Exposed by Kristen Callihan

Chapter Two

Brenna

I knew it was coming.That he was going to offer some ridiculous “solution” to my problem. I knew this. But knowing and experiencing are entirely different shocks to the system.

In both subtle and not-so-subtle ways, Rye has never let me forget that I had a crush on him when the band first got together. Usually, it takes the form of little digs about how irresistible I secretly find him or in remarks about my sex life—the idea being that I’ll never have anything better than what I could have with him, if only he wanted me in return.

I gave as good as I got, always making it crystal clear that my love life was intensely satisfying, and that I’d never stoop to wanting Rye again. He responded in kind. Were our interactions mature? No. They’d been forged in our youth, and we’d never been able to break the pattern. But this was too much. He’d gone past light teasing and straight into making my weakness a joke.

It is appalling how hurt I am. I didn’t expect that at all. I thought I’d worked past being hurt by him. Unfortunately, Rye Peterson has never been easy for me to push into the background.

Certainly not now. He stands before me, his beefy arms crossed over his wide chest, thick eyebrows winging up in expectation. Millions view him as Kill John’s lovable goofball, a big teddy bear who simply needs the right person to cuddle him into submission. As for me, it’s all I can do not to punch his arrogant blunt nose. I won’t do it. I still have some sense of decorum. But I can’t hold my tongue. I can’t.

“You asshole,” I grind out, lurching up and stalking forward. “I know we’ve had our moments, but I never thought you’d sink this low.”

“Hey,” he cuts in with a shocked voice. “Hold on there—”

“No, you hold on.” I poke his chest. “This isn’t funny.”

His mouth falls open. “Wait a minute, you think I’m making a joke here?”

The outrage in his voice gives me pause. “What else am I supposed to think? You overhear me saying I’m…” God, I’m not going to repeat myself. I’m humiliated enough that he heard it the first time. I swallow convulsively, horrified that I might actually cry. “And now you’re, what, offering yourself up for the job? And I’m supposed to take that seriously?”

Rye sets his hands low on his hips and cocks his head like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle. “Bren, this isn’t a joke. I’m completely serious here.”

My butt hits the curved arm of the couch, all the blood in my head rushing to my toes. He can’t be serious. Yes, there had always been a buzz of attraction between us, but we’d both knew it was unwelcome and unwanted. Rye would never fold like this, not after all this time.

But he reads me well and gives a short nod of confirmation. “I’m not trying to yank your chain or belittle you. What I’m offering is real.”

I touch my forehead and find it clammy. In truth, I’m reeling. “I need a drink.”

Turning my back on him, I march to the kitchen, wobbling on my heels. I never wobble. I kick my shoes off before pouring myself a glass of water from the fridge and then take several large gulps.

Rye walks up and leans his forearms on the counter. His expression is completely calm, but his thumb betrays him and taps an agitated rhythm on the marble. He clearly hasn’t shaved in a while, and his stubble has moved into beard territory. Over the years, Rye has worn a beard only once—one strange summer when all the guys decided to rock the lumberjack look. That quickly ended when people started sending them beard oil and toy axes.

Rye doesn’t look bad, however. Just the opposite; it’s hot, different. It changes his face enough that it’s as if I’m talking to a new version of Rye. And it throws me off even more.

He bites the inside of his cheek, creating a little dimple, before taking a deep breath and speaking. “Look, I realize this is uncomfortable as fuck. But I’m going to lay my cards on the table. When I first overheard you mention sex, yeah, I started eavesdropping because, yes, I can be an immature shit at times.” His smile is wry, and he squeezes the back of his neck. “But then I really listened to what you were saying and… Hell, Bren, I want that too. I know you don’t believe me, but I’m tired of moving from partner to partner. I’m tired of feeling…” A deep flush turns his face red. “Alone.”

I’m so shocked, a tiny squeak escapes my lips. I’m waiting for him to start laughing, to say he’s kidding, but Rye returns my stare without falter. Oh, he’s still blushing, his thumb twitches—a telltale nervous tic akin to me messing with my ponytail—but he is not laughing.

It takes me a good minute of intense silence to fully process that Rye has admitted he’s lonely. He’s never shown me any hint of personal weakness. I haven’t either. To expose our underbellies is to open ourselves to taunts. It’s just how we are with each other. But now Rye has gone and changed the game. I don’t know what to do.

After taking another steadying sip of water, I set the glass down and try to think. “Okay, so you’re not messing around with me, and you understand how I feel, but, Rye, to solve the problem by suggesting the two of us…” I can’t even finish the sentence without feeling both too hot and too cold. “It’s insanity. A total disaster waiting to happen.”

“Disaster,” Rye mutters under his breath.

“Come on,” I insist, feeling slightly frantic. “We’re like…like orange juice and toothpaste. Mix us together and we’re bound to walk away with a bad taste in our mouths.”

He ducks his head, and his fists curl on the counter, making the muscles along his arms bunch. All those lovely muscles working under smooth tattooed skin. At this point in my life, I’ve met hundreds of men, and none of them have arms as perfectly sculpted as Rye’s. Why him? Why does his body catch my eye and hold it like no other?

Oblivious to my gawking, he raises his head and gives me a look of pure, male stubbornness. “Yeah, okay, it could very well be a disaster.”

“I said it would be. Not could be.” Because it definitely would. Why are we still talking about this? The more we talk, the harder it is to keep certain images at bay. Images I’ve pushed to the haunted corners of my mind for a decade now. A picture of Rye’s naked back rippling with smooth, tight skin and bunching muscles as he works over my body, flashes in my mind, and I blow out a breath. No.

Rye purses his lips. For a second, I wonder if he’s debating turning around and leaving. But I’m not that lucky. Instead, he takes a step around the island, his big hand trailing along the marble.

My back tenses as I force myself to remain unmoved. I don’t know what his blue eyes see, but he approaches with more caution than usual.

“Do you really think I’d hurt you, Berry?”

Berry. I remember the night he gave me that nickname.

I never wanted to crush on Rye Peterson. Truly, I didn’t. When Killian first let me hang out with his new bandmates all those years ago, I thought they were hot. Sitting in on their jam sessions was less about the music—because they weren’t very good initially—and more about watching three gorgeous guys (and my cousin, who I knew was hot but refused to think of that way) dance around on stage. To my teenage delight, shirts always came off.

While Whip and John, who soon became Jax to the world, were mighty fine eye candy, only Rye—the big, clueless lug—made my insides flip and my skin heat. He wasn’t the most physically beautiful; Scottie, with his black hair, perfect features, and ice blue eyes held that prize. Whip was a close second in looks and first when it came to sheer sweetness.

Rye didn’t have the most blatant sex appeal; that was John’s role—and I suppose Killian’s too, except no, not going there. But there was something elemental about Rye. While the other guys were whipcord lean, Rye was a wall of cut, beefy muscle. The way he beat on his bass guitar, all hot, pounding rhythm, was pure sex to me. Not that I had much experience back then, but he made me feel things—hot, sweaty, fluttery things.

Offstage, Rye’s lowbrow humor and quick smiles put me at ease in a way I’d never been with other guys. He was, and still is, the consummate flirt. For a gangly, shy redhead with buck teeth and acne, it was a dream to have an older boy smile at me as though I were the focus of his attention. I knew he did that for every girl. But it felt good to be noticed.

After every gig, Rye would make his way over to me. He’d always ask the same question, “Did that blow you away, kid?”

Kid. I hated that nickname. It made me feel all of twelve.

I’d always answer, “Yeah, Mr. Slap-Happy, it blew me the fuck away.”

Rye would snort over the nickname I gave him. But it didn’t bother him. Over the years, he would develop genius finger skills, but in the beginning, slapping the bass was his main way to play, and he knew it. Besides, poking fun at each other was how we interacted.

On my eighteenth birthday, the guys threw me a party and played all night. Sweat-slicked and flushed, Rye tucked away his bass then sought me out. God, I tried my best not to gape at his bare chest, but it was a struggle. Whenever he moved, those glorious muscles shifted and bunched.

“Did that blow you away, Berry?”

I almost didn’t register the word because, hello, little brown nipples all tight and right in front of me. Were they as sensitive as mine?

“Berry?” I glanced up, finally, to find him smirking.

“You turn berry pink when you blush.”

My happy buzz fizzled. “It’s rude to point out a girl’s flaws.”

The corners of Rye’s deep-set eyes crinkled, his brows winging up in that way of his that made him look boyishly pleased. “Blushing isn’t a flaw. It’s cute. Sexy.” And then he blushed. A soft wash of red across the tops of his cheeks and along the curve of his ears.

Which is the moment I truly fell for Rye Peterson, the hot, muscled man-boy who blushed just as easily as I did. Not that he stuck around for me to practice any more of my amateur flirting skills; Rye made a hasty exit after that remark and started avoiding me. No, worse, he soon would make it painfully clear that he had no interest in me as anything other than Killian’s kid cousin who clung to the fringes of the band like a barnacle.

All for the best. A crush wasn’t as important as the job—one that I had to prove over and over to the world that I was the best person for. I did that by maintaining the smooth polish of absolute professionalism. But now? With Rye standing before me with that look? Like he might lean in and take a little taste of me? Those walls are threatening to crack.

I swallow hard. He’s too near. I can smell the soap he favors—Tom Ford’s Oud Wood. Spicy and smoky and freaking delicious. Scottie bought it for him one Christmas, and Rye was hooked. I know too much about him. I know that ordinarily, he shaves every two days, not because that’s all he needs, but because he’s lazy and doesn’t mind the thick stubble that will coat his jaw like brown sugar. I know he hates shrimp but loves crab and lobster. He drinks icy cold Coke if it’s before three in the afternoon and beer any time someone offers it. I know to stay away from him.

“I don’t think you’d hurt me intentionally,” I say, weakening. Damn it, his proximity is messing with my head.

He’s a foot away now. Close enough that his body heat buffets mine and the sheer physicality of his big strong frame makes me a little light-headed. Yet he doesn’t loom. He’s just there, watching, assessing. “There’s always a chance someone might unintentionally hurt you. That isn’t enough reason to back away. I never took you for a coward, Bren.”

My body snaps to cold attention. “Oh, hell no, Rye. You do not get to play that card.” He starts to speak, but I roll over his words with my own. “Do you have any clue in that thick head of yours how many times you’ve tried to shame me for my sex life?”

His brows practically hit his hairline. “Shame you?”

“Exactly.” I poke the air between us for emphasis. “Making snide remarks about me having sex, pointing out how much I have it, when I have it.”

“I…” His mouth works as words fail him, and his color drains.

“You weaponized sex against me, and suddenly I’m the coward for not wanting to have sex with you?” I laugh without humor. “That takes the cake. Truly.”

Rye’s skin is the color of old milk. He swallows thickly. “Shit, Bren. I didn’t realize—”

“Don’t you dare say you didn’t know you said those things.”

“I’m not going to…” He runs a hand raggedly through his hair. “I just didn’t think of it that way. I was giving you shit like I do all the guys.”

My snort is long and eloquent.

“I’m serious, Bren.” Rye’s expression is wide open and earnest. “We all give one another shit for things we know will be a direct hit. Just like you imply I’m a flake because you know it’s a sore spot for me.”

It’s my turn to flinch, because he’s right. I do it too. Rye is likely the smartest person I know, but his carefree nature hides a lot of it. Somewhere along the way, the guys started to joke about him being clueless, and it stuck. This is the price we paid for growing up together as a group—we often revert to our most childish selves around one another.

Rye’s deep voice cuts through my silent thoughts. “I know it wasn’t mature, but I thought it was our thing, trading verbal hits. It never occurred to me that you’d take it as shaming. I always admired your sexuality, and I thought you knew that.”

“Oh, please…”

“It’s true.” His voice grows strong. “You know what you want and go after it. I admire the hell out of that.” He winces, rubbing his hair again. “Shit, I feel like a total asshole now that I know it hurt you.”

“You didn’t hurt me,” I mutter. “You pissed me off.”

His smile is tentative and lopsided. “Fair enough.” The smile dies. “I’m sorry for that, Brenna. Believe that if nothing else.”

I stare at him for a long moment. There’s no hint of teasing in his steady gaze. He means it. I find myself nodding. “Okay.”

He releases a breath. “Okay.”

Guilt presses like a heavy hand against my heart. “I don’t think you’re stupid. You’re the smartest one out of all of us.”

Rye gives a jerky nod as though he’s surprised but doesn’t want to show it. “Don’t know about that, but thank you.”

“It was a horrible thing for me to imply. I’m sorry.”

He nods again, and we stare at each other helplessly, neither one of us knowing what to do with this new frontier of mutual apologies.

“Okay. Well, now that we’ve got that straightened out.” I smooth a strand of hair back. “Let’s just agree never to speak of this again.”

“Hold on a second.” Rye lifts his hands, amusement lighting his eyes. “We agreed that I was a dickhead and am sorry for it.”

“And I was a…what’s the female equivalent of a dickhead?”

“You don’t really expect me to answer that, do you?” He’s smiling now. “Because that’s bait.”

God, I want to smile back. But I hold it together. “We agreed that we were horrible to each other, which merely proves your proposal is ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?” he repeats with a laughing huff. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I would.” Damn it, I will not get flustered by the heat that’s returned to his gaze. “Clearing the air doesn’t create instant trust.”

“But you just said you know I’d never hurt you and that I respect you.” His expression is so genuinely confused, I have to believe he truly doesn’t get it.

I shake my head in exasperation. “Maybe you can easily flip the switch. But I can’t. One apology doesn’t erase the years of acrimony between us.”

“Acrimony is a bit harsh. It was more like light bickering.”

My lips purse to keep from laughing. Because he’s utterly shameless and annoyingly irresistible. “It doesn’t make up for the countless times you let me down over the years. The way you’d brush off interviews I set up—”

“I fucking hate interviews, Bren. Avoiding them as much as possible is about my issues, not to get at you.”

“You never take any of my work seriously.”

His chin jerks up. “Yes, I do. I know how important you are to this band.”

“Which is why you roll your eyes and make cracks about how annoying I am whenever I hand out the weekly schedule?”

“Shit, Bren, all of us do that.” His lips quirk with a self-deprecating smile. “We’re rock stars. Thumbing our noses at the establishment is kind of expected. For all intents and purposes, you’re our link to the establishment.”

Well, he had me there.

He edges closer. “The question is, why do you react with such vehemence when I do it, while the rest of the guys get a pass?”

Because they don’t get under my skin the way you do.

He reads the truth in my eyes far too well, and a gleam enters his eyes. “Face it, we react to each other the way we do because we’ve been trying our damnedest to one-up each other.”

He isn’t wrong.

His gaze lowers to my lips. “We could meet as equals here. We could…flip that switch.”

Was it hot in here? How high had I set the heat?

I push out a breath. “Maybe I’m just not attracted to you.”

Oh, such the wrong thing to say. We both know it. His eyes narrow, the corner of his lip curling just enough to taunt. When he talks, his voice is an octave lower, almost a purr. “Is that so?”

He leans in, his head ducking down, closer than he’s ever been to me. When I tense, he pauses, his breath ghosting over the sensitive skin of my neck. “I’m not going to kiss you. I’m just…checking something.”

He tilts his head, his nose brushing along my jaw. My eyes flutter closed, the urge to lean into him nearly intolerable. The soft touch of his lips on my pulse point makes both our breaths hitch. He sighs heavily, and I shiver.

“Your pulse is racing,” he says.

I can’t speak. Can’t move.

Callused and warm, his big hand finds my smaller limp one. He gently presses my palm into the center of his wide chest. His heart pounds a frantic rhythm that matches my own.

“Feel that? That’s just from standing close to you.” His voice vibrates against my neck, tickles along my nerve endings. “From me thinking about all the ways I could figure you out, find all the little things that will make you come.”

My knees go weak, and I sway. Just once. A small movement. But he notices. His grip tightens a fraction, a rumble sounding in his throat. I take a breath, push back. I haven’t fully prepared myself for the heat I see in his eyes, the unapologetic want he’s showing me. I’ve never had it aimed my way. I rest my butt against the counter before I end up on the floor.

“Now you know,” he murmurs deep and firm. “I’m physically attracted to you. Always was.”

God. He isn’t supposed to say these things. We have a silent but very clear deal based on mutual loathing and avoidance.

“This isn’t attraction,” I manage to get out. “It’s agitation.”

He hasn’t stepped away. He’s still so close our chests nearly touch with each unsteady breath we take. I wonder if he can smell the lie I’ve just told.

Blue eyes the color of well-worn denim spear mine. “It’s a promise.” The words come down like a hammer. “A promise, Bren, of how fucking good it can be if you just let go of your pride.” With that, he steps back, his hands open and facing out as if showing he’s got nothing to hide. “Think about it, okay? Just…think about it.”

He leaves without a backward glance. And I curse his name for the rest of the night because I don’t get a wink of sleep.

Bastard.