Exposed (VIP 4)

In my head, his offer makes a mockery of my outward calm. I want it to be me. I want to be the one you use.

Damn it all, I actually feel guilty, as though I’m somehow cheating on him. But I haven’t accepted his offer. I don’t even know if I’ll like Scottie’s friend. All I know is that I want to be anywhere but next to Rye right now.

I’m ready to tell him to go away, stop with the disapproving silence, when someone steps up to the bar next to me. And then my mind blanks because, holy hell, he is gorgeous. With dark-blond hair the color of butterscotch, lake-blue eyes, and an easy smile that promises a good time, the guy towers over me. He’s built like a boxer, lean but stacked with muscles that strain his shirtsleeves.

“Marshall,” Scottie says by way of introduction. “This is my mate Rye Peterson, bassist for Kill John. And this is my better business half, Brenna James, publicist for Kill John.”

Marshall reaches out to shake Rye’s hand. “Huge fan, man.”

“Thanks. Good to meet you.” Rye’s answering smile is tight. The ropy muscles along his arm shift and bulge when he shakes Marshall’s hand, and it hits me like a slap. They look so similar, both in face and form, they could be brothers.

Heat swarms my cheeks, and I glance at Scottie. The bastard is smugly composed. But I know he’s done this on purpose, dangling a Rye doppelgänger in front of me like a dare.

Marshall turns toward me and smiles. It’s a great smile, warm and friendly, with just enough interest to flatter. “Ms. James, I’ve wanted to meet you for some time.”

“Have you?” My mind sticks on his name. It sounds familiar. And then it hits me. “Marshall Faulkner, from Artists Inc.?”

“The very one.”

Wow. Faulkner is one of the top artist managers in Hollywood. His clients are legends. Hell, he is a legend.

“I thought you’d be older,” I blurt out.

Marshall laughs as I wince.

“God, that was rude. I’m sorry.”

Thankfully, he doesn’t appear offended but truly amused. “No, no, I get that a lot.”

“It was still rude.”

He leans against the bar. “Scottie said you were wonderfully blunt. I like that.”

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.

“All good things,” Marshall says. “But, really, your work record caught my eye long ago.” At this, he glances at Rye. “Kill John is arguably the biggest band in the world right now…”

“No arguing about it,” Rye quips. “It is.” His voice has dropped about two octaves and is hard as concrete. I have no idea if he realizes this. Right now, there’s a wall of humming tension dividing us even though he’s standing so close, his arm brushes my shoulder when he reaches for his drink. His proximity to me is far too possessive. And irritating.

“Fair enough,” Marshall says easily. He smiles down at me. “Let’s just say I’m impressed with your work.”

Rye makes a noise under his breath. It’s intelligible, but I swear I hear it as “I’ll bet.” The urge to elbow him is high. Instead, I focus on Marshall. “Likewise.”

“I’d love to trade notes.” He shakes his head slightly as if he’s laughing at himself. “No. That’s terrible. It’s a party. Here’s to not working.” He salutes me with his beer bottle, and I raise my glass.

“Hear, hear.”

“Let’s talk of more pleasant things. Such as, do you care for tacos?”

“Tacos?” I chortle. “Random but, yes, I love a good taco.”

Blue eyes crinkle with mirth. “Why, so do I. We have exceptional tacos in LA. But I’m willing to go in search of some here if you’d like to join me.”

“A taco hunt?”

“If you’re willing?”

Rye lets out a breath, the sound just shy of a snort. “I’m going to get some air. Maybe give Jax a run for his money on the dance floor.” Tight lines bracket his mouth as he nods toward Marshall. “Nice meeting you, man.”

I don’t watch Rye leave, but I feel the separation between us with an intensity that unsettles me to the core. My teeth hurt from the effort of maintaining my smile. I probably look deranged, but Marshall simply eyes me with interest, patiently waiting for me to answer. What had we been talking about?

Tacos. Right. A date.

On paper, Marshall Faulkner is perfect: hot, successful, and slightly dorky. I’ve admired his work for years and would love to talk to him about it. I even get a pleasant warm tingle in my belly when I look at him. Sure, it’s no wild flip, skipped heartbeat, fluttering pulse, can’t decide if I want to strangle him or kiss him. But that’s a good thing.