Exposed by Kristen Callihan

Chapter Sixteen

Rye

The thingabout making a deal with the devil is that it’s always for something you want so desperately you pretend the inevitable suffering will be worth it. You make a little deal with yourself first, that you’ll able to handle anything thrown your way.

I shouldn’t liken Brenna to the devil. She’s not the one who came up with this deal. I did. I guess that makes me the devil here. Whatever the case, it’s becoming harder to pretend I’m fine with things as they are.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m mostly in heaven. Because getting to touch Brenna, to see her laugh, to make her moan and sigh, is heaven.

We have fallen into a pattern. We go about our days avoiding each other—or at least I try my best not to text or call her—and then we meet up at night and go at each other like sex-starved animals. Or rather, every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday night. Brenna insists on keeping to the three-nights-a-week rule.

And that? Yeah, that is hell.

I don’t understand it. I was perfectly fine in a no-sex-with-Brenna world. Not happy, exactly. Who is fully happy with every aspect of their lives? But I was fine. I’d live my days and nights without this fucking clawing need to see her, to breathe the same air. Now, I’m a damn wreck on our off days. I walk around like a zombie, not knowing what to do with myself. A permanent ache has taken up residence in my chest, and my skin feels both too cold and too tight.

That’s bad enough. But not as bad as having to publicly pretend that we’re still at odds with each other. That I don’t care about her.

Every time we are together with any of our friends, it gets worse. Maybe it’s just me, but it feels like there’s a spotlight on our shoulders now.

Killian slides me another sidelong look, and I hold his gaze. “What?”

He shrugs. “I thought you said you were sick of tea.”

At my side, Brenna pulls in a short breath, but otherwise she’s completely cool. I, on the other hand, get hot under my shirt, remembering the last time Brenna and I had tea and how that ended with me slowly fucking her for hours.

I level Killian a look. “Then why did you invite me?”

With another shrug, Killian reaches for a macaroon. “I invite everyone. You’ve never accepted before.”

Killian, Brenna, and I are at a small shop that offers high tea every afternoon. I know for a fact that Killian and Brenna like it here because it reminds them of England. Jax and Scottie will join in on occasion. And, yes, upon reflection, it does look weird that I’m here. High tea is not my thing. But it’s Monday, and I suffered through not seeing Brenna on Sunday, so I decided to show up.

I’m regretting that. I thought more people would be here. I thought I’d have a bigger buffer between me and Killian’s watchful eyes. As it is, he’s suspicious, and Brenna’s tense as hell.

“I wanted to see what the fuss was all about.” I pop a tiny goat cheese tart in my mouth and munch on it. The food is surprisingly good, and I guess it’s filling—if you’re a Smurf. “I like it.”

Brenna snorts into her teacup. “Oh, come on. You hate it.”

“I do not.” I grab another tart. “It’s…tasty. And there’s a lot of variety.”

Killian grins. “You make a face every time you pick something up.”

“I’m squinting because they’re hard to see.”

Brenna shakes her head. “Why don’t you order a sandwich? I hear they do a mean roast beef.”

“I do love roast beef. It’s my favorite.”

“I know.” It’s a clear slip of the tongue, and she hides it by helping herself to a slice of lemon cake. But I heard it loud and clear.

She knows my favorite sandwich. Why shouldn’t she? We all know one another inside and out. Still, it throws me for a loop. I never thought she paid any real attention to what I was doing over the years. Her style has always been to ignore me as though I’m a blight in the room. At least that’s what I thought.

Not looking her way, I grab a scone and eat it.

Brenna makes a pained noise. “You’re supposed to break off bites and put them in your mouth one at a time, Ryland.”

I love when she says my full name like she’s a harried schoolmarm. I swallow down my scone before answering. “That was a mouthful.”

Her nose wrinkles, as her eyes light with amusement. “You eat like a pig.”

“I concede that I can be messy, but that’s only because I thoroughly enjoy eating.”

Pink washes over her cheeks, and she shoots me a pointed look. I deserve it; I wasn’t exactly subtle.

Killian snorts and shakes his head. “Dude, you should know better than to try sex jokes with Brenna. She has no sense of humor for them.”

Brenna’s spine straightens. “Excuse me? I am not a prude.”

“You are with us. At least when it comes to that,” he says with a shrug. “You hate it when we talk about sex in front of you.” Stupid man. Does he not know his cousin at all?

Brenna nods as if in understanding. “Ah. I see. So you’d like to hear about the last time a man made a meal of me? Because I must say, he completely devoured me, and it was indeed messy.”

Oh, hell.

Instantly, my mind flashes to the image of me kneeling on the floor between her spread thighs as I devoured her. My cock pushes insistently against my jeans. Despite my discomfort, I grin wide.

Not that Killian notices. He’s twisting his lips in a grimace. “Hell, Bren. You’re putting me off my tea.”

“Am I?” She shrugs delicately. “Funny, I find my appetite increasing.”

I can’t help it. I pick up a scone. “You want one with clotted cream?”

She catches my gaze and grins. “Yes, please.”

We both snicker as Killian throws his napkin on the table with a huff. “Fucking hell. I cannot handle it if you two finally start working together to piss me off.”

Brenna’s laughter dies a swift death, which kills mine too. Because she looks horrified that Killian might actually be thinking of us in terms of allies. I don’t know what to say, but it isn’t a great feeling. It’s far too close to actual rejection.

I fake a casual shrug and smear a big dollop of cream on the scone. “It’s easy enough pissing you off on my own.” Calmly I set the scone on Brenna’s plate.

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

Then the unexpected happens: her fingers drift over my thigh under the table. The touch is fleeting yet distinct. My heart thumps hard in my chest. I’m so aware of her at this point that every time she moves, I catch the scent of her skin and hear the soft hitches in her breath.

Today, her fragrance smells of hot buttered cinnamon-sugar toast and strawberry jam. It makes me want to bury my nose in the crook of her neck and hold her forever.

Unable to help myself, I slowly move my hand up to the back of her chair, hidden from Killian’s watchful gaze. The sleek tip of her long ponytail tickles the tops of my fingers. Blandly reaching for another scone with my free hand, I use the moment to trail my fingers along the length of her ponytail.

She shivers delicately, and the downy hairs along the edge of her neck lift. Immediately, I get fully and achingly hard. I want to wrap my fist around that silken length of hair and hold on tight, work my hard cock into her tight, slick heat. I want to pleasure her body, watch her lips part and sigh my name.

As if she knows the direction of my thoughts, Brenna keeps her gaze firmly away from me. “Have you had enough of my sex talk?” she asks Killian.

“Totally,” he answers far too easily. Then he grins evilly. “Did I ever tell you about Libby’s favorite—”

“Keep going,” Brenna cuts in. “I’m certain Libby will want to hear all about you describing her sex life to me.”

That shuts him up in a hurry. He hunches over his tea with a surly frown. “It’s no fun when you call my bluff.”

I chuckle. “She’s got your number, man.”

He slides me a look filled with aggravation but then smiles. “Always has.” Lightning fast, he reaches out and musses Brenna’s hair, laughing when she squawks and swats him away. “Aw, come on, cuz, don’t be like that.”

“Ass,” she says, smoothing her hair. But there’s a glint of amusement in her eyes.

It hits me how close they are. Sometimes I forget about their connection. Mainly because we’re all so close. But as I am currently sneaking around and doing dirty things to Killian’s cousin, whom he thinks of as a sister, I’m suddenly feeling a twinge of uncomfortable guilt. Not because I think I need permission from Killian or anything; Brenna is her own person. But I’m lying to him, and he cares deeply about her.

Truth is, I don’t like lying to any of them.

Killian takes another sip of tea. “You know I actually invited you—not you”—he glances at me before returning to Brenna— “for a reason.”

“Hey,” I protest.

Killian’s expression turns quelling. “Dude, you couldn’t be bothered to show up for the last two band meetings, and you’re acting outraged because I didn’t expect you here?”

A thick, ugly blackness threatens to close down my throat. I swallow past it. “I told you, I had a headache.”

“Twice in one week?” His snort is dubious and annoyed. “And yet you’re here now. For the food.”

Heat invades my face. Brenna stares at me with a frown, but she doesn’t say a word. I’ve told her I have headaches. I’ve told them all. Evidently, that’s not going to fly. Even so, his implication that I care more about food than I do about the band sets my teeth on edge.

I lean forward, pinning him with a glare. “I didn’t say one fucking word when you went AWOL for an entire summer, drinking your ass off and dicking around. Not one fucking word.”

Killian hisses, but I speak over him. “Because I knew you needed to tap out for a while. Life is sloppy. Sometimes people can’t show. Now, are you going to give me the same courtesy I gave you or pull some diva rock star bullshit?”

Anger sparks in his eyes, and I know he’s about to blow. Good. I need to work off my own steam at this point. But then a cool, smooth hand lands on my forearm. I glance down to find Brenna is holding on to both my arm and Killian’s.

“Cool it,” she says briskly. “You guys hate fighting and will regret what you’ve said later.”

“Call me a diva again and— Ow! Shit, Bren!” Killian rubs his arm where she knuckle-punched it.

“You were being a dick to Rye,” she says, shocking the shit out of me and Killian, who gapes. Brenna’s gaze narrows on him. “You were. We don’t rag on each other for having off days.”

Now I feel like an ass. Because there are no headaches. The urge to hide my hands under the table is both childish and ridiculous. I need to confess to the guys at some point, and I’m being a coward about it.

A mulish frown twists Killian’s lips, but he nods. “Sorry,” he says shortly. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

Given that I hate apologies even more than I hate fighting with my friends, I can only nod back. “From now on, I’ll only call you a diva if you start whining about venues not providing your favorite bottled water.”

He grumbles, clearly ready to complain, but Brenna hoots out a laugh. “Yes, thank you! So sick of that. It’s just water, dude.”

Her smile, aimed at me, is brilliant and impish. And it renders me temporarily speechless, my bones humming as if struck by a tuning fork. She’s smiling at me. In public.

It is a small sun upon my skin. The warmth slides right into my chest and fills it up. I should make some joke, say something about Killian’s weird water preferences. But I only want to say the truth: I want her. I’m here because I can’t stay away.

As if she can see it, her amber eyes darken, and a stillness settles over her. My want of her is a thick cord, pulling tight and vibrating between us. Killian slices right through it with an annoyed noise. “Seriously. You two need to stop ganging up on me. It’s unnatural.”

I raise my brow. “Unnatural.”

“Yeah. As in, you’re not supposed to be on the same side.” He wrinkles his nose in disgust. “As in, you’re oil, and she’s water, and never the two shall blend.”

The wrongness of his statement scrapes against my nerves. And maybe Brenna can tell I’m about to snap, because her hand finds my knee under the table. Another fleeting touch.

“No need to be terrified,” she says to Killian with an eye roll. “Rye and I will be back to tearing out each other’s throats soon enough.”

No. No. No. I don’t want to be shoved in that box again. Never again.

“Now, you were saying something about why you asked me here?” she prompts.

Killian pauses as though he wants to keep complaining about me getting along with Brenna. But then he shakes it off with a roll of his shoulders and slouches in his chair.

“Got a call from dear old dad. His sixtieth is coming up in December.” Killian runs a hand through his hair. “He’s having a big bash and expects all the family to go.”

Brenna winces. “Shit.”

“You don’t like your uncle?” I ask, because I’d never seen her be anything but nice to Killian’s dad.

“I love Uncle Xander.” She shares a look with Killian. “My father, on the other hand…”

“They rub together like two junkyard dogs,” Killian says grimly. “Can’t stand each other, which makes Dad’s insistence on Neil coming so…”

“Weird?” Brenna supplies.

“Annoying,” Killian says.

Brenna glances my way. “My dad is jealous of Uncle Xander.”

“Why?”

Her lashes lower, and she’s suddenly interested in tracing the flower pattern on the teacup. “Xander was a billionaire by the time he turned forty-five. Whether my dad admits it or not, it chafes. We moved to the States when I was a baby. As I understand it, Dad did so to get as far away from Uncle Xander as he could. But distance doesn’t matter; he’s always resented Uncle Xander for having what he doesn’t.”

“Ah.”

“The band is invited too,” Killian says offhandedly. “Just thought I’d break the news to Bren first.”

“You know I’ll go,” I tell him, wanting to make it clear I have his back. We might get pissy at each other now and then, but Killian is my boy. I’m always going to be there for him when he needs it.

He gives me a quick look of gratitude, but I don’t miss the way Brenna’s face tightens. I can’t tell if she’s displeased that I’m going or simply still upset about the situation in general.

“Well,” she says, trying to brighten. “I’ll be there. Even if my parents decline. Honestly, I hope they do.”

“Not gonna lie,” Killian says. “I’m kind of hoping the same.”

“Are they that bad?” I ask them, worrying for Bren.

“They stress me out,” she says. “And when they’re around the rest of the family, it gets awkward.”

Funny thing is, I have never met Brenna’s parents. How can that be? How did I not realize this before? And I get a bad feeling there’s a reason for this that I won’t like.

“When is the last time you saw them?” I ask Brenna.

Her nose wrinkles. “A few years ago. They aren’t really…social.”

Call me paranoid, but it sounds like she means they’re dickheads to her. The urge—the need—to gather her up in a secure hug is nearly overwhelming. I fist my hands in my lap. It’s been too long since I’ve touched her. A day and a half. I miss the feel of her. I miss her taste, her sounds, her breathy laughter when I’m giving her pleasure. According to our agreement, I’m supposed to go about my day after this and not visit her until tomorrow. I can’t take another night of waiting.

But I ignore all that and focus on the sadness she can’t quite hide.

“They’re dicks to you?” I find myself asking. Then I wince, because I really need to think before I speak; she shouldn’t have it rubbed in her face.

But she doesn’t flinch. Her slim fingers wrap around her teacup, and she meets my eyes. “When I told them I wasn’t going to college, but planned to join you guys and help out the band, my parents said it was probably a good idea, given that I wasn’t very intelligent and that, by hitching my ride to Killian’s talent, at least I’d get somewhere in life.”

For a second, I can only blink, numb with shock. Then a slow boil starts up in my gut. By the expression on Killian’s face, this is old news to him, but it still hasn’t dulled his rage. We share a look that says only too clearly how much we’d like to personally respond to Brenna’s crap parents.

I clear my throat of the rage clogging it. “You’re the smartest person I know, Bren. And if they can’t see that, then they’re ignorant fucks.”

Her lips quirk, and she glances down at her cup. “Thank you. And believe me, I knew they were full of it, even back then. But it was still…unpleasant to hear.”

“Of course it was.” Damn it, I want to hug her so badly, it’s physically painful to refrain. My hands press into my thighs in agitation.

“If they decide to attend,” Killian says in a hard tone, “we’ll all run interference, Brenna Bean.”

She gives him a slight nudge with her elbow in gratitude. “You don’t have to. I’m capable of handling them.”

“I know,” he says. “You’re so capable, it scares me a little. Doesn’t mean you have to deal with that crap alone. Because you’re not.”

They share a look that speaks of a lifetime of watching out for each other. And while I’m so damn glad she’s had Killian watching her back, I suddenly feel all the years of being on the outside of her life, looking in. I’m still not fully in her life. My chest clenches, and I resist the urge to rub it.

Killian glances at his watch. “Shit, I’ve got to go.”

That’s my cue to go as well. I could stick around, wait for him to leave, but Brenna won’t like that. She’ll worry Killian would suspect something. Maybe he would. I don’t care, but I slowly stand—for her, I’ll play this part.

“I’m heading out too.” It’s pouring rain now, pelting against the glass front of the tea house. I could use a good dousing.

Killian gives Brenna a quick kiss on the cheek then flicks down a wad of cash before Brenna and I can pay. “You need a ride?” he asks her.

“No, I’m good. I’m going to return a few emails before calling a car.”

She pointedly doesn’t look my way. Fine, then. Message received.

I grab a square of lemon cake for the road.

Killian glances at the window and then back to me. “You want a ride?”

“Nah. There’s a shop next door I’m going to.” Lie. But I’m getting pretty good at it and made note of the bookstore when I’d arrived. Just in case. I give Brenna a nod. “A pleasure as always, Berry.”

“Rye.”

That’s it. That’s all I get. It’s part of our act. Doesn’t stop the oppressive heaviness that settles on my chest. I take a breath and push out into the rain. I’m instantly soaked and cold to the bone.

* * *

Brenna

Alone.Finally.

Even though the shop still hums with conversation and the soft clinks of silverware against china, it’s wonderfully quiet at my table. A nice little cocoon of silence.

I pour the remaining dregs of tea into my cup and take a sip. It’s gone cold and bitter, but I don’t care. I need to do something with my jittery hands.

Shit. I don’t want to deal with my parents. I really don’t want to deal with them in front of my friends. The potential for humiliation is too great. Not when they try their best to make all those around them equally unhappy, and I am one of their favorite targets. In their eyes, I am a traitor. I went off with spoiled, rich Killian and turned my back on them. I shouldn’t let it bother me. Yet one snidely spoken comment from my father and I’m decimated, uncertain, and embarrassed to live within my own skin. I loathe how family can do that to me.

I hate feeling weak, feeling less than. I hate that this insecurity has affected every aspect of my life when I’ve worked so hard to be strong, independent.

After finishing off the tea, I set the cup down with more force than necessary and collect my stuff. It’s still pouring, and I call a car from the service we keep on staff. But my mind drifts to Rye. He surprised me by showing up here.

I can barely look at him when our friends are around now. I’m convinced they’ll see everything on my face, the need to touch him, the way my eyes linger on his face, his arms, his broad shoulders. The scent of him, crisply spicy, deeply masculine, is still in the air around me, and all I want to do is breathe it in.

Our official sex-up day is tomorrow. It feels like a year from now. I wanted to leave with him, ask him to take me away somewhere—his bed, mine, didn’t matter. Just take me away and make me feel good. Make me feel something other than the gnawing sadness and disappointment that talk of my family churns up.

I’m becoming too attached already. I resent the days we’re forced to stay apart. They’re a punishment, something I have to grit my teeth and bear.

In other words, it’s all a mess now. Killian is clearly suspicious. The fact is, Rye and I are getting along too well for any of our friends not to notice. That they expect us to remain as we were, always at odds, always fighting, irritates me. Are Rye and I not allowed to grow?

Either way, it’s a good indication of how they’d react if they found out what we’re doing. Which is to say: they’d want to discuss and dissect every angle. They’d either proclaim us married by the end of the year or broken up by Sunday. A cold sweat breaks out at just the thought of them converging on us. No, it’s none of their business, and I plan to keep it that way.

Maybe I should feel cheap or small for turning to Rye for physical gratification, but I don’t. For the first time in years, I feel…well, not safe…but excited. Life was starting to lose its color, its immediacy. Rye gives that back to me.

God, but he’s going to be there for this horrible family reunion party. He’ll see my parents in action. He’ll see how Uncle Xander treats me like a beloved daughter, while my own dad will do his best to belittle me. He won’t miss the way my mother questions my profession, my life choices. And he’ll be there with Aunt Isabella…Queasiness runs greasy fingers through my belly. I don’t know if I can handle all that heaped on me in one go.

My parents aren’t happy people. Never have been—at least as long as I’ve been around. Thing is, as far as I can tell, they used to be. Before they met each other, that is.

Knowing my mom as I do now, it’s hard to imagine, but she worked as a model throughout her teens and early twenties. She never reached the superstar fame of Killian’s mom, Isabella; her career mostly focused on runway and catalog work. Even so, she met Isabella during Fashion Week, and they became friends. Enough that she was a bridesmaid at Isabella and Xander’s wedding. She took one look at the groom’s younger brother, Neil, and that was it for both of them. Instant attraction, the sort of high octane lust that burned hot and bright—and fast.

My parents lost themselves in each other, marrying within a month. Less than a year later, their attraction died a swift death, and they realized they didn’t actually like each other as people. Only it was too late; mom was pregnant with me, and neither of them wanted to admit their mistake.

It didn’t help that, while Isabella and Xander’s careers went supersonic, my parents’ careers fizzled. Dad kept betting on the wrong investments, the wrong clients, and mom couldn’t secure any more bookings. All they were left with was a little girl neither of them seemed to know what to do with, a small house on Long Island, and a mutual loathing that oddly fueled them. They might have divorced but instead they clung to each other in their misery. And they took me along for the ride. My entire childhood was one long reminder that any misstep or wrong decision I made could result in catastrophe. Work hard but don’t dream big. Dreams easily died in the face of reality.

“Best you learn now, Brenna,” my father had said in a tone that held years of weariness and failure. “You will never be more than a footnote in those boys’ lives. They keep you around because you’re cheap labor, not because you’re of any real value. Don’t waste another year on them. Go to school and live an ordinary life like the rest of us.”

As much as I’ve tried to push those ugly words out of my mind, they had become stuck like tar to my insides, a burning weight. I constantly fight an ugly whisper that asked, what if my parents were right? What if I’ll never be more than someone the guys can easily replace?

With a sigh, I roll my stiff shoulders and watch the window for my car. It pulls up, and I head out. I don’t have an umbrella, and ice-cold water pounds on my head as soon as I step outside. Today is gearing up to be an utterly shit day. Shivering, I huddle deeper into the collar of my sweater and pick up the pace.

“Bren.”

Rye’s voice, clear and firm over the downpour, has me halting in my tracks. I turn to find him standing off to the side, soaking wet. It’s a good look on him. The front of his white Henley is so wet, it’s translucent, showing off the swells of his firm pecs and the hard, little points of his nipples. He must be freezing, but he doesn’t move, just stares at me with an imploring look in his eyes.

“What are you doing out here?” I ask over the rain.

He steps close. “Waiting for you.”

Heat flares through my numb limbs, waking them up. I bridge the gap between us. “Waiting for me?”

It’s a stupid thing to repeat. He was perfectly clear. But I can’t help it. No one has ever waited for me.

His hand slowly rises, and he touches a raindrop trickling down my cheek. “I came here for you. Of course, I’m going to wait.”

Before I can answer, he puffs out a harsh breath, like he’s been holding it in until now, and pulls me into his warmth. He kisses me as though I’m dessert, hungry lips and seeking tongue. Right there on the sidewalk in the pouring rain. And I forget about everything else. Here is where I need to be. I’m no longer empty or listless. I’m alive. My senses fire with hot sparks that crackle along my skin.

I stretch up on my toes to reach him, taste more, feel the strength of his big body against mine.

His skin is cold and wet; his mouth is hot and slick. He fists the back of my sweater, holding me tight. Oh, but his mouth is so soft. Soft and seeking. Decadent.

How does he do this? How does he take me apart with just a kiss? I’m grasping at the back of his neck with cold fingers, all but grinding myself against him. I slide my tongue along his with a heady sigh.

Rye grunts low within his chest, comes at me from one direction, then another, reacquainting himself with all the sensitive spaces of my mouth. I’m dissolving like a sugar cube in hot tea. He tastes of lemon cake and dark nights, and all I want to do is get lost in his flavor.

A loud wolf whistle cuts through the haze enough that we pause, our lips grazing. Held in his arms, I stare up at him. I can’t think straight.

Rules. There were rules, weren’t there?“Our day isn’t until tomorrow.”

Rain drips from the ends of his hair, now the color of old bronze coins. His lashes are spiked with wetness, shading his urgent gaze. “We said we could have other days if needed.” His grip tightens on my sweater. “And, Bren, I fucking need.”

I sway, stopping just short of falling into him again. From behind me comes the two short taps of the horn, and I know it’s my driver. The service is well paid to wait, but this is New York in a rainstorm. The driver can’t idle forever.

I turn to acknowledge him with a nod but don’t let Rye go. My hand slips to the side of his neck where his pulse hammers hard and fast. “Come on, then.”

With a flare of his nostrils, he nods and then follows me into the car.