Exposed (VIP Book 4)

by Kristen Callihan

  Rye makes a furtive move, like he might try to touch me, but then he pauses and grasps the back of his neck. “Shit, honey. I don’t want you to go.”

  “I’m missing something here. You just told me you don’t want to see me anymore.”

  “I meant, I want to cut the crap and actually do this.”

  My head is still spinning, and I stare at him in confusion. “Do what? You just said you want to end this.”

  “End the lies, Bren.” He takes a step closer. “Not us. I don’t want to lie to our friends. I want to be with you for real. A real relationship.”

  I freeze, this new shock replacing the hurt. There is a small, hopeful voice that says I should run to him with open arms. But then I remember where I am and why I came here. My eyes close with bitter resentment. Why is it that when one part of life finally opens up and becomes clear another will get tangled and complicated?

  “I went to Chicago to try and distract myself while you were gone,” he says in the face of my silence. “I tried and failed. Because it hit me that where you are is where I want to be.”

  God. My toes curl into the thick pile of the rug beneath me, as if somehow that will keep me upright. They’re the right words. What every woman wants to hear. And yet those words, the sentiment behind them, cut into my air.

  Rye sighs, his gaze pained. “It’s not just sex. Not for me. I know that was the plan. But the moment I actually put my hands on you, everything changed—”

  “Rye.” He’s breaking my heart. I don’t know how to tell him…

  “No, just listen.” He rounds the bed to stand before me. He’s so close, I can smell the scent of his skin, see the spark of earnest need in his eyes. “I’m not playing around. I’m not trying to trick you. I don’t want to hide or wait for a certain fucking day just to see you. That is bullshit—”

  “I’m taking the job,” I cut in, the words bursting past the fist of regret clutching my throat.

  Silence rings out for an agonizing moment as we stare at each other. I see him struggle to be happy for me. And that hurts worst of all. He lets out a slow breath. “That’s…that’s good. I mean, you should follow—” Rye swallows audibly. “But I don’t see why we can’t still try to be together.”

  Head throbbing, I press the heel of my hand to my eye. I don’t know how to make him understand without hurting him. But I can’t lie either. He deserves the truth. Lowering my hand, I hold his gaze, even as mine blurs.

  “My whole adult life has been about Kill John. I’ve lived and breathed your world, your music. I go to sleep thinking about all of you: what I need to do for you the next day, week, month, year. I hear your songs in my head. I dream of Kill John. The band has become my air, my heart and soul. And, for so long, I loved it. Loved that you all gave me the opportunity to lift you up.”

  His jaw bunches as he nods in understanding. But he doesn’t say a word, just stares at me with eyes that are slowly going red at the edges.

  I force the words out. “But Kill John no longer fills me up the same way. I find myself resenting that it takes all of my time, my attention. There’s a restlessness in me, an emptiness. I thought…I thought sex would fix it. That maybe if I felt that human connection, I’d be okay. And it has. To a point.”

  Rye licks his lips, and when he talks, his voice crumbles like rust. “It will be better when we’re together for real. I’ll be here for you, Bren.”

  My breath shudders. “It’s not enough.”

  He blinks. Such a small movement. And yet it’s as though his entire body flinches.

  The lump in my throat grows so large it hurts. “I need a clean break.”

  “You…” His breath hitches. “You don’t just want to leave Kill John. You want a break from us. From me.”

  I don’t want to leave him. But I have to. “My entire life is so entwined with all of you—”

  “From me, Bren. Please don’t lump me in with the guys for this. I can’t—” He grips the ends of his hair and turns his head as though the sight of me is too painful.

  “Of course, I don’t think of you the same way as the rest of our friends. But it doesn’t change the fact that, if I’m with you, I’m still with Kill John. I’ll still think about the band, worry about all of you. I’ll still want to cling.”

  “Shit,” he says with a harsh laugh. “I can’t win here, can I?”

  “Please don’t make this harder than it already is.”

  He cuts me a look. “I didn’t think asking for us to be together would be a difficult decision.”

  “I can’t think when I’m with you; I put the rest of my life to the side. I can’t keep doing that. I need to think…”

  “Think?” His jaw pops. “What is there to think about? You either know or you don’t.”

  “Well, I don’t know!” I raise a helpless hand. “I want to be sure. I need time.”

  His nostrils flare. “Why is this so hard for you? It shouldn’t be hard, Bren. This should be easy.”

  “And the fact that it isn’t? Maybe that means something, Rye. Maybe we should take a step back and…and…”

  “And what?”

  “And evaluate things!”

  “It’s a relationship, not a marketing plan!”

  We’re snapping at each other like we used to. I want to cry. And I never cry over relationships. I’ve been a party of one for my entire adult life; I don’t know how to be part of a pair. I’ve forged myself in iron, unwilling to rely on anyone else, until it became a shield that I can’t seem to set aside. But I want to. Part of me wants that so badly. But my whole sense of worth has become the band. If I don’t take this chance, I might never know who I am on my own.

  “Damn it,” he says with a sigh. “I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

  I shake my head, wanting to reach out for him but knowing it won’t help. “It’s on me. It wasn’t fair of me to have started something with you when I was feeling this way. This is what I was afraid of. Everything is more complicated. And if we got closer, did this for real right now…”

  “Yeah, well, don’t worry. We never took that step.” His gaze narrows as he runs a hand over his chin, the sound of his beard rasping. “Yesterday was a goodbye, wasn’t it?”

  My heart thumps painfully. “Yes. No. I don’t know. I just wanted to enjoy you before—”

  “You said goodbye,” he answers bluntly.

  “I didn’t think of it like that,” I whisper before huffing out a pained laugh. “I was trying my best not to.”

  “But now time’s up, isn’t it? And we want different things.”

  I can only stare at him, afraid to move forward, afraid to stay where I am.

  “It’s okay, Bren. I get it. You need this chance to figure shit out. Don’t worry about me. You’re free and clear to…” His breath hitches, harsh and loud. “You’re free.”

  “Rye—No. Don’t. It can be a small break. I’ll go to LA, see how I feel—”

  “Bren. There’s no way in hell I’m going to be the one who holds you back. Not after all we’ve been through. You’re right. We should end this now before it hurts too much.”

  “Rye—”

  “No. There are things I can’t do either. I can’t do this half-assed anymore. Find yourself. Find that happiness. And…and if you ever…” He smiles weakly, the forced gesture fading fast. He dips his head, swallowing hard, but then seems to give himself a mental shake. When he looks back, his gaze is flat. “You know where I am.”

  And then he leaves me.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Rye

  Well, that was a disaster.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Brenna

  What have I done?

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Brenna

  The phone goes off in the dark, clanging and vibrating under my head. Jerking awake, I fumble around, trying to grab it. Whoever it is has my personal number, and I’ve learned never to ignore a call in the dead of night.

  “
Hello?”

  “Brenna?”

  The second I hear my mother’s voice, I curse inwardly and grind my teeth. “Mom? What’s wrong?”

  “Why would anything be wrong?” The ever-present censure in her voice scrapes across my nerves. “Why can’t your mother call you without something being wrong?”

  God, why did I answer the freaking phone?

  I rub my eyes and fight a sigh. “Because it’s the middle of the night?”

  She pauses. “It’s eight in the morning, Brenna.”

  Again with the reproach. The slight tone that says I’m a total dumbass.

  “I’m in California, Mom. It’s…five here.” Which might as well be the middle of the night, as far as I’m concerned.

  “Well, how was I supposed to know you’re in California? It’s not as though you ever tell me about your life.”

  My life. I almost snort. My life is shit right now. All of my own making. I rub my aching chest and try not to think of Rye. It’s been a week now. A week of me making excuses to the rest of the band and hiding out like a coward. I left his house and found an Airbnb. A necessary step. One that still hurts.

  “Why do you keep whispering?” Mom demands. “Do you have someone with you?”

  As though the idea of me being in bed with someone is something I should hide. But I’m alone. Again. My fault. This time I do snort, a long scathing sound. It’s directed more at myself than my mother.

  Unable to sit still any longer, I slide out of bed. “No, Mom. There’s no one.”

  Out in the hall, where the windows lack curtains, it’s lighter, the sky beyond a steel gray blanket settled over the dark horizon. I take a breath and walk toward the little sitting area at the end of the upstairs hall. The hardwood is cool against my feet.

  “Well, that’s a relief,” she says darkly.

  “Is it? I find it a tragedy.”

  “It would be if you choose someone working in that dreadful music business.”

  Gritting my teeth, I take a seat on the soft Womb chair by the window. “Why would it even matter, given that I work in the music business?”

  I don’t know why I’m asking, or why I’m still on the phone. I should hang up. But I can’t. I never can. Where my parents are concerned, I am a glutton for punishment.

  “You should have something more than that,” my mother says with a gentleness that disarms me. “You’re so tangled up in all of them. It isn’t healthy when your happiness hinges on just one area of living.”

  I flop back against the chair, my heart beating too hard and fast. Oh, the fucking irony. Hadn’t I said the same thing to Rye? Holy hell, have I become her? My throat closes up in a panic. I need to get off the phone.

  “Mom—"

  “No, I’m serious, Brenna. I worry about you.”

  I know she does. The problem is, her brand of worrying leaves me feeling belittled and lacking. I’d rather she worry less and trust me more. Then again, I don’t trust myself anymore so I can hardly blame her.

  I have no idea what I’m doing with my life right now. I need to tell the guys that I’m leaving; I just messed things up with the one person who has even remotely got close to breaking down my walls, and I’m being lectured by my mother who thinks I’m a perpetual fuckup.

  You have fucked things up…

  “You’re almost thirty,” she goes on with dogged determination. “Most of your school friends are married with children right now and—"

  “You were married with a child at my age. And you’ve more than made it clear, you weren’t exactly happy.”

  My mother sighs, and I wince at the onslaught of guilt. It doesn’t matter that she loves to tell me how sorry she was to have married my father—and that she had to because of me—the fact that I was the one to point it out now is a betrayal.

  And this is why I don’t talk to my mother when I can help it. I cannot win with her. What bothers me the most is that I want to. I want her to see me as competent, a success.

  “You’re right,” she says in the thick silence. “I wasn’t happy. I got caught up in lust and sex—"

  “God, Mom.”

  “You’re more than old enough to hear this…”

  I’ll never be old enough to hear this. Honestly, I may be traumatized for life after hearing this.

  “And it’s important. I thought great sex and strong attraction were enough. But at the end of the day, when the physical wasn’t part of the equation, all we had left was bickering and the knowledge that we chose poorly.”

  “Then why didn’t you divorce him?” I snap, exasperated. “Because of me? That’s crap.”

  “At first, yes, because of you. And it isn’t crap, Brenna. Sometimes you make sacrifices for your children. But then, when you were older…” She sighs again. “He’s what I know. It felt safer. And I don’t hate your father.”

  She just isn’t in love with him.

  “When you find someone,” she goes on, softer now. “Let it be someone…steady. Reliable. A friend. Don’t just pick someone simply because they’re good in bed.”

  Blinking rapidly, I look off into the distance where the lemon-yellow sunlight lines the black mountainside. Which one did I have with Rye? Was he right when he said it shouldn’t be so hard to know?

  Clearing my throat, I turn my attention back to my mother. “Seriously, Mother, why are you talking about all this? What’s going on with you?”

  It takes a moment for her to answer. “We’re going to Xander’s party soon.”

  The dread in her voice matches my own, but I know it’s for different reasons.

  “Yes,” I say, trying to get her to continue with her point.

  “You’re going to be with your friends, all of those seemingly happy couples, and that can get to you.”

  It bothers the hell out of me that she knows this, that I even feel the slightest twinge of jealousy when I see my friends coupled up. But none of that will be as hard as facing Rye again. That will be agonizing. I let him go. Over a job.

  Was it really the job, Bren, or were you running scared?

  “Not having your life settled can push you towards making mistakes,” she says.

  With a sigh, I slump down in my chair and close my eyes. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”

  But talking to my mom has my blood running cold. Because how much of what I fear has to do with the shit she’s put in my head over the years?

  It’s worse when her tone changes to slightly pitying. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but I was exactly like you when I was younger. I tied myself to Isabella’s group of friends. I thought it would be my whole life. Then your father…well, I thought I’d have what Isa and Xander had with him. Life left me behind, Brenna. Don’t be like me. Choose your own path. Be…wise.”

  I don’t want to see myself as my mother. I never have. I’ve run as far away from her as I could. The idea that I’d inadvertently end up like her horrifies me. I am dizzy and tense.

  “Mom…”

  “I won’t say any more about it.”

  I press a hand to my face and try to breathe.

  “Now then. You know your father has a bad back…”

  I stiffen, because I know this tone far too well.

  “Flying coach doesn’t do him any favors.”

  And here is the real reason she called. A dull ache forms behind my eyes. “I’ll send you both first-class tickets today.”

  Mom is quiet for a moment, as though she’s contemplating the offer and wanting to refuse. We both know better, though.

  “Thank you,” she says finally, like she’s only accepting so as not to offend me.

  “It’s my pleasure.” If it will get her off the phone it is.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to your day then.” And like that, she’s in a rush to go. I hang up and clutch the phone in the silence of the morning. The sky is light gray now. I should get dressed and start my day, but I’m so tired now I can barely hold my head up.

  I let him go
. Over a job that no longer holds any excitement for me. Because it means the loss of him.

  The dam I’ve built around my heart creaks, straining to open. I let out a shuddering breath. The dam breaks. I curl over myself and cry.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Brenna

  I fly into Heathrow on my own. Everyone else had coupled up and gone on earlier flights. Not me. That would mean either being a third wheel or sitting with Whip. And Rye.

  I haven’t seen him in five weeks. Five freaking weeks.

  The first two weeks are on me. Then, right before I returned to New York, Rye went back to Chicago with Whip, and they worked with ShawnE, producing an album for a new artist he’s backing.

  I could have called or texted, even gone to see Rye. It isn’t as though I didn’t know where he was staying. But I felt too raw—uncertain. I needed to tell the guys about my decision; Marshall was good with giving me six weeks to settle things on my end. But the words stayed locked in my throat. A bad sign all around.

  I took the time to think. Really think.

  It wasn’t comforting to realize that part of my reaction to his offer stemmed from the fact that I didn’t see it coming. I didn’t expect him to want something real. I didn’t expect him to want it with me.

  Truth?

  I don’t think I’m good enough for anyone.

  And here’s the real horror: this is the complete opposite of what I project to the world. On the outside, I am a confident woman who knows exactly what she wants and how to get it. I don’t let anyone fuck with me. As Jules pointed out, I hold my own with the most powerful people in the industry without flinching.

  I believe in myself. When it comes to my profession.

  When it comes to me?

  Apparently, I don’t. It took Rye Peterson asking for more to make me see my weakness.

  When he returned from Chicago, I made myself scarce. Like a damn chicken. I chastised myself about it every day, but I couldn’t find the courage to face him.