Exposed by Kristen Callihan

Chapter Twenty

Brenna

Work isthe last place I want to be. It occurs to me that I’ve begun to resent going to work more and more lately. I thought being with Rye would end this restlessness within me. I thought this hole inside of me was about needing a good sexual release. But it’s not.

At least not entirely. Yes, I am sexually satisfied. And, yes, that’s great. But it isn’t the quick fix I’d been hoping for.

All morning I am bombarded with texts from the guys, texts from Jules and Sophie. Questions about the band. Questions from their record label. Questions from my staff about fan clubs, concert passes, upcoming events. It’s all about the band. All the time. But nothing from Rye.

I have to fight the compulsion to pull out my phone and check. I haven’t spoken to him since we went to the museum two days ago. It’s as though we both needed to pull back and regroup. But he’s been on my mind ever since.

God, how could I have gotten things so wrong? On the surface, the whole incident between Rye and my aunt appeared clean-cut. I’m horrified to know how it really happened. But I can’t find it in myself to judge my aunt. The whole thing makes me tired now. And unsettled.

It’s as if the smooth foundations of my life have a hairline fracture that’s slowly spreading out in all directions. I want to fall to my knees, plaster over those cracks and get on with my life. But I can’t. I’m changing, my well-ordered plans shifting into something uncontrollable.

It’s enough to make me curl up into a ball and hide. It shames me. Who am I to complain about my life?

Rye hasn’t complained. Even though his hands, his beautiful, talented, perfect hands are letting him down. I want to seek him out and wrap him in a hug.

He’d hate that. The man has recesses of pride I never considered. His sense of honor is rock-solid. The more I’m with him, the more I learn about him, which in turn makes me want to know more and more. I have to stop thinking about him. Work. I need to work.

Only, I don’t want to talk about Kill John. With an ugly start, I realize I could go months without carrying on another Kill John related conversation and be happy.

I set my head in my hands let out a groan.

“Bren?” Michael leans into the office, a small frown of concern wrinkling between his brows. “Your phone is going off nonstop.”

Which is unheard of for me.

“I wanted to make sure you were still alive,” he says with a wink.

Sighing, I sit back and rub my face. “Just taking a breather.”

I don’t think he buys it, but he’s smart enough not to ask any more questions. The phone rings again. I pick it up and do my job.

“Brenna, babe!” Tim Wilks. Another reporter. Lovely. He starts in on all the things he needs to know about Jax and Stella.

“I’m sorry,” I tell Wilks. “But as I’ve said, Jax is not taking questions about his personal life. If you ask any, don’t be surprised if he walks.”

And I won’t blame Jax one bit,I think silently. Ever since the world got wind of his relationship with Stella—and the fact that she used to be a professional friend, something people find either fascinating or unbelievable—he’s made it clear he won’t drag her into the harsh light of public scrutiny. Well, any more than she already is.

For as much as people love their heroes, they’re exceptionally good at tearing them and their loved ones down if they don’t act exactly as expected. Truth is, most rabid fans don’t like the idea of the guys pairing off and finding love. Not that they don’t want the guys to be happy, but it kills the fantasy that someone out there might eventually snag one of them.

Jax and Killian being off the market is both an endless source of speculation, fascination, and disgruntlement. It is my job to protect them all from the brunt of it.

“I hear you loud and clear,” Tim says. “But you have to know his fans keep asking. They deserve to know—”

“Exactly dick about Jax’s personal life,” I snap.

Silence greets me.

For a moment I just sit there, mouth slightly open as if gaping at my rudeness and stupidity. Rule one in my job is not to lose my cool. Getting defensive or snappish with a reporter only makes them dig in further.

But I can’t help myself. I’m tired of fielding the same questions. It’s a horrible shock to realize that I’m sick of even saying Jax’s name. Blood drains from my face, and I pull in a deep, quiet breath. I feel like the most disloyal friend in the world right now. And a shitty PR manager.

“Send me the questions,” I say before Wilks can respond. “I’ll have Jax go over them. He has final approval. That’s all I can promise.”

Wilks grumbles, and I get the hell off the phone with him as fast as possible. My hands are shaking. I need fresh air. Putting my phone on silent—a cardinal sin in Scottie’s book—I head for the coffee shop down the street.

“I’ve worn that frown before,” says a masculine voice over my shoulder while I’m standing in line.

Startled out of my pout, I turn and find Marshall Faulkner grinning at me.

“Have you?” I ask wryly.

“Sure,” he says easily. “It’s the, ‘I’m at my wits’ end and need to mainline coffee stat’ frown.”

Laughing, I shake my head in resignation. “Guilty.”

His blue eyes crinkle at the corners. “But you’re still itching to look at your phone, aren’t you?”

“You are good.”

Marshall shrugs. “It’s the curse of the workaholic.”

The line moves, and we amble onward. “I don’t know,” I find myself muttering. “I’m kind of over work at the moment.”

As soon as I say the words, I want to take them back. I don’t complain about work to outsiders. Ever. But confessing to someone who doesn’t know the guys, or the entanglements of my life, feels like a balm. Marshall might not know me, but he does understand PR.

It’s clear in the way his expression is both sympathetic and amused. “I’ve had those days as well.”

My turn comes up to order. I place mine and pay before stepping aside and letting him do the same. When he’s done, we move to the waiting line.

“Thing is,” he continues as though we hadn’t paused our conversation, “I usually turn my focus to other projects. How does it work when you only have one client?”

A grimace twists my lips before I can school my features. “It doesn’t, sadly. I just…push through.”

Marshall nods, and an awkward air falls between us, brought on by my painful honesty and the uncomfortable feeling that I’ve betrayed Kill John by complaining. It’s broken by the arrival of our coffees. It’s my cue to go, but I find myself walking out with him as if by silent agreement.

It’s one of those perfect New York autumn days where the air is crisp but not too cold and the sun is shining lemon yellow in a lapis sky. We stroll toward Central Park, which is at the end of the block. Tourists are wandering up Fifth Avenue, heading for the Met. We ease past them and go into the park.

“You ever think about taking on more clients?” Marshall asks as we amble down a path.

“I work for Liberty Bell too.” A small, wry smile tilts my mouth. “Although that’s more of a ‘keeping it in the family’ kind of thing.”

“You all really do think of yourselves as a family, don’t you?”

An image flashes through my mind, of Rye kneeling between my spread thighs, his eyes searing with hot need. Cheeks hot, I’m grateful for the cool breeze that cuts across the park. “I suppose we do. Perhaps that’s my problem. Family matters are always complicated.”

“You’re burnt out, aren’t you?” He doesn’t so much accuse as ask, as if it just hit him and he empathizes.

And I find myself telling the truth.

“I think I am. I’m just not into work these days and that’s utterly foreign to me.”

Marshall ducks his head as he walks, and I’m struck by how similar in appearance he is to Rye. But where Rye exudes a kind of kinetic vitality, Marshall is more grounded and serious. My body doesn’t hum with want when it’s next to his, but he does make me comfortable. It’s a rare talent, given that I don’t let my guard down with anyone.

“I’d been planning to ask you something…” He pauses and glances over at me. “Now I feel like an opportunist.”

My stomach tightens just enough to make my steps slow. If he’s planning to ask me out, it will be awkward. Before Rye, I’d be all over this man. But I keep my voice light. “Well, now you have me intrigued.”

Marshall huffs out a small laugh as if to say, Well, I tried, albeit not very hard. “My firm has been looking for top talent to recruit.”

“You’re looking at Kill John?” The very idea slides like ice inside my stomach.

His laugh is heartier now. “No, I’m looking at you.”

I stop in my tracks. “Me?”

Marshall pivots to face me. “You’re the talent I’m interested in. The firm is growing leaps and bounds, and our PR division is having trouble keeping up.” His expression is kind, persuasive. “We’d be lucky to have someone like you leading it.”

He’s offering me a job. Surprise prickles over my skin. “And here I thought you were about to ask about going out for tacos,” I blurt out. Like an idiot. Because I don’t want tacos.

He chuckles and takes a step closer. “I am not opposed to doing that either.”

Shit.

Wryly, I shake my head. “Sorry, that just slipped out.”

Heat enters his gaze. “I’m not sorry. We can do both.”

Even if I weren’t doing whatever it is I’m doing with Rye, the idea of going on a date with the man offering me a job doesn’t sit right. “I couldn’t, not if you’re serious about the job offer. It would be a huge conflict of interest for me.”

Marshall winces. “God, that was inappropriate of me. I’m usually better than this. Please, accept my apology.”

“It’s all right. I’m the one who mentioned tacos.” I shake my head slightly. “It came out wrong, anyway. I’m seeing someone.” Jesus. It’s true. I’m in a relationship with Rye. The truth of that hits me in the knees and makes them weak. I brace myself and push on. “Although, I’d love to take you out for tacos as a friend.”

A flicker of disappointment darkens Marshall’s eyes, but it’s gone quickly, and his smile seems genuine. “Ah, well. I suspected someone like you wouldn’t be available for long. But my offer about the job remains. In fact, it’s stronger than ever. You speak plainly, and I like you.”

I can’t help laughing. “That’s succinct.”

He winks, and it is surprisingly not cheesy. “You haven’t said anything about the position. Tell me you’re thinking about it.”

Am I? God. Am I?

Excitement over the prospect of something new to work on bubbles through my veins. But the very thought of considering leaving Kill John feels like the ultimate betrayal. I’m guessing Marshall knows this because he leans in slightly, his expression one I’ve used on reluctant record executives and promoters over the years. “We’re offering an equal partnership position. At least come to LA and hear us out.”

Ah, yes, and that’s the other thing. The job would be in LA. All the way across the country. It isn’t as though the guys don’t have homes scattered around the world. Hell, Scottie has more houses than any of us. He’s a hoarder that way. But I’m always here, steadfast and loyal in New York. And completely out of sorts.

A lump fills my throat, and I swallow it down.

“No pressure,” Marshall says. “I swear. We’ll just give you the nickel tour, throw money at you, and beg.”

A reluctant laugh escapes me. “No pressure, huh?”

“None whatsoever. You can meet the team, see how we operate. Spend a few days in the sun and find out if it’s a good fit.”

There’s no harm in one visit. It doesn’t mean anything.

I tell myself this, and yet my fingers feel like ice when I finally say, “All right. When would you like to do this?”

His smile lights up his face. “Next week?”

“Wow, you’re fast.”

“I have to be if I want to snare you.”

Smooth. But then he is at the top of his game for a reason.

“Good answer. All right, give me the details, and I’ll make some arrangements.”

“Bren?”

The sound of Rye’s voice behind me has my entire body seizing up like I’ve been caught skipping school. Heart thundering in my chest, I turn to find him behind me. Dressed in black track pants and a Nine Inch Nails T-shirt molded over his broad chest, he’s damp with sweat and clearly out for a run. He’d come upon Marshall and me without either of us noticing. Sweet mercy, how much had he heard?

By the pinched look on his face, enough.

“Rye,” I get out. “Hey. I didn’t see you…”

The cutting glare he gives me all but screams, Yeah, no shit, Brenna. He turns his attention to Marshall and gives him a bland smile. “Faulkner, right?”

“Call me Marshall.” He extends a hand for Rye to shake.

I almost want to shout a warning not to do it, because the not-so-hidden glint in Rye’s eyes says he’d gladly crush Marshall’s bones if he could. But he simply does a brief handshake and then lets go before leveling me with another look.

“You’re going to LA?”

Not subtle. The very fact that he’s asking sends another wash of guilt over my skin. I shove it down. “I am.”

Oh, he doesn’t like that answer. Not at all. And though I feel like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t, the fact that he’s here, standing before me in the sunlight, makes my heart beat faster. I drink him in, wanting to step close, wrap myself around him and hold on. He’s clearly pissed, and I should be wary because I don’t know how to explain Marshall’s offer, but he’s also a familiar comfort. One I suddenly need very badly.

I turn a fake, too wide “please don’t say anything else about this now” smile on Marshall. “Can I call you later?”

Marshall might be a talent manager, but he’s clearly adept enough in public relations to read me well. “Sure thing.” His smile is tinged with an apology as if to say he’s sorry for any awkwardness he caused. And because it’s my job to read people too, I know he’s just figured out who I’m seeing.

My cheeks heat again.

“I have a meeting to get to in about twenty minutes,” Marshall tells us. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Rye grunts. I say goodbye in some stilted fashion, but I’m not fully paying attention anymore. Blood rushes through my ears, and my limbs buzz with unaccustomed anxiety.

The second Marshall is out of sight, Rye and I round on each other.

“Rye…”

“You’re going to visit that guy in LA?” Rye says at the same time. “What the fuck, Bren?”

He’s too close, smelling of hot skin and fresh sweat. And, damn it, that scent is forever associated with fucking him. My body reacts accordingly, pulling tight and achy. I ignore it because what Rye said finally registers.

“Hold the phone,” I say. “Are you implying that I’m hooking up with Marshall?”

His brows lower, the muscles along his shoulders bunching. “What am I supposed to think when I hear him talk about snaring you, and you’re…giggling like some smitten kitten!”

The last part booms out, startling a pigeon into flight.

I cast a hasty glance around, noting the people watching—and God help us if anyone recognizes Rye and starts recording—then turn and walk away. If Rye wants to follow, he will. If not, screw him.

He follows, easily keeping up with my quick steps.

“I was not giggling,” I grind out. “But that’s beside the point. Why don’t we start with why you think it’s okay to have a go at me like some irate, neanderthal boyfriend. Because that is bullshit, Rye.”

“What, am I supposed to grin and bear it? Because that is bullshit.” He flushes red. “Are you fucking him?

“Are you kidding me? I can’t believe you have the nerve to even suggest it. Hell. And to think I was actually happy to see you.”

At that he blanches, then takes a step closer to me. But I hold up a hand to ward him off, still too pissed for contact.

“I’m sorry,” he says with a rasp. “Okay? I shouldn’t have…fuck. All right, you wouldn’t do that. Of course, you wouldn’t. But…” He lifts his arms in a helpless gesture then flops them back down, defeated. “Do you want to? Is that it?”

The hurt in Rye’s expression levels me. I instantly feel terrible. I know now what cheating means to Rye and how badly it unsettles him. And hadn’t I jumped to horrible conclusions about him with Isabella?

“No, Rye. No. Not even a little.”

His nod is tight and quick, but the line of his jaw bunches stubbornly.

“I’m with you now,” I say. “I promised my fidelity, and I meant it.”

He doesn’t speak for a moment. Instead, he frowns at his feet. “I saw you with him and… Shit, Bren. You two flirted at Stella’s party, now you’re making plans to visit him in LA. I reacted. Badly.” His gaze collides with mine. “I’m sorry, Berry.”

Now that I’ve calmed, when I view the situation through his eyes, I know that if I were faced with the same set of circumstances, I would flip out. It isn’t easy to admit, but I would be jealous. On the heels of that comes the strange dizziness of knowing he’s jealous.

He’s jealous.

It should turn me off. It doesn’t.

With a sigh, I walk over to the trash and chuck my cold coffee. There’s an empty bench facing the Bow Bridge, and I head for it, knowing Rye will follow. At the very least, we’ll have a little more privacy.

He sits next to me, close enough that I feel his warmth, but not touching.

“He offered me a job, Rye.”

I feel the impact my words have on him, the shock, the way it upsets him, and the way he rallies to lock it down. When he speaks, his voice is gravel. “You want to leave us?”

Leave us. Leave him.

“No,” I whisper. “I don’t. But I’m not…”

When I trail off, he speaks again, softly. “You’re not happy?”

God, this is horrible. I feel small and petty and disloyal.

“Rye, your music is your passion. It’s something that is part of you. But this is a job for me. One that I’ve always loved and been proud of, but it’s still a job. And lately…” I take an unsteady breath. “I feel…tired, uninspired. Off.”

He turns my way, his gaze on my face as if he’s seeing me anew. “I get it, Bren. The well has gone dry for me before. It isn’t fun.”

“Maybe that’s all it is,” I say, keeping my focus on the lake in front of us.

“But maybe it isn’t,” he says, knowing I’m thinking it. “Maybe a change is what you need?”

He says it tentatively, as though it kills him to voice the truth out loud, but he will accept it because my happiness is important to him. Horrifyingly, tears prickle against my lids, and I have to blink rapidly to clear them.

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

His big hand engulfs mine. His strong, rough, messed-up hand. He holds on to me like I’m precious, like I matter. He holds on to me as though he knows how much I need it.

The blunt tip of his thumb runs along the sensitive skin of my palm. “How long will you be gone?”

“A few days. I wasn’t looking, you know. His offer came out of the blue. Surprised me, really. But his firm is legendary. I couldn’t turn down the opportunity to at least take a look.”

Rye holds my hand more securely. “Bren. It’s okay. You don’t have to explain.”

I close my mouth abruptly, the lump in my throat growing. Ducking my head, I focus on our intertwined hands. It is surreal to sit on a park bench, holding Rye Peterson’s hand, but, in this moment, it feels like the safest place in the world. He’s not judging me; he’s giving me exactly what I need. He keeps doing that. How will I ever be able to let him go?

“Maybe I have to explain it to myself.”

“Yeah, I get that.” Somehow, he’s moved closer. Our shoulders brush, and I lean into him. I’m not leaning on him. I’m just…resting with him for a minute.

Rye’s thumb keeps sweeping across my palm, over the tips of my fingers.

“I’m afraid.” I close my eyes against the confession.

Rye pauses, his body lifting on a breath. “Of what?”

Don’t say it. Don’t let yourself fall to weakness.

The words come anyway. “I’m afraid I’ll like it there.”

His grip tightens, as warm and secure as a hug. “No matter where you go, you will never be alone. Do you understand?”

I’m going to cry. Right here on a park bench with Rye Peterson holding my hand. My throat works as I swallow convulsively. “Yes.”

A tender squeeze of my hand is his reply. Two little girls in matching red coats run across the bridge, followed by a harried woman pushing an empty double stroller.

“I have a house in LA,” Rye says. “Up in the hills.”

“When did you buy that?” Our voices are quiet, easy as though we’re not talking about the prospect of me leaving everything I know and love behind.

“Last year. I had it renovated.” He turns his head. Lines of strain still bracket his eyes, but they’re clear and steady on me. “Stay there. It’ll be more comfortable than a hotel.”

“I’m used to hotels.”

The wide curve of his lips kicks up on one end. “Maybe I just want to know what you think of my house.”

His cautious yet excited tone catches my attention.

“What are you not telling me?”

He gives a careless shrug. A breeze picks up the ends of his bronze hair and lifts it back from his brow, and he squints into the sunlight as he looks over the lake. “It’s just something I’m working on. I haven’t told anyone else about it. You can see it if you stay there.”

Another gift. He keeps giving me these pieces of himself. If he isn’t careful, I’ll soon have all of him.

“I’ll stay at your house.”

He keeps his gaze on the lake, but he can’t hide the pleased glint in his eyes. “Cool.”

Without thinking about it, I lean in and give him a quick kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Ryland.”

He inhales swiftly as though not expecting a kiss but then looks down at me. “I want to kiss you,” he says, low, urgent.

“Right here on this public bench?” I tease, stalling the moment.

“Yes, ma’am.”

The chances of being seen are low, but there’s still a chance. We’re a few blocks from my office. Rye uses this particular route for running and so does Scottie.

But Rye looks so good, that wide firm mouth of his perfectly framed by his close beard, and he’ll taste so good…My breath grows short.

“Kiss me, then,” I whisper.

His nostrils flare, then he’s cupping my cheek, dipping his head. He kisses me soft and slow but with such depth that I feel it behind my knees, in the empty ache of my sex. My breath catches, and he gives me his with a little nuzzle and suck.

“Do what you’ve got to in LA,” he says against my mouth. “And then come back to me.”

* * *

Late that night,I pack for my trip, but I can’t shake the feeling of wrongness within me. I shouldn’t be leaving Rye. He backed my trip with unfailing conviction. It means more to me than he’ll know. And yet he’s still alone and floundering. No one knows about his hand, his fear, his pain. It isn’t right.

I shouldn’t be leaving. But I have to try. I have to see if…

With a hard swallow, I bat at my prickling eyes. I have to go. But that doesn’t mean I have to leave him all alone. I pick up my phone and call Scottie.

“Brenna.” His voice is warm and slightly amused. Why, I have no idea, since I call him at least twice a day for the most part.

“I’m going to LA for a week on personal business.”

Silence follows, and damn it, he knows. I have no idea how he does it, but he knows I’m going to see Marshall. Refusing to squirm, I wait out that silence. Scottie likes to draw it out, hoping his victim will roll over and blab away all their secrets.

Not today, Satan!

“All right,” he says finally, grumpy because I didn’t fold.

“I need you to do something for me, though.” My hands have gone ice-cold, and I clutch the phone tighter.

“If it’s to water your plants, be warned, I once killed a silk fiddle leaf fig tree. Sophie called it dark sorcery.”

“Ha.” My throat is dry, and the sound comes out far too rough. I lick my lips and try for cool cynicism. “It’s about Rye. He’s been evading his PR schedule…” God, I’m the worst betrayer. “And I know he’s missing band meetings. And…Check on him, will you?”

If I thought the silence was bad before, it’s freaking ominous now. But, to my surprise, Scottie breaks it quickly. “You want me to check on Rye?”

We both know how out of character it is for me to show any concern about Rye.

Cheeks hot, I grip my phone like a lifeline and close my eyes. “We both know something is off with him.” I’m sorry, Rye. I’m so sorry. But I’m leaving and he’s hurting. I can’t stomach knowing he’s alone with this. “Just…take the guys with you and check on him, all right?”

I know I’ve shocked the hell out of Scottie. But his voice remains cool as silk. “All right.”

Relief sweeps through me. I’ve betrayed Rye’s trust by pushing this, but I can’t regret it. Not when I know how much he needs his friends, not when I know he won’t ask them for help when they’re the only ones who will truly understand what he’s facing. Maybe before everything happened with Jax, I could let it go, but now I just can’t. I won’t ever leave someone I care about in the dark again.

It’s how much I’m beginning to care that scares me and makes my reply to Scottie stilted and stumbling. “Okay. Good. Thanks.”

I move to hang up when Scottie’s voice stops me. “Brenna?”

“Yes?”

He hesitates for a fraction of a second. “Take care.”

The worst part is, I’m not certain it’s myself he’s asking me to take care with.