Exposed by Kristen Callihan

Chapter Thirty

Rye

Family dinnerat Varg Hall is a bit different than our normal band family dinners. And by that, I mean it’s a formal, uncomfortable trial. With food.

Okay, the food is good. I’ll give them that. And there’s a lot of it. If you don’t mind being served endless courses by waitstaff in black ties. A woman fills my wine glass with Cabernet then slips away just as another waiter sets down a plate of prettily cut rounds of roast beef, dribbled with a glossy brown sauce, which probably has some fancy name, but I could give fuck all about it at the moment.

Not when Brenna sits at my side, her pretty, long neck and graceful shoulders so stiff, it’s a wonder she doesn’t crack. I don’t blame her. Her parents have been complaining about this or that for much of the meal.

Patricia and Neil James are, in a word, killjoys. At a distance, Brenna looks like a younger version of her mom, albeit about four inches taller. They both have the same red-brown hair, the same amber eyes. Patricia’s hair is faded, a washed reddish gray like the undercoat of a fox. Frown lines crease her slightly rounder face, and her nose is more snub than Bren’s. Brenna has her father, Neil’s, height and narrower, longer features. Neil looks like a version of his brother, Xander, gone to seed.

They both wear a perpetually pinched expression, as if they smell something bad. And they’re not afraid to speak their mind. As in all the fucking time. With every damn snipe and whine they dole out, Brenna’s slim body flinches, the softness of her lips pressing tighter. It breaks my heart, and it’s all I can do not to reach under the table and set my hand on her knee. To hold her or say, Fuck it, let me take you out of here.

But I know she won’t want that. Brenna has pride. She wears it like armor and strides on five-inch heels made of brash confidence and pure guts.

It doesn’t stop me from wanting to toss her parents out on their ears. I slide a look Brenna’s way, inwardly aching at how even the golden candlelight can’t hide the pale cast of her creamy skin.

“I thought tonight was family dinner,” Neil says with a wary glance around the table. He’s across from me, with his wife at his side.

We’re all sitting like good little soldiers around a table that can easily fit twenty. Three enormous antique silver candelabrum march down the center of the table festooned with sugared fruits and evergreen garland. Porcelain vases, filled to bursting with lush red hothouse roses, sit on either end of the table. Candlelight glitters on the celadon and gold china, silver flatware, and cut crystal glasses.

It’s all very pretty. For hell.

Xander, who’s at the head of the table, glowers at his younger brother over the rim of his wineglass. “I’m not sure what you mean, Neil. Are we not eating?”

I’m fairly certain everyone knows what good old Neil means. But he makes sure he’s very clear by pointedly glancing at me, Whip, Jax, Scottie, Sophie, and Stella. “Looks more like a party for your son’s friends than family dinner.”

Killian makes a noise like he’s about to rip into his uncle, but Libby touches his wrist, and he merely glares.

Xander sets down his glass. “My son’s friends are family.”

“More like another excuse for a photo op,” Neil mutters, taking a bite of beef.

“You see any cameras around here, Neil?” Killian grits out.

“No, but the night is young, boy.”

I swear, Killian is a second away from lunging down the table to strangle him. I’d approve, if it weren’t for the pained flutter of Brenna’s lashes as she stares down at her uneaten dinner.

“Tell me, Sophie,” Isabella says in an overly bright voice, “how is little Felix handling the time difference?”

Sophie’s brown eyes go wide, and I know she’s not exactly pleased to be picked out of the herd. But she is a socializing pro and slides easily into a breezy tale about Felix staying up all night and driving Scottie to plead on his knees for his toddler son to give it a rest.

Sophie’s grin is wide and infectious as she laughs, remembering the moment. “Gabriel ended up reading Felix Go the Fuck to Sleep—”

Patricia’s strangled gasp of horror cuts Sophie off. “You read that? To a child?”

Scottie inclines his head her way. His expression could freeze over hell. “Twice, to be precise.”

Lips twitching, Jax takes a hasty sip of wine, and I know he’s holding on by a thread. We all are.

Patricia’s mouth tightens. “It’s immoral…”

“Mom,” Brenna cuts in, strained. “He’s a baby. He doesn’t understand the words, just the rhythm of the story.”

“That’s no excuse.” Patricia dabs her lips with her linen napkin. “Then again, look at what he’s growing up around.”

It sucks all the air from the room. Every single one of us tensing in a collective breath of anger. For the first time in years, I’m fairly certain Scottie is about to lose his shit.

Brenna leans in, resting her forearms on the table as she gives her mother a bland smile. “Surrounded by people who love and support him? The horror.”

“Mind your sarcasm, young lady.” Patricia sets her napkin down. “Your father and I did our best to guide you in the right direction. And still you end up here, hanging on the fringes of this degenerate rock band, wearing those ridiculous heels, and sleeping around with God knows what.”

What.As though a person whose lifestyle she doesn’t approve of or understand is a thing. As though Brenna is one by association.

All the color leaches out of her beautiful face, but her eyes spark with fire. She doesn’t shout or snap. Her tone is perfectly even when she replies, “If you want to know about my sex life, just ask, Mother.”

“Brenna.” Neil slaps a hand on the table.

“Father,” she replies neutrally.

“Pay her no mind, Neil,” Patricia says. “She’s only being fresh because I’m right. She’s been living off Killian’s charity instead of making her own way—”

“Bullshit.”

Every head turns my way.

Right. I said that. I can feel Brenna’s gaze, shocked and wide on me.

What are you doing? You’re supposed to charm the parents of the woman you want in your life, not antagonize them, you moron.

But fuck this. I cannot sit here listening to them systematically tear her down.

Neil sneers. “Pardon?”

“Your daughter is bold, intelligent, and one of the most respected people in the music industry. She’s the living heart of this band. She doesn’t hang on to us. She holds us up.” You complete and utter dick drizzle. “And if you can’t see how great she is, then you don’t deserve her.”

Scottie raises his glass. “Hear, hear.”

Our friends follow suit, all of them wearing various expressions of fierce protectiveness and simmering rage.

Under the table, a touch, light as butterfly wings, flits along my outer thigh, snagging the whole of my attention. Without looking her way, I let my hand fall beneath the tabletop and find Brenna’s. Hers is cold and clammy. Heart clenching, I rest mine on top of her hand, holding it firmly against my thigh where she’ll be warm.

“And who are you, again?” Neil studies me as if I’ve crawled out from under the floorboards.

“The drummer,” Patricia says in an undertone that implies, What else should you expect from such a low creature?

Whip snickers under his breath, but I know he’s far from amused. We share a quick look of perfect understanding. If they weren’t Brenna’s parents, we’d have marched them out of here an hour ago.

“The bassist, ma’am. I also go by Degenerate Number One.”

Jax coughs into his napkin. And Neil reddens.

All right, it was a cheap shot. I need to reel it in for Brenna’s sake, no matter how good it feels to knock her shit parents down a peg. She doesn’t look my way, but under the table, her fingers spread over my thigh. She rubs me just once, a tiny movement that I feel along the whole of my side.

Patricia flushes a deep berry that’s uncomfortably similar to the way Brenna blushes. “I never implied you weren’t intelligent, Brenna. Or capable. That is the point. You could do so much better.”

Brenna’s hand slips away from me, and she rests her fist on the table. “I honestly cannot conceive of anyone better than these people, Mother.”

“Willfully stubborn,” Neil remarks, taking another bite of his beef. “Blinded by fame and excess. Mark my words, young lady. One day you’ll regret it. You’ll be alone and—”

“Oh, leave off, Neil,” Xander snaps. “Your issue isn’t with Brenna or Rye. If you want to have a go at me, wait for after dinner. I’ll be more than happy to accommodate you. But you’re putting everyone off their roast.”

“So superior, Xander. In your Italian loafers, playing country lord of the manor.”

“Well, one ought to wear the proper footwear when lording,” Xander intones.

I’ve always liked Xander.

Neil turns redder. “And this farce of a birthday celebration. Just one big, happy family, eh?”

Xander’s eyes narrow, and I swear Isabella flinches. Neil sees her discomfort too.

“Tell me,” Neil says, getting his teeth into it. “What are we to raise our glasses to? Your birthday or your divorce?”

And that is when Killian loses his shit.

“What the fuck?”

“Goddamn it, Neil,” Xander shouts.

Everything falls apart then. Neil and Xander start yelling at each other. Killian turns to his mom, who begins to cry. Chairs are pushed back, the room clearing out in a hurry. And all the while, Brenna sits cool as carved ice, her eyes on the plate before her.

I sit by her side, unwilling to leave. When a door slams, she flinches, blinking as though coming out of a trance.

“Hey,” I say softly. “You okay?”

Brenna pulls in an audible breath. Her whisky eyes are overbright, glimmering at the corners. “Yes. Thank you, though, for saying all that. It was unnecessary but kind.”

“Kind? Bren, this is me. You don’t have to pretend. If you’re hurting, tell me. I’m here.”

Her lips purse into a crimson-red line. “Did you see Isabella? She was so upset.”

“Yeah, I saw.” Frankly, Brenna’s dad could do with a good kick in the ass. But I refrain from mentioning that bit.

“I mean, I know their relationship wasn’t perfect.” Brenna snorts delicately, the sound echoing in the vast, empty room. “Obviously not, if she tried to kiss you.”

Wincing, I glance around; it would do no good for that to get out now. But all is quiet, and Brenna keeps talking with methodical woodenness. “But that was years ago, and she always seemed so in love with Uncle Xander.”

“Bren, honey, it’s hard to tell what goes on between a couple behind closed doors.” I shove away thoughts of my own cheating dad as Brenna sighs, a sad, tiny sound.

“I know. And it was naive of me to assume, but I had hoped they worked their issues out. I don’t know…I just wanted to believe they were happy.”

With another sigh, she pushes back from the table and rises with the stiffness of old straw. I follow, pulling her chair back for her.

“She was so sad, Rye.”

“I know, Berry.”

“Crazy thing is, she’s been more of a mom to me than my own.”

My heart cracks at the hollow sadness in Brenna’s eyes.

“Bren…” I reach to take her arm, but she shrugs me off.

“No. I can’t right now.”

Stung, my hand drops. “I’m sorry. I only wanted to…” Comfort you. Hold you. “Help.”

“You can’t. Not with this.” Distracted, she glances over her shoulder to where Killian and Isabella have walked off. “I need to be with my family.”

Family. And I’m not hers. This isn’t news. So why does it hurt so much?

“All right. Maybe we can hang out later—” I bite my lip to shut up. What am I doing? She’s stressed and hurting, and I’m making it worse because I selfishly want to be the one to fix things. What had John said before? I can’t fix her problems. I can only be there to support her.

“Do what you have to do,” I say. “If you need me for anything, I’m here.”

There. That was all right, wasn’t it?

She visibly sags with weary relief. “Thank you.”

Good. This is good. I’m not completely fucking it up.

Brenna slowly heads for the door but pauses just before walking out of the room. “Maybe you were right to be leery of relationships. Maybe love isn’t enough to stop people from cheating or breaking apart.”

Shit, that’s what she’s getting out of all this? Now, when I finally understand what it means to truly only want one person, when it’s crystal fucking clear that cheating isn’t about a flaw in the other person but a flaw within the cheater.

An agitated shard of panic spears my gut.

“No, Brenna,” I say with feeling. “No. I was wrong. That’s not what love—”

Another door slams, followed by Killian’s deep voice mixing with Isabella’s contralto as they argue in rapid-fire Spanish.

Brenna’s gaze darts their way. “I have to go.”

“Bren—”

“We’ll talk later, Rye.”

She’s out of the room before I can reply.

And I’m left with the cold fear that I might never be able to convince her that love isn’t what breaks people apart; it’s what holds them together.