Copyright © 2021 by Kristen Callihan
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations
Cover photo by WANDER AGUIAR :: PHOTOGRAPHY
Digital Edition 1.0
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Exposed
Brenna
There are some people in life who know exactly how to push your buttons. For me, it’s Rye Peterson. We can’t spend more than ten minutes together before we’re at each other’s throats, which makes working together that much harder. Rye is the bassist for Kill John, the biggest rock band in the world, and I am his publicist. It doesn’t help that the man is gorgeous, funny, talented, and…never takes anything seriously. Avoidance is key.
But everything changes when he overhears something he shouldn’t: a confession made in a moment of weakness. Now the man I’ve tried so hard to ignore is offering me the greatest temptation of all—him.
Rye
Brenna James is the one. The one I can’t have. The one I can’t get out of my mind. Believe me, I’ve tried; the woman loathes me. I managed well enough—until I heard her say she’s as lonely as I am. That she needed to be touched, held, satisfied. And I could no longer deny the truth: I wanted to be the one to give her what she craved.
I convinced her that it would just be physical, mutual satisfaction with nothing deeper. But the moment I have her, she becomes my world. I’ve never given her a good reason to trust me before. Now, I’ve got to show Brenna that we’re so much better together than we ever were apart.
Things are going to get messy. But getting messy with Brenna is what I do best.
Author note
This book mentions a past instance of an attempted suicide by one of the secondary characters. It is not depicted on the page.
I have tried my best to treat this subject as respectfully and realistically as possible. And while I have consulted with sensitivity readers, and those who have had similar experiences, I am aware that certain points might not resonate the same with everyone. Any mistakes are my own.
Lastly, if you are hurting, please reach out to someone—a friend, a family member, a doctor, or therapist. Reaching out might feel hard but it can make all the difference.
—Love Kristen
Exposed
Kristen Callihan
Plain Jane Books
For all the Rye and Brenna fans who have waited so patiently for their story.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
Thank you!
Acknowledgments
Also by Kristen Callihan
About the Author
Anything worth doing takes a little chaos
Flea
Chapter One
Brenna
There is a time in a woman’s life when her friends start finding their true loves and suddenly everything is a couple’s deal, complete with private looks and inside jokes that you’re no longer part of, and ugh! Somebody hand me a drink already and get me out of this nightmare.
Not very eloquent, I realize, but that’s my general sentiment at the moment.
I mean, who among us hasn’t watched the great Adam Sandler bellow “Love Hurts” in The Wedding Singer and empathized? Maybe that’s just me. God, I hope it isn’t just me.
Not that I don’t believe in love; I dwell under the blinding light of its shining splendor almost every day. I see the happiness being in love has brought my friends. I’m a believer. But after years of dating, years of searching for that spark and getting only tiny flickers, I’m done waiting.
More to the point, I’m busy.
Even so, I’m in a tetchy funk as I head into my favorite neighborhood bar for a much-needed vodka tonic.
Thankfully, my still-single—and thus not moony-eyed—friend Jules is waiting for me in a booth near the back. It’s Thursday night and crowded with young professionals like myself who just want to let loose and perhaps get laid if opportunity strikes. Unfortunately, I’m also done with hookups. They’ve given me nothing but annoyance and mild regret. The kind you have when you order the dinner special because it sounds fantastic, but it ends up leaving you with raging heartburn.
“Hey,” Jules says with a smile. “I’ve already ordered for us.”
After three years of working together, she knows exactly what I like to drink. And I could kiss her right now for saving me from needing to flag someone down. “You are a goddess of the highest order. You know that, right?”
“Of course, I do. You’re in a mood, aren’t you?” Jules asks as I plop down opposite her.
“I just came back from dinner with Jax, Stella, Sophie, Scottie…” I hold up a finger to ward off her comment. “And Killian and Libby.”
Jules’s nose wrinkles in sympathy. “Stuck in a lovefest, eh?”
“You know it.” And she does. Jules and I both work for Kill John, the best rock band in the world—that’s fact, not opinion, if anyone asks. I’m the head of publicity, and Jules is an assistant to Scottie.
Singer-guitarist Killian is my cousin, and he’s married to Libby, who is an exceptional singer in her own right. Jax, also singer-guitarist, is now living with his girlfriend, Stella, who handles our charity fundraising efforts. And band manager Scottie is married to the band photographer and social media liaison, Sophie. I love my guys. I love my ladies. All of them are my closest friends. That doesn’t mean they don’t get on my nerves now and then.
A server drops off our drinks, and I take a long, cooling sip of vodka tonic before sighing in contentment.
Jules toys with the little spear of cranberries in her pink martini. “How did you end up being the oddball out? Where were Whip and Rye?”
Whip and Rye make up the other two members of Kill John. Whip, the drummer, is a sweetheart but is becoming more and more distant from the rest of us. “Whip is nursing a cold and didn’t want to risk anyone else getting sick.”
I’d missed hanging out with him, but I have the feeling that, like me, he’s weary of all
the couple love.
Jules raises an expectant brow. “And Rye?”
Rye. The bass guitarist. The ass. The constant thorn in my side.
Rye and I can’t spend more than ten minutes together before wanting to kill each other. I guess we both get off on it. It isn’t productive, but we haven’t found a way to stop.
“Date,” I grind out. “If you can call any of his encounters ‘dates.’” Which I don’t. I don’t care who he does or how many he does. I do care, however, about putting sex before our family dinners. Because that’s what we all are: a family of our own making. Not that I particularly want Rye in my family. But the rest of my family loves him, so he’s part of it, for better or worse. The least he can do is show up.
Scowling, I take a sip of my drink. I’m not going to let him get me worked up when he’s not even around. He doesn’t get any more space in my head than he’s already claimed.
“Dinner was fine, really.” My shoulders slump. “I’m just…jealous.” God, that stings to say.
Jules leans in, her pretty brown-hazel eyes shining in sympathy. “You want to fall in love.”
It feels as though the entire bar holds its breath, which is weird since no one is paying attention to us. Or maybe it’s just the way Jules watches me intently. I find myself laughing, the sound full of snark.
“God, no.” When she gives me a dubious look, I laugh again, this time more easily. “No, really. It’s not that. It’s…” I take a deep breath. “I’m jealous of their sex lives.”
Jules blinks, her lips twitching. “You’re jealous that they’re having sex? Because, you gotta know, if you want sex, it’s pretty easy to get it around here.” She sweeps a slim hand in the direction of the bar. “We’re in a virtual buffet of hot singles. Great sex at the ready.”
“At the ready” is true enough. Both of us are attractive. Jules, with her sandy-brown skin, high cheekbones, and lush lips, could grace a magazine cover. She’s been drawing looks of interest the whole time we’ve been here.
As for me, I don’t know if it’s my resting bored face or the fact that I favor pencil skirt suits, sky-high heels, and sleek ponytails, but I tend to attract businesspeople. Arty types don’t seem to know what to do with me, which is fairly ironic since I spend much of my life around musicians, producers, and artists. Even so, if I want sex, I can find it easily. Great sex, however, is another story.
“Please tell me you don’t actually believe that, Ju-Ju.” I stab one of the lemons floating in my drink with a straw. “The great sex part.”
“You’ve never had great sex?” she asks, clearly on the edge of pitying me. Maybe she should.
“You have?” I counter. “I mean, truly great, blow-your-mind, ‘gotta have that again and again or you’ll die from wanting it’ sex?”
At this, Jules stares into her glass then sighs and looks back up at me. “No, damn it. Not like that. I’ve had good, but not transcendent.”
Nodding, I lean forward until we’re both half-hunched over our table. “I’ve had good sex too. But most of the time, the guy has no idea what the hell he’s doing. It’s all pump and dump. And I’m left unsatisfied.”
Her nose wrinkles. “Maybe we should be with women.”
I shake my head. “You’d think having the same equipment would give women a leg up, but I’ve had the same frustrations in that department.”
I swear I hear someone choke on their drink behind me. I want to roll my eyes. This is Manhattan, and if a dude can’t deal with overhearing a frank conversation, he’s not going to make it in this city. Besides, my sexuality isn’t something I’ll ever be ashamed of. In general, I tend to gravitate toward men, but I also think attraction is a fluid notion, and that, for me, it isn’t confined to one gender.
“Some women are just as selfish and clueless as men,” I say. “Believe me, there’s no golden ticket when it comes to finding great sex.”
Jules’s eyes go wide. “I don’t know if I should be jealous of all your experience or thankful I don’t have it, given what you’re saying.”
I find myself grinning, but it fades quickly. “Definitely don’t be jealous.”
I’m still alone and still unfulfilled. Actually, it kind of blows to realize I’ve struck out with two genders.
“I’m serious, though,” I say, frowning now. “Whatever the gender, whatever the sexual orientation, we all suffer the same pitfalls and have to weed through the same bullshit when it comes to finding happiness.”
“Well.” Jules sits back against the booth. “I guess we’re doomed, then.”
I sit back as well, letting the sounds of the bar move over me. I’m tired, and my feet are aching to be free of the heels I stuffed them into eight hours ago. Not for the first time, I consider no longer wearing them. But they are, in a very real way, defensive weapons, armor against a business that is ruthless.
My aunt Isabella, a famous fashion model, bought me my first pair of heels—black patent leather Manolo Blahnik Mary Jane pumps. She told me then that, whether we like it or not, women in the entertainment industry would always be judged by their appearance, and underestimated, compared to their male counterparts. But put on a pair of killer heels with a sleek suit and the naysayers would be too dazzled to notice you climbing over them. She’d taken me under her wing back then, taught me about fashion, poise, how to handle obnoxious assholes, how to charm people. Mercenary, but I found her lessons to be painfully true.
Over the years, I had to cover myself in a shell of icy perfection. My power is in maintaining the illusion that nothing can get to me, and I accept that as part of doing business. But some days? Some days, I want to crumble. I want…comfort, touch, release.
I should go home and crawl into bed. But I can’t shake the restless feeling swelling within me.
I catch Jules’s eye, and my shoulders slump. “I know we’re not supposed to admit this for fear it might make us sound pathetic or some other bullshit, but I’m horny. Not in a general, I-want-to-have-sex way, but in a deep, irritating, can’t-stop-thinking-about-it way. I ache, you know? As in, I go through the day actively hurting for release.”
Jules watches me with solemn eyes as if she knows at least a little about that pain.
Shaking my head, I go on. “And, yeah, I can take care of it myself. Hell, I’m so good at it now, it’s only a minute or two before I get off. But it isn’t the same as feeling someone else’s hands on my body, not knowing exactly where they’ll touch me next or how. It isn’t the same as being mouth-to-mouth, skin-to-skin, sweaty and frantic.”
My smile is wry, but my heart hurts. “I’m twenty-eight years old. I am at the top of my profession, have awesome friends, fabulous parties every night if I want to go. I own a kick-ass condo on the Upper East Side and have a shoe closet most women would kill for.”
“Truth,” Jules says with a laugh.
“I have the world at my fingertips. But I can’t fix this problem.”
It pisses me off, this weakness, this damn need that won’t go away.
Jules licks her lips and hums. “Then go find someone tonight. Take the edge off.”
“I’ve tried that. One-night stands aren’t enough.” My fingers curl into the leather booth beneath me. “Truly great sex, for me anyway, takes time. More than one night. More importantly, it takes trust. On both sides. We need to trust each other enough to give and take and learn what really works.”
“In short,” Jules says. “A relationship.”
“Except I don’t want one.” A humorless laugh huffs out of me. “Outside of sex, that is.”
The utter bitch of it is, I know I haven’t explained my problem properly. Yes, there is this need for sexual release, but it’s more. I want that on a deeper level. It’s not the daily minutiae of a relationship I crave, but the simple physical connection. I want to be wanted. Craved above all things. Needed with a breathless devotion.
I want to be seen, not just as a quick fix—but as something essential. And I want to cr
ave someone too. I want to learn their body, know what sets them off, and what brings them to their knees. To own and be owned. But in admitting that, I’ll expose too much of myself, and the hurt of the open wound will be too hard to ignore. “I want the ease and trust of a relationship, but I know I’d utterly fail at a real one right now. Maybe when my life is less about the band…Which it will be never. The band is my life.”
Purple curls bounce as Jules nods. “Friends with benefits, then. Too bad I don’t go for women, because I’d totally offer my services. And I absolutely know what I’m doing.” She grins, all saucy and impish.
“Too bad,” I tease before growing serious. “Maybe I’ll just hire someone.”
Again comes that choking sound from behind me. Or maybe I’m just paranoid. But I lean in a little, drawing away from the seat and toward Jules. “Whip is always going on about that, how it’s safer, and you can control the situation.”
At this, Jules flushes, irritation flashing in her eyes. “Whip is going to end up fronting tabloids. Please tell me you aren’t listening to that boy.”
“I won’t go there. Everything in my life is business. I’m not going to make my sex life another business transaction.” I plop back with a sigh. “But it would solve a lot if I did.”
We soon finish our drinks, and Jules heads out. “Got an early day with Boss Man.”
Exposed (VIP Book 4) Page 1