Exposed by Kristen Callihan
Chapter Six
Brenna
Curled up on my big,soft couch before the TV in my den, I finish up the second French braid in my hair then stretch out and wiggle my sock-covered feet. This is more like it. I love my couch. Nice and deep, squishy down-filled and upholstered in pale pink velvet—it’s the kind of thing my parents would have called frivolous and, yes, it cost more than a month’s rent on my first apartment. But I worked my ass off to get where I am, and I like my luxuries.
I like being home, frankly. I don’t get to be here or by myself enough as it is. After I finally escaped the party, I gave myself a mini spa, taking a nice long shower while wearing a detoxifying clay mask, shaving the essential bits, then slathering on a rich body moisturizer that smells of cookies. It’s late as hell, and I should be sleeping. But sleep eludes me these days. Instead, I’m watching old movies and eating my way through a can of Pringles. What can I say? They’re my weakness.
I’m happily munching when the bell rings. Given that I have a doorman to keep unwanted visitors away, my hackles rise. Everyone who knows where I live and would visit me at this hour is still at Stella’s birthday party. I’m guessing it’s one of my neighbors, needing help or maybe wanting to borrow an egg…at two in the morning. Shit.
The bell rings again, and I make my way to the door, remote clutched in my hand like a bat.
A peek through my peephole has me cursing wildly. Rye glares back at me, obviously aware that I’m peeping. I jerk back from the door then wrench it open. “What are you doing here?”
“You gonna club me with that remote?” He nods toward my hand where I still clutch it tight.
“I just might. It’s two in the morning.”
A long-suffering sigh leaves him. “Bren, I’ve spent the past decade staying up till all hours.” He raises a brow. “And so have you. It’s early for us.”
“That might have been true a couple of years ago. The thrill is officially gone now.”
His smile is barely there and weary. “Yeah, it is. Can I come in?” The smile dies, and he attempts to peer past my shoulder. “Or do you have company?”
“You thought I might have company, and yet you still showed up?”
That lopsided smile of his turns into a grimace. “No?”
I will not fall for that helpless hound dog look of his. It is not cute. “No, you didn’t think? Or no, you’re not actually here, and I’m hallucinating?”
“As much as I like the idea of you hallucinating about me, I meant no, I didn’t know if you had company, but I wanted to make sure anyway.”
When I gape back at him, he shifts his feet and eyes my foyer. “Well? Are you going to let me in?”
The petty girl in me really wants to close the door in his face. She’d gain a lot of satisfaction out of that—checking to see if I had a date in here, indeed. But I act like a grown-up and open the door wider, stepping aside to give him room. “All right then.”
With a nod and a grim set to his mouth, Rye walks past me and waits in the living room while I close the front door. He takes a long look at my pink pajama bottoms and black tank top, swallows audibly, then blinks, but his expression remains blank. The Rye I know would have commented on the pj’s. And while he would never point out that I am not wearing a bra, because though he is an ass, he isn’t a pig, he keeps his gaze on my face.
At first, I assumed he was here to bug me yet again about my “problem,” but he’s acting as though he’s about to face a firing squad, so now I’m not so sure. Fear that it’s about one of our friends starts creeping up my shoulder blades.
“Is something wrong?” I ask.
“Wrong?” He rubs the back of his neck, the action making his biceps pop. A huff of dark amusement leaves him. “I don’t know. I’m at your house alone for the second time in…well, ever, about to make a fool out of myself. Again.” His arm drops, and he frowns, pinning me with a look. “I don’t know if I’d define that as wrong, precisely.”
My heartbeat has kicked up at his words. “Well, that’s easy to fix. Don’t make a fool out of yourself.” Before he can answer, I head for the den and my movie. I honestly don’t know if I want him to leave or follow.
He follows, those denim eyes solemn and watchful. He doesn’t sit when I plop myself down on the couch and curl up in the corner. His gaze drifts to the bent glass coffee table littered with fashion magazines and my snack, and the corner of his mouth quirks. “You put your Pringles in a crystal serving bowl?”
“I like nice things.” I snatch up a chip and stuff it into my mouth to hide my sudden case of the fidgets.
He glances around the room, taking in the ice-blue paneled walls, the heavy cream drapes, the wall of bookshelves that frame my giant TV, the gold-framed abstract art in splashes of black and indigo. My whole apartment is an ode to 1930s glamour. It’s over-the-top but also comfortable. Rye—with his battered boots, worn jeans, and thick-ass scruff that’s now firmly in beard territory—looks completely out of place. Then again, Jax’s house is done up so fancy, it might as well be Buckingham Palace, so it’s not as though Rye isn’t used to it.
Even so, I eye him warily, waiting for further comment on my extravagant tastes. But he merely takes a visible breath and sits on the opposite side of the couch, exhaling as though he’s at the end of a very long day and it’s the first time he’s had a chance to rest.
“You want a drink?” I ask, reaching for my wine.
He eyes it but shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good.”
The silence between us grows thick and unwieldy, the sound of me crunching on my chips so loud, it’s almost comical. I take a sip of my chardonnay to clear my throat.
“Rye—”
“Thing is,” he says at the same time. “I told myself the same all the way over here.”
“The same?” I parrot, confused.
He turns his head, and our gazes snag. His is bloodshot and unsure. “To let it go and not make a fool out of myself.” The corners of his eyes crinkle. “Again.”
“And yet you’re here.”
“That I am.” Rye leans back, letting his head rest on the couch. “Scottie said he saw you leave. Without Mr. Taco.”
“Mr. Taco?” I half laugh then glare when it hits me. “Is that what you’re calling Marshall? Mature, Rye. Truly.”
He scowls down at his big hands. They’re callused and battered by years of playing dozens of instruments. “Can you blame me with that line? Let’s go taco-hunting? If I said that cheesy shit, you’d laugh me out of the room.”
“That would be ridiculous coming from you. You’re much more of a hamburgers-and-hot dog-lover.”
“I like tacos just fine,” he grumbles.
I make a sound of amazed disbelief. “Do you hear yourself right now?”
“Yes.” He doesn’t appear happy about that. With a noise of frustration, he turns his body to face mine. The couch feels much smaller because of it. Rye is a big guy: muscles for days, long limbs, and wide shoulders. He takes up space, not just bodily, but with his presence of will. All the restless energy that always seems to simmer just under his skin is now focused completely on me.
My skin tightens, a flush of…something…warms my chest.
“Bren…I…fuck it.” He puffs out a harsh breath. “Look, I know we’ve had this holding pattern of mutual irritation and occasional loathing—”
“Only occasional?” I can’t help but tease.
He gives me a quelling look before forging on. “And I know you hate that I overheard your confession. But I did. I can’t change that or the fact that it changed me.” He pokes the center of his chest with his thumb for emphasis. “Because it did, Bren. I can’t get it out of my head. God knows I’d love to stop thinking about it, about you.”
Same here, buttercup.It’s oddly reassuring to know he’s struggling as well.
Rye leans in as though he might touch me. But he obviously thinks better of it because his hand drops to his thigh instead. From under his strong brows, his eyes are wide and imploring.
“When Scottie fixed you up with Mr. Cheese Puff Taco, I thought, Good, great, she might find someone to give her what she wants, maybe even more. Or at least, I tried to think that.” He winces and bites his bottom lip. Dusky red washes over his high cheekbones, surprising the hell out of me because Rye never blushes anymore.
“I tried, Bren. I really did. But I’m going to be honest here. Jealousy hit me over the head hard, and all I wanted to do was go back in there and throw him out on his ass.”
With that, he stops and stares at me, clearly embarrassed by his confession, but just as clearly willing me to fully hear him. A gurgle of shock sounds in my throat. Because I heard him loud and clear. And I’m floored. I have never known Rye to be jealous. Of anything. He isn’t built that way.
He keeps giving up pieces of himself, knowing that my pride took a big hit when he overheard me. The gesture flutters through me like a breath of warm air, finding its way through the small cracks in my resistance. I find myself relaxing just a bit, my grip on the throw pillow I’ve pulled on my lap easing.
Rye swallows audibly. His long fingers tap an agitated rhythm on his thigh. “You going on a date with him?”
“I’m supposed to.” The reply is automatic and wooden; my brain is still having trouble catching up.
“Supposed to? Does that mean you are?”
I shake myself out of my Rye-induced fog. “Yes. I don’t know. I mean, we exchanged numbers so we could make plans, but…”
“But?” He slides just a bit closer.
“I wasn’t feeling it,” I confess without thinking. He stirs beside me, and I catch the faint scent of perfume, sweetly funky and over-the-top, emanating from him. If I’m not mistaken, it’s Montale’s Amber Musk. It’s never been a favorite. I really don’t like it now.
My nostrils flare, and I rear back, hitting the couch arm. “Wait, you were jealous? I must have been imagining things again, because I could have sworn you had some woman hanging on your arm when I left.”
He stills, confusion blanking his expression before he slowly smiles. “You noticed that, huh?”
“Oh, please. I wanted to say goodbye to everyone. How am I supposed to miss you cuddled up with the bohemian brunette?” One of a seemingly endless line of beautiful women who’ll gaze at Rye as if he is the answer to every hot sex question they’ve ever asked.
His smug smile grows. “And yet you didn’t come to say goodbye. You left.” He eases even closer. “Tell me, Bren, were you a wee bit jealous as well?”
“Get over yourself. And stop pretending you were unsettled by thoughts of me with Marshall when you are…reeking of her.” I wrinkle my nose. “Just go away. You stink.”
He gives me a long, considering look, then stands abruptly. Without another word, he walks out of the room, leaving me to gape after him. I didn’t think he’d actually leave. I should be relieved. Instead, I’m oddly disappointed. I don’t know why, since I’ve been trying to push him away from the moment I saw him through the peephole.
Thing is, I don’t hear the front door open or shut. I hear water running. Refusing to go look for him, I stuff a few more Pringles in my mouth and take a healthy sip of my wine. It’s gone warm and is almost finished. I itch to get up, top off my glass, or maybe find Rye. No. I won’t do that.
I’m reaching for my remote, about to turn my movie back on in a sad attempt at distraction, when he strides back into the room in the process of tugging on a brand-new Kill John concert tee. I’m treated to a glimpse of truly killer abs arrowing down into low-slung jeans before the shirt settles.
“Good thing you had these promos hanging around,” he says.
By “hanging around,” he means stacked in my home office. The guys scoff at me for having so many, but I like to send them out to various sites and people when needed.
The black shirt stretches tight over Rye’s shoulders and strains around his biceps. Clearly, he needs an extra-large, but I usually keep only medium and large around.
Hiding my surprise at his return, I smirk. “How’s it feel having Killian on your chest?”
The image we used for this shirt was of Killian, shot from the back, a guitar in hand, blue and red stage lights shining in the smoky atmosphere of a club. It was the cover of Volver, the first album the band did when they got back together after their hiatus.
Rye glances down at his chest and grins. “I noticed you don’t have any awesome Rye Peterson shirts on hand.”
“Because there aren’t any.”
His grin grows cheeky. “We need to remedy that.”
“Sure. As soon as you actually commit to a photoshoot, I’ll get right on that.”
Rye runs a hand through his damp hair and sits back down next to me. “I washed and changed my shirt. Can we please talk now?”
My lips twitch. Damn it, the big oaf is cute when he wants to be. And now he smells like my guest shower gel, fresh and citrusy. That he didn’t invade my private bath but used the guest room one is a nice touch. I haven’t seen him try this hard in well…ever.
“And before you start in,” he adds, “I left the brunette back at the party. I wasn’t feeling it.”
Using my words against me. I grunt in response, hiding behind the act of eating another chip and staring at the French poodles prancing all over my pink pajama pants. He seems pleased at this and moves a hair closer. Over the years, I’ve developed the power to gauge exactly where Rye’s body is in proximity to mine. It’s like a superpower I never wanted.
“I can give you what you need,” he says starkly.
I feel that claim like a stroke on my belly, and I lift my gaze to his. He’s utterly serious.
“I mean it.” He rests a hand on the back of the couch cushions, his fingers an inch away from my bare shoulder. “I might be the only one who can.”
“The arrogance,” I rasp with a laugh. “You think out of all the people in the world, only you can fix my ‘little problem.’”
His blunt chin lifts a fraction. “At this moment in time? Yes.”
“Oh, God.” I laugh again. “How on earth do you figure that?”
“Because I’m here. And I know you, Bren.” He says it so emphatically, I go still inside. Rye’s gaze moves over my face. “I know you get cold if it’s lower than seventy-five degrees out, which is why, when everyone else is sweating, you manage to look cool and professional. I know that you can’t wear synthetics because they irritate your skin and you break out in a rash. I know that your calves cramp almost every day at exactly one fifteen in the morning…” He quirks a brow. “Which, by the way, is weird as shit that it’s always at that time, but we’ll chalk it up to one of the endless mysteries of the body.”
I’m outright gaping as he slides an inch closer, and his knee brushes the side of my leg. “I know that you love having your hair touched and stroked, but for some reason you never admit to needing that, much less letting your hair down.”
“How the fuck…?”
“Because I know you,” he says softly, firmly. “I’ve spent years trying not to learn you, and failing.”
Slowly, giving me time to pull away, he reaches out and lightly runs his fingers along my braid. Even though my hair is locked up tight, I feel it, and pleasurable little tingles chase along my scalp and down my spine. I fight the urge to close my eyes and whimper. My heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest, and the room has become too warm. I’m far too aware of my braless state now. My girls aren’t big, but my nipples are tight and doing their best to poke their way through my tank.
Rye isn’t looking at them, though. His gaze holds mine. “I’m good, Bren. I’ll do whatever you want, for as long as you want. I’ll make certain you’re taken care of, and I won’t tell a soul.”
Jesus. I can’t breathe.
“So selfless,” I murmur. “And what do you get out of all of this?”
“You.” His fingers stroke my braid. “I get you.”
Shit. Licking my dry lips, I try to think of something, anything, to say. But he keeps talking.
“I want to fuck you, Brenna. I want that so badly, I’ll do whatever it takes to have you.”
“Oh, Jesus.” I rub a shaking hand over my sweaty forehead. “I don’t know how to handle this one-eighty.”
His smile is small but wry. “The attraction between us was always there. You can deny it if you want, but it’s true. We’ve been like two magnets facing south, repelling because we can’t do anything else. Then I overheard what you needed, and I flipped north. Toward you.”
My head flops back on the couch, and I peer up at him. He’s sitting closer to me than he’s ever dared. And though I know his face as well as my own, I see the faint lines of age and weariness around his eyes, the small, almost-faded scatter of freckles at the edges of his temples, an old, white, sickle-shaped scar on the crest of his left cheek. They’re flaws, but they don’t make him any less gorgeous. Only more real.
“For all our differences,” he says, “we’re very much the same. Neither one of us has the time or the inclination to go looking for a real relationship, but we both need physical release and the pleasure of touch or the isolation of our lives starts getting to us.” He’s starting to make too much sense, and he clearly knows it. He presses his point before I can say another word. “We both know what’s at stake if what we’re doing gets out, and we both know exactly what this is going into it.”
“Rye…”
“I’m safe, Bren. I swear.”
Safe. Ha. He’s anything but. Rye is my one weak spot. The person most likely to do the greatest damage if he wanted to. But if he doesn’t understand that by now, I’m certainly not exposing my underbelly by telling him.
His voice is melting chocolate, all sinful, rich persuasion. “A kiss. Just that. We kiss and see how it goes.” His gaze settles on my mouth, heavy and warm with intent. “One good kiss. If you hate it or it’s too weird, I’ll fuck off forever.”
“You’ll fuck off forever with or without the kiss if I say so,” I warn, trying to make my voice firm. But it’s gooey and weak with temptation. Because, God, I’ve wondered. So many times, I’ve wondered what it’d be like to kiss him. And here he is offering.
He smiles then, a quick, brilliant flash. “Of course I will. But let’s do it anyway. Let me kiss you, Berry.”
I must be losing it, because I think I’m going to let him. God help me.