Exposed (VIP, #4)

by Kristen Callihan

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.”

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.

I love Scottie like a brother, but he makes drill sergeants look like slackers when it comes to work. So far, Jules is the only assistant he’s had who has been able to handle his exacting standards without running away in tears.

Scottie booboo 😍

Rye Peterson—personal nemesis, general pain in the ass—leans one massive shoulder against the wall as if he’s been waiting for me. He’s a world-famous rock star, but he doesn’t look like one. Tall, broad, with tight muscles and spiky dark-blond hair, he’d easily be mistaken for a football player.

Most people consider him laid-back, the guy who will hand you a beer and make you laugh with a dirty joke. And he is that guy—to everyone else. With me? He’s the devil, lying in wait to exploit any sign of weakness. My reaction to Rye may not always be logical but it’s definitely visceral.

She’s glaring hate fire up at me, which I know is a defensive measure. When it comes to the two of us, we both come out swinging, so very eager to hide any hint of weakness.

“You might as well slow down,” I say. “I’m walking you home.” She lifts her chin and keeps up her pace. “Go away, pest.” “That would be a no. Safety first, Bren.” “Pfft. I don’t need a bodyguard. I could kick your ass if I wanted to.” I shouldn’t find that hot. But of course, I do. “I have no doubt you’re a total badass, babe. But humor me, all right?”

Her heels strike a click-click, clickety-click on the pavement. I hear that rhythm in my dreams sometimes. She’ll never know it, but that rhythm is the bass line for “Forget You.” No one will ever know that but me, though. A man has to keep some things to himself.

Wow. Turn on the swoon in chapter 2, why don’t you

Overheated, I draw in a deep breath. Mistake. Brenna’s perfume tickles my nose. She doesn’t have a signature scent but wears different ones for different moods. Unfortunately, I know them all. Over the years, I’ve figured out what mood she’s in depending on what fragrance she chooses.

Brenna bites the corner of her bottom lip—something she does when she knows she’s stuck her foot in it. Then she sighs. “Of course, I’d care if something bad happened to you.” “Your enthusiasm is overwhelming. Truly.”

“I want it to be me,” I blurt without any finesse. I breathe deep and say more calmly, “I want to be the one you use.” My words bounce between us in syncopated agitation. For once, Brenna is at a loss for words.

It is appalling how hurt I am. I didn’t expect that at all. I thought I’d worked past being hurt by him. Unfortunately, Rye Peterson has never been easy for me to push into the background.

To expose our underbellies is to open ourselves to taunts. It’s just how we are with each other. But now Rye has gone and changed the game. I don’t know what to do.

He ducks his head, and his fists curl on the counter, making the muscles along his arms bunch. All those lovely muscles working under smooth tattooed skin. At this point in my life, I’ve met hundreds of men, and none of them have arms as perfectly sculpted as Rye’s. Why him? Why does his body catch my eye and hold it like no other?

While Whip and John, who soon became Jax to the world, were mighty fine eye candy, only Rye—the big, clueless lug—made my insides flip and my skin heat. He wasn’t the most physically beautiful; Scottie, with his black hair, perfect features, and ice blue eyes held that prize. Whip was a close second in looks and first when it came to sheer sweetness. Rye didn’t have the most blatant sex appeal; that was John’s role—and I suppose Killian’s too, except no, not going there. But there was something elemental about Rye. While the other guys were whipcord lean, Rye was a wall of cut, beefy muscle. The way he beat on his bass guitar, all hot, pounding rhythm, was pure sex to me. Not that I had much experience back then, but he made me feel things—hot, sweaty, fluttery things.

This is the price we paid for growing up together as a group—we often revert to our most childish selves around one another.

“I don’t think you’re stupid. You’re the smartest one out of all of us.” Rye gives a jerky nod as though he’s surprised but doesn’t want to show it. “Don’t know about that, but thank you.” “It was a horrible thing for me to imply. I’m sorry.”

He’s cassian 🥺

“Maybe you can easily flip the switch. But I can’t. One apology doesn’t erase the years of acrimony between us.” “Acrimony is a bit harsh. It was more like light bickering.” My lips purse to keep from laughing. Because he’s utterly shameless and annoyingly irresistible. “It

“The question is, why do you react with such vehemence when I do it, while the rest of the guys get a pass?” Because they don’t get under my skin the way you do.

God. He isn’t supposed to say these things. We have a silent but very clear deal based on mutual loathing and avoidance.

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.

“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.

“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.

Her heroes’ love language is acts of service 🥺

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.

“Tell you what?” Killian says, suddenly at Whip’s side. The guy must walk on cat feet or something. Whip and I both visibly jolt. “Rye is not mooning over Brenna,” Whip says solemnly. He is no longer my best friend.

Do I even have dreams anymore?

What few people know is that he tended bar in the early days to keep himself fed and make connections for the band. He’d never been a chatty bartender, but people loved him—maybe because of that. Okay, and probably because he looks like a walking cologne ad. Doesn’t hurt that he concocts excellent drinks, when so inclined.

“This is where you say I am your favorite too.” I take another sip. The barest smile curls the corner of his lip. “My dear, there was never any question.”

His stern countenance smooths out. “Ah. It’s like that, is it?” “Like what?” I huff out a laugh. “I haven’t said anything.” “Of course you have. You see your friends settling down. And now you’re thinking about your own love life.” “Oh my God. Stop.” How the hell does he do that?

“Your attempts at shaming are wasted on me.” Scottie turns to mix another drink. “I enjoy making entitled gits cry.” “It’s a form of relaxation for Scottie,” Rye agrees with a nod. “Thing is, Brenna loves doing that as well. It’s like you two are the evil Wonder Twins. Partners in terrorizing the music world.”

I love him 😂

“I thought you meant to give me his number.” “And not be there to intervene if you don’t find him acceptable? I don’t think so.”

Awww

I’m painfully aware of Rye staring at me, but I ignore him. “What else has Scottie been telling you?” Scottie merely grunts. The sound I know to mean: Fishing, Brenna? How needy. Yeah, well, my ego needs the occasional stroking. Sue me.

Ah. So she knows about my obsession with all things musical. It’s not exactly hidden, but most people tend to ignore that part of me for fear I’ll drop into lecture mode. The threat is real; I love talking about my favorite subject.

“Killian is well aware of my Chris crushes. He finds it amusing.” “No one is hotter than Gabriel,” Sophie adds. “He can deal.” “The ultimate question. Hemsworth or Evans?” Libby grills her. Sophie shrugs. “Why not both?”

“I’d be the meat in that sandwich,” Jenni adds, choosing now to pipe up. She gives me an assessing glance. “You’re a bit of a Hemsworth.” They all look at me. Assessing. “He’s definitely got the big, strapping Hemi-body going,” Sophie says without hesitation. Drunk Sophie is good for the ego, I’ll say that. But I’m beginning to feel like the meat in their sandwich.

Staahp it. God now it’s in my brain 😍🤤

“I’m not drunk,” she protests, taking the bait. “I’m simply…cocktail-induced happy.” Libby hums. “Let’s go tell Scottie about it, shall we?” “Oh, let’s.” Sophie’s grin goes lopsided. “He’s so pretty. My mom is watching Felix for the weekend. I’m footloose and baby-free. I gonna take my man home and ride him like a wild pony.”

😂

“Yeah, and then we’ll all have to deal with extra-evil Scottie. And suddenly we’ll be doing a guest appearance on some weird Japanese game show where they throw us in a vat of udon to fight it out for points.” “That’s…scarily specific,” Jax says. Libby gives him a speaking look. “Exactly.” Sadly, we’re all properly spooked. Because she’s not wrong.

Scottie boy is such a presence in every single book 😂

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.

“How the fuck…?” “Because I know you,” he says softly, firmly. “I’ve spent years trying not to learn you, and failing.”

“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.”

“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.

“Stop stalling. Tell me something you’ve wanted that no one has given you.” “Isn’t it your job to figure it out?” she asks in a voice gone soft and breathy. “Believe me, Berry. I’m going to find all your sweet spots.”

“What is it? Orgy? Public sex? Another guy?” “You offering those things?” I ask lightly, knowing she’s messing with me. “I can only be a part of some of those. I don’t have the equipment for that last one. But, no, none of those are on the table. Except for maybe the other guy thing. I’d totally watch that.” “I bet you would.” I run my hand down my tense thighs. God, she’s got me worked up. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m a rock star. All of that stuff is old news for me.”

Consider me interested

“To be clear,” she says in a near squeak, “I’m not into bondage or role-play.” “Eh, that gets boring too.”

“All right,” Scottie cuts in. “If I have to hear your sex fantasies, Rye, I’m liable to lose my dinner. And that is not hyperbole.”