a relationship, but I know I’d utterly fail at a real one right now. Maybe when my life is less about the band…Which it will be never. The band is my life.”

Purple curls bounce as Jules nods. “Friends with benefits, then. Too bad I don’t go for women, because I’d totally offer my services. And I absolutely know what I’m doing.” She grins, all saucy and impish.

“Too bad,” I tease before growing serious. “Maybe I’ll just hire someone.”

Again comes that choking sound from behind me. Or maybe I’m just paranoid. But I lean in a little, drawing away from the seat and toward Jules. “Whip is always going on about that, how it’s safer, and you can control the situation.”

At this, Jules flushes, irritation flashing in her eyes. “Whip is going to end up fronting tabloids. Please tell me you aren’t listening to that boy.”

“I won’t go there. Everything in my life is business. I’m not going to make my sex life another business transaction.” I plop back with a sigh. “But it would solve a lot if I did.”

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.”

“Your enthusiasm is overwhelming. Truly.”

It’s impressive the way she can flip her long ponytail over her shoulder with a slight toss of her chin. I’ve seen that little move countless times and it never fails to amuse me, even when I know I’m about to get a tongue-lashing.

“I’m not feeling very enthusiastic toward you right now,” she says. “However, I’ll put your concern at ease. I’m not going to hire anyone to take care of my needs. Okay?”

I should be relieved. Instead, I am oddly deflated. Not because I want her to do that, but it weakens the case I’ve built in my head. “Oh.”

Her lips quirk. “I guess you didn’t hear that part, huh?”

“Well…uh, no?”

“No?” She tsks. “Your eavesdropping powers are sadly lacking, Ryland.”

A smile tugs at my lips. “Your voice dipped a few times. It was kind of frustrating. Maybe talk a bit louder next time?”

She snorts but then switches back into her all-business mode. “Now that we’ve got that settled, you can leave.”

I should. I should absolutely turn and walk out her door. And I’d regret it forever. “Nothing is settled until you find what you need.”

Red suffuses her cheeks. “Damn it, Rye—”

“I want it to be me,” I blurt without any finesse. I breathe deep and say more calmly, “I want to be the one you use.”

My words bounce between us in syncopated agitation. For once, Brenna is at a loss for words.