Exposed by Kristen Callihan
Chapter Three
Brenna
“Rye isn’t here,”Sophie says with an exasperated sigh.
The tip of my Jimmy Choo Love pump beats a rapid tattoo on the polished concrete floor of the photo studio. I take a moment to admire them—bright yellow leather with a white pointed tip and an elegant black heel. The other pump is white with a black tip and a yellow heel.
Something in me calms, as it always does when I admire my shoes.
Vain, yes. But for a girl who grew up with nothing, while watching her rich cousin and his friends get everything, the luxury of being able to buy beautiful shoes for myself is something I’ll never take for granted. Silly as it may seem, just the knowledge that I can afford these shoes, that I made it to this place through my own hard work, puts everything back into focus. More than any other arsenal in my wardrobe, my shoes have become a talisman of sorts, able to bring me comfort, take away my fears, and soothe my nerves.
So, yes, I stare at my shoes and quietly release the urge to strangle Rye. Because, when he’s late for a band photoshoot, we all have to wait. Sophie has a babysitter who’s on the clock, and the rest of us have various other appointments we have to attend later. But here we are, sitting around waiting for Rye to get his ass to the studio.
Whip and Jax are playing Minecraft in the small lounge we have set up. They’re arguing about the architecture of the Fortress of Solitude they’re building. Scottie is half on the phone, half watching them and muttering pointers. Killian is on a chair, idly strumming “Stairway to Heaven,”which the guys find hilarious. I know there’s probably some musician joke in this, but I’m too annoyed to remember it.
“He’ll show,” I say, silently cursing Rye in my head. I haven’t seen him since he dropped the sex bomb on my head last night, and I’m not exactly keen on coming face-to-face with him. Even so, we have work to do, and he needs to get his act together. Not that this is anything new for him. Rye is unreliable. Which is why, when I told him I couldn’t fully trust him, I wasn’t blowing hot air.
“He hates having his picture taken.” Sophie seems more amused than offended. She sets down her camera and runs a hand through her hair. It’s nut brown at the roots, lightening into marshmallow white at the tips. “Funny thing is, when I started, it was Killian who was most resistant to photos.”
“That’s just because he was being an ass.” I smile wryly. “Just like Rye.”
Sophie shakes her head, sending the pale strands of her hair swaying over her shoulders. “I don’t think it’s that. With Rye, I mean.” She picks up a bottled iced tea and takes a long drink. “Something’s going on with him lately.”
Everything in me freezes in cold horror as if somehow the entire band, all our friends, know what happened last night. My heart clenches with the fear that the next words out of Sophie’s mouth will be to ask me what’s up.
But she simply caps her tea and looks thoughtful. “He seems…off.”
“Does he?” I hadn’t noticed. Which is strangely upsetting, because I should notice. It’s my job to notice everything about my boys. Not that I like to think of Rye as “my boy” but… I shake off my wandering thoughts and tap my toe again.
“He used to be larger than life, the first one to stick his face in my camera…” Sophie grins. “Waggling his tongue and saying something wildly inappropriate.”
“Inappropriate is kind of his thing,” I say dryly.
She shakes her head fondly. “He reminds me of me, so I can’t throw stones. We’re both like these eager puppies, wanting attention, but when we have it, we don’t know what to do with it.”
My tapping toe stills. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but you’re right.”
She hums in agreement. “But now? Rye’s gone quiet. Like he’s drawing in on himself.” Her brown eyes meet mine. “You know?”
I didn’t. Not until Sophie pointed it out. An uncomfortable emotion—prickly and itchy, like the weaker cousin of jealousy—fills my insides. Sophie noticed but not me. Deep down, or maybe not so deep, I thought I was the one who paid the most attention to Rye and how he acted.
I don’t want to consider why that is. I don’t want to think about how he was in my house, asking to be the one that gets to fuck me, and I’d never suspected anything deeper was going on with him.
I make a noise of agreement and act like I’m fine. Everything is fine. But it’s not. Everything is off and twisted, and where the hell is Rye, anyway?
My silent scream of frustrated worry cuts short as the elevator dings, and Rye struts into the loft.
“Finally.” Killian sets his guitar down.
“Sorry,” Rye mutters, not sounding exactly sorry. He’s not looking at anyone but is focused on carrying a large tray of takeout cups in his hand. “This took a little longer than expected.”
“This” being the takeout. Instantly, I feel like an ass for cursing him. He sets his messenger bag down then starts handing out drinks. I feel even worse when it’s clear he got everyone their favorite.
“With a twist of lemon,” Scottie says, impressed but trying not to show it as he sips his Earl Grey.
“Without the lemon, you don’t achieve the proper snooty lip pucker,” Rye says with a wink.
Whip and Jax snicker. Scottie drinks his tea.
Rye approaches me last. It’s a struggle to maintain a neutral facade. It gets more difficult as he draws near. His presence takes away my air. He’s just too much. Too big, his body too strong and tight. His voice too deep—not a bass but a low baritone that has a tendency to vibrate along my skin when he’s near.
My gaze slides away from his knowing blue eyes, skids along the perfection of his round biceps, and halts on the drink in his large hand. It’s wrapped in a thick cloth napkin to keep it warm.
“You see,” he says in that low, rumbly voice, speaking only to me. “There’s only one coffee shop that makes a truly exceptional flat white, and it’s thirty blocks from here.”
My gaze flies up to collide with his, shock parting my lips. Months ago, I’d said Nova Coffee was the only place I’d found that makes the perfect flat white—“a truly exceptional one.” Rye went thirty blocks out of his way to get me one.
His expression is bland, but there’s a small spark in his eyes as he hands me my coffee. A peace offering? An acknowledgment?
Numbly, I take it, still staring back at him. We’re far enough from the rest of the group that they can’t hear us, but it doesn’t shake the sensation of being stuck under a blinding spotlight.
“Got you one of those lemon butter cookies you like as well.” Quietly, he slips a small bag into my nerveless grip.
But not covertly enough.
“How come Brenna gets a cookie?” Whip complains.
Rye keeps his gaze on me and raises his voice enough to answer. “She’s the one most likely to kick my ass for being late.”
“I thought that was Scottie,” Jax says, his green eyes impish.
Rye doesn’t blink. “He got his twist of lemon.”
“Well done, you.” Scottie lifts his tea with a small salute. Rye managed to remember that Scottie—the ultra-snob—likes his tea in a ceramic container.
How do you fault an effort like that?
“Is this a bribe?” I ask in a low voice.
That’s how.
Rye’s expression flickers, the light in his eyes dimming a little. His smile is small and tight. “It’s an extended apology. For the shaming thing.”
“Oh.” Damn it all, this isn’t what we do. We bicker. Only he’s not playing by our rules. Pressing my lips together, I try to think of something, anything to get us back on familiar ground. But I can’t ignore what he’s done for me. “Thank you. For the coffee. And the cookie.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, and I know he’s holding in a laugh at my horribly stilted response. Shifting my weight, I clutch my cookie and try again. “It was nice of you.”
“What bothers you more?” he murmurs idly. “Accepting that I might not be a total asshole? Or the possibility that we might start being nice to each other?”
A reluctant laugh bubbles up to the surface, but I hold it in. “Right now, it’s a fifty-fifty split.”
His mouth curls in a lazy grin. “I hope to afford you more clarity in the future.”
The retort dies in my mouth as realization hits. “Did you just quote Pride and Prejudice?”
“How many times did you watch that movie on the last tour?”
Too many, apparently. I stand there, dumbfounded and rudderless in this new Rye world.
Rye’s attention snags on my parted lips. His lids lower a fraction, and I swear he’s closer. Heat blooms under my silk blouse and tickles my skin.
“For the record, if I have to resort to bribery,” he whispers. “Then it won’t mean anything.”