Exposed by Kristen Callihan
Chapter Eighteen
Brenna
“Spend the day with me,”he’d asked.
Never mind he asked with his mouth between my legs, his newly trimmed beard rubbing oh so gently against my swollen flesh. When I could only answer yes.
And yes.
And, oh, fuck, yes.
I hadn’t thought to ask where, how. It hadn’t mattered.
So here I am, walking up the steps into the Metropolitan Museum of Art with Rye Peterson at my side. He takes my hand in his. And I don’t pull away. His clasp is gentle, the skin on his palm callused and worn. His beautiful, fragile hand.
“This wasn’t exactly what I thought you had in mind when you asked me to spend the day with you,” I say as we collect our tickets.
Rye stops and carefully presses a little sticker that shows we’ve paid for entry onto my silk blouse just below the collar. His fingers trail over my shoulder before dropping away. Wry humor glints in his denim-blue eyes. “You thought we’d stay in bed fucking, didn’t you?”
A woman glances our way, clearly overhearing, and I step closer to Rye.
“Hush. This is a tourist spot. People will listen here.”
His lips quirk. “And you don’t want them to know of our special lovin’?”
Narrowing my eyes, I poke his firm abs with my finger. “I’m about to give you a special ass kicking, buttercup.”
He grins outright, and his arm snakes around my waist to pull me up against him. “Kinky, Berry.” His lips brush over mine. “Stop thinking about sex, we’re here to see art.”
The nerve. “I’m thinking—”
He cuts me off with another light kiss then tugs me along beside him. “I know what you’re thinking. And you can use my body later. For now, we’re getting our culture on.”
Torn between grumbling and laughing, I follow him into the Egyptian wing. The museum has just opened, so it’s fairly empty, which is something of a relief. The last time I was here, it was filled with so many people, I nearly lost it. I’m fine with crowds, but I’ve never seen the point of viewing art when you have to vie for even a small peek of it.
Rye takes my hand again. It’s different, being here with him, as though we’re on a date. Which is…not what we’re supposed to be doing. He was right, I’d expected him to want a day of sex. I’d been prepared for that. I’m not prepared for this, or what doing this even means. But I don’t want to think. I just want to be.
We take our time, stopping to peer at tiny scarabs or ancient papyrus scrolls mounted on the walls. The few people we pass barely glance our way. It always amazes me how rarely Rye gets recognized in public. Jax and Killian almost instantly get mobbed, but Rye has a way of blending in, which is amazing given that he’s six foot three inches of tightly muscled perfection. I can only conclude it’s the ease with which he moves through the world. The man cuts through space like a hot knife into cold pudding. That smooth flow draws me in and has me relaxing my usually crisp stride.
“I love this place,” Rye murmurs as we stroll past a massive basalt sarcophagus. “I know it can be packed with tourists, and that’s annoying, but when I was younger and my parents were fighting, I’d come here and get lost for hours. Just soak in the art and breathe.”
My arm brushes against his as I move closer to him. “I did too.”
“What? Really?”
“Yeah. I’d come here on Saturdays. Even filled with people, it was better than being at home.” I shrug. “And…shit, this is going to sound stupid.”
“I highly doubt that.”
“It reminded me of staying with Killian.”
Rye’s brow furrows, and I know I’m doing a terrible job of explaining. Honestly, I don’t even know why I’m telling him this. I hate this particular vulnerability of mine. But I know he won’t judge, and sometimes having someone bear witness to your weaknesses makes them easier to manage. I never truly understood the power of that until Rye broke down and admitted his fears about his hands to me. I thought he might break apart, but he leaned on me instead, as though I gave him strength. And he’d gone light with it. Playful and happy once again.
I’d given that to him. Just by listening.
“You’ve seen how Killian’s parents live, right?” I say, easier now. “Beautiful homes filled with light and art. I had a bit of that here.”
Rye’s expression clears. “I get it.”
“I loved staying with Killian. And with my aunt and uncle. They treated me like…” A small laugh escapes. “I was going to say family, but I am family, so that isn’t exactly surprising.”
The blunt tip of Rye’s thumb caresses my knuckles. “They treated you like a daughter.”
A heavy, familiar weight settles on my chest, but this time, it’s easier to let it go. “Yeah.”
He doesn’t say anything but leads me into the Sackler Wing, a soaring modern space with its iconic slanted grid window wall overlooking Central Park. Sunlight streams in, and blue sky meets the tree line, now colored with the golds, reds, and oranges of autumn.
The airy gallery houses the Temple of Dendur, two large Egyptian structures which sit on a limestone floor, surrounded on three sides by a wide reflecting pool. Save for a guard, it’s quiet and empty—a true rarity.
“It feels as though we’re in a church,” I whisper, a sense of reverence falling over me.
“I suppose we are, in a way.” Rye’s hand settles on the small of my back as we walk into the larger temple building, flanked by two thick, fluted columns.
Standing by Rye’s side, I study the hieroglyphs someone carved into the stone over a millennia ago then pause with a jolt. “1821? Someone carved graffiti.”
Rye leans in, his eyes narrowing. “Son of a bitch, they did. It’s all over the place. I can’t believe I never noticed it before.”
“Maybe because it’s usually crammed with people breathing down your neck in here?”
He huffs out a laugh. “Probably. Damn, look at that. One of them was from New York. Dude must have thought he’d left a piece of himself in Egypt for all time. Now it’s here.” Rye shrugs. “He’ll live on in infamy, that’s for sure. I guess that’s one way to be immortal.”
“How does it feel? Knowing that you’re going to live on like that too?”
His brow wings up as he turns my way. “In infamy?”
“Rye.” I nudge him with a laugh. “No. You. Your music. It’s going to live on far after you do.”
He steps into my space, running his fingers along my waist as though he can’t help himself. His voice lowers to a husky rumble. “I don’t know. Sometimes, I think about it, and I feel…empty.”
“Empty?” My hands slide over his chest to cup the back of his neck.
He leans into the touch, ducking his head so his cheek brushes mine. “Yeah. Empty. It will hit me that someone might listen to my music when I’m dead and gone, and I feel so fucking empty. Because I know my life will be over, and I wonder if I will ever…” He trails off, swallowing hard.
My fingers toy with the short, silky strands of his hair. “Ever what?”
A gust of breath tickles my neck. “Ever fill it with something more than just music.”
We’re holding on to each other. Hugging. I’m not even sure how that happened or if I should step away. I close my eyes and sink into it instead. The steady beat of his heart thumps against my chest. His big hand slides along my spine, stroking me.
I could stay like this forever, but I can’t ignore what he said. I lean back to meet his gaze. His is troubled. Setting my hand on his cheek, I speak with quiet conviction. “You’re more than just your music, Ryland. You always were.”
A small jolt goes through him, and his nostrils flare on an indrawn breath. The way he looks at me, with wide, pained eyes, has my heart skittering. Those blue eyes fill with something else, something deep and tender. His hand slips under my hair to my neck. “Bren. What you do to me…”
Then he’s kissing me. Slow and soft and so damn good, I forget where we are. I kiss him back, swallow down his moan. My bones melt. I am liquid heat and wanting.
“I love kissing you,” he says against my mouth. “I could do it forever.”
Forever.
He’s devouring me. Slowly taking me apart. I let him do it. I want more.
A polite but pointed throat-clearing catches my attention. Rye and I separate enough to glance over at a guard who gives us a censorious—if slightly amused—look. Right. Public museum.
Rye’s answering smile is not the least bit repentant. He drapes an arm over my shoulders and leads me out of the temple.
We don’t speak for a while but simply look at artifacts and artworks.
“I’m having fun,” I announce as we enter the Arms and Armor wing.
“You don’t have to sound so shocked about it,” he teases. “I’m a very fun person to be around.”
“Yes, I know,” I deadpan. “Except when you’re around me.”
Rye flinches. And I realize what I just said. “Shit. I didn’t mean that.” Flustered by my utter boobery, I wave a hand in the air. “I meant before. The way we were before.”
Rye sucks the inside of his cheek, as though he’s figuring out how to answer. His eyes meet mine, and I’m struck anew by how gorgeous he is. I don’t know why it hits me so hard now; maybe it’s the pure filtered sunlight that fills the room and illuminates every inch of him. Maybe it’s simply that I can’t look at Rye and not feel an overwhelming attraction.
He’s beautiful in his raw and utterly masculine simplicity. Clean lines, strong bone structure, the dark blond of his hair spiking up in wild disarray. Faint laugh lines grace the corners of his expressive dusky-blue eyes. Even when he’s serious, it’s as if his natural inclination is toward happiness and any other emotion is just temporary.
“That’s why I wanted you to come out with me,” he says. “I don’t want us to be stuck in the past. We’re not those people anymore. We’re…new.”
“New, huh?”
He nudges me with his shoulder. “New and improved.”
“Goof.”
Grinning, he gives me a swift, affectionate kiss on the cheek. “You need goofy in your life.”
“Because I’m so serious?” I say it lightly. He’s not telling me anything I haven’t heard before or thought of myself.
“You can be, and someone has to brave that death glare of yours to remind you how fun it is to let go.”
“I suppose you’re the brave someone in this scenario?”
“Of course. Sir Ryland, the noble sex knight. Able to tame the savage Brenna beast one orgasm at a time.”
“That is painfully bad.”
His eyes twinkle with good cheer. “And yet you’re laughing.”
“Yeah, at you.”
“Good enough. Face it, Bren. You need me.”
It hits too close to a tender spot I’ve been trying to ignore.
Rye, being observant as hell when it comes to me, notices. His happy expression slips away. I’ve made it awkward again, and I don’t know how to fix it. A stupid joke would be obvious, and frankly, insulting to Rye’s intelligence. But what can I say? You’re coming to mean too much to me, and I’m not sure I can take that.
Rye’s deep voice breaks the silence. “Can I ask you something?”
I stop beside a group of knights on horseback with lances up and at the ready. “That question never bodes well.”
“Probably not.” He rubs the back of his neck before turning the full force of his attention on me. “Back when we were having tea with Killian, I said I’d go to his dad’s birthday party, and you flinched.”
I flinch again, sliding my gaze away. “Did I?”
He’s closer now. I can feel him even though he’s two feet away. “Bren, come on. It’s me you’re talking to. You flinched and made a face, the one that says you have to deal with an uncomfortable situation but will try your best not to let it get to you.”
It’s irksome that he reads me so easily. Worse, I know him well enough to realize he’s going to keep at the question until I answer. Hot, itchy panic crawls up my chest.
“Rye. Can we not do this? Let’s just go back to having a good time.”
“I don’t want to pressure you, but it’s been bugging me.” He stands in front of me, so I have nowhere to run. “Do you not want me to go? Is that it?”
Damn it. I don’t want to do this. “Rye…”
He takes my hand. His has gone clammy, and it hits me how hard it is for him to ask. He thinks I don’t want him around. I don’t, not at my aunt and uncle’s house. But not for the reasons he probably assumes.
“Just tell me,” he says with that same soft but insistent tone. “If you think I can’t be discreet—”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what? We get along well now. What can it possibly—”
“I saw you,” I burst out, my voice ringing in the gallery.
Rye’s head jerks at the sound, but his eyes narrow. “Saw me? When? Where?”
Glancing around at the few people in the room, I tug Rye to a smaller alcove. No one appears to have recognized him as a member of Kill John, but I have no desire for our conversation to end up on some social media account.
My heart tries to beat its way up my throat. I swallow hard and face him. “I didn’t want to do this. It’s history, but you won’t let it go, will you?”
His chin kicks up with a stubborn stare. “If whatever the hell is bugging you was actually history, you wouldn’t be this upset. And, yeah, I’m not letting it go. Not now, at any rate. What the hell are you talking about, Bren? What did you see me do?”
Letting out a harsh breath, I lick my lips. “With my aunt.”
His expression goes blank. “Isabella?”
“Aunt Isabella. Otherwise known to the public simply as Isabella, one of the most beautiful and successful models in the world.” As if he doesn’t know this.
Cuban American with tanned legs for miles, Isabella was the star of a major lingerie campaign for most of my childhood. One of my first memories of her is when she strode down the catwalk wearing the now-famous bikini made entirely of diamonds and rubies.
Killian had a hell of a time dealing with his schoolmates panting over his mom. As for me, most of my friends didn’t know she was my aunt, but if they found out, they wanted to meet her, be her. I’d wanted to be her too, for a time. To this day, she’s idolized, adored, pursued.
“It was your twenty-first birthday party,” I continue woodenly. “Isabella was in town and popped in to join the party…”
Something clears in his eyes. His lips part, but he doesn’t utter a sound. He doesn’t have to. I see the guilt starting to stir. The horror of being caught.
A wave of old anger rises within me. “I saw you, Rye. Kissing my aunt. My fucking aunt! Killian’s mom—”
He cuts me off with a sharp sound, something close to pain. “Bren—”
“You had your tongue down her throat.”
Rye makes another sound, like it’s ripped from deep within him, and takes hold of my arm. His grip doesn’t hurt but holds me still. I’d been backing away without knowing it. I don’t move, don’t try to break free. I want to face him now.
“No,” he says. “No fucking way are you walking out thinking that’s what happened.”
A high, humorless laugh breaks from my lips. “I saw it with my own eyes.”
He steps into my space, his voice low and urgent. “It’s your interpretation of what you saw that’s the problem, Bren.” He takes a quick, hard breath. “I was drunk off my ass—”
“That’s no excuse.”
“Would you just listen?” he hisses.
My mouth snaps shut, and I raise a brow, silently prompting him to continue. He grits his teeth then speaks again.
“I was drunk off my ass, and Isabella walked in. We chitchatted in that sloppy, stupid way only the exceptionally drunk can manage. Suddenly she was sitting closer. Too close. It freaked me out, because, yes, she’s an extremely beautiful woman, and it was becoming too clear that she was hitting on me.”
“What?” It comes out high and shocked. Because I am. Shocked. Shaken.
There’s something desperate about Rye’s expression. “She was, Bren. She knew it. I knew it. And, trust me, I was painfully aware that she was Killian’s mom. Frankly, it scared the hell out of me. I moved to go, and…” He closes his eyes with a wince. “Fuck, she kissed me. I was so fucking shocked—”
Blood drains from my head so quickly, my skin prickles. “Are you telling me that Isabella jumped you?”
He ducks his head until we’re almost nose to nose. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. You don’t have to believe me, but it’s the truth. I would never, never, do that to Killian.” A flush washes over his cheeks. “Loyalty means everything to me, Bren. Killian, the guys, they are my brothers. I would die before I hurt any of them that way.”
I stare up at him, searching his gaze. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink.
“I thought you knew that much about me, at least,” he says in a broken tone.
“Why do you think I was so upset?” I rasp. “It killed something in me to see that.”
His eyes narrow to slits. “Why didn’t you confront me back then?”
“Because it would hurt the band. Hurt Killian. It was my job to keep you guys going. No matter what.”
Rye hasn’t let me go. His grip burns through my shirt. “That’s why you really hated me all these years, isn’t it?”
“I was so disappointed in you,” I whisper through numb lips. “I couldn’t look at you without seeing it. For so long, I truly hated you for that.”
“And yet you let me into your bed.” It isn’t an accusation. He’s surprised. Moreover, he’s clearly confused.
“It’s been years at this point. And I’ve seen the way you’re always there for the guys.” I shrug weakly, my shoulders weighed down. “I knew you were drunk, and I figured maybe it was time to let it go.”
His hand slips from my arm. “But you didn’t. Not really. It’s been oozing between us like sewage.”
Dully, I nod, glancing down at my feet. “I don’t like to think of it. But when you said you’d be at the party…”
“And Isabella will be there too,” he finishes succinctly.
My breath hitches. “I didn’t want to remember, Rye.”
Rye runs a hand over his jaw. “And now? Do you believe me?”
We’re standing close enough to touch, but there’s an ocean of history flowing between us now. It would be easy to say he’s lying to save his ass. Except I know this man better now. I know he has a core of integrity that is stronger than steel.
I’ve been quiet too long. He moves, as though to go, and I hold out a hand. “Of course, I believe you.”
Pressing his lips together, he stares at me as though he’s trying to see if I really mean it. But then he shakes his head and turns away. “You know what exhibit I never remember to visit? The eighteenth-century French and English rooms they have set up—”
“Rye…”
He keeps walking. Not fast, but steady enough that I know he’s not going to stop. I have no choice but to follow, my heels clicking loudly on the limestone floors. They say the truth shall set you free. Doesn’t feel that way at the moment. It feels like I’ve sent us back to the beginning.