Exposed (VIP 4)

Rye takes my hand again. It’s different, being here with him, as though we’re on a date. Which is…not what we’re supposed to be doing. He was right, I’d expected him to want a day of sex. I’d been prepared for that. I’m not prepared for this, or what doing this even means. But I don’t want to think. I just want to be.

We take our time, stopping to peer at tiny scarabs or ancient papyrus scrolls mounted on the walls. The few people we pass barely glance our way. It always amazes me how rarely Rye gets recognized in public. Jax and Killian almost instantly get mobbed, but Rye has a way of blending in, which is amazing given that he’s six foot three inches of tightly muscled perfection. I can only conclude it’s the ease with which he moves through the world. The man cuts through space like a hot knife into cold pudding. That smooth flow draws me in and has me relaxing my usually crisp stride.

“I love this place,” Rye murmurs as we stroll past a massive basalt sarcophagus. “I know it can be packed with tourists, and that’s annoying, but when I was younger and my parents were fighting, I’d come here and get lost for hours. Just soak in the art and breathe.”

My arm brushes against his as I move closer to him. “I did too.”

“What? Really?”

“Yeah. I’d come here on Saturdays. Even filled with people, it was better than being at home.” I shrug. “And…shit, this is going to sound stupid.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“It reminded me of staying with Killian.”

Rye’s brow furrows, and I know I’m doing a terrible job of explaining. Honestly, I don’t even know why I’m telling him this. I hate this particular vulnerability of mine. But I know he won’t judge, and sometimes having someone bear witness to your weaknesses makes them easier to manage. I never truly understood the power of that until Rye broke down and admitted his fears about his hands to me. I thought he might break apart, but he leaned on me instead, as though I gave him strength. And he’d gone light with it. Playful and happy once again.

I’d given that to him. Just by listening.

“You’ve seen how Killian’s parents live, right?” I say, easier now. “Beautiful homes filled with light and art. I had a bit of that here.”

Rye’s expression clears. “I get it.”

“I loved staying with Killian. And with my aunt and uncle. They treated me like…” A small laugh escapes. “I was going to say family, but I am family, so that isn’t exactly surprising.”

The blunt tip of Rye’s thumb caresses my knuckles. “They treated you like a daughter.”

A heavy, familiar weight settles on my chest, but this time, it’s easier to let it go. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t say anything but leads me into the Sackler Wing, a soaring modern space with its iconic slanted grid window wall overlooking Central Park. Sunlight streams in, and blue sky meets the tree line, now colored with the golds, reds, and oranges of autumn.

The airy gallery houses the Temple of Dendur, two large Egyptian structures which sit on a limestone floor, surrounded on three sides by a wide reflecting pool. Save for a guard, it’s quiet and empty—a true rarity.

“It feels as though we’re in a church,” I whisper, a sense of reverence falling over me.

“I suppose we are, in a way.” Rye’s hand settles on the small of my back as we walk into the larger temple building, flanked by two thick, fluted columns.

Standing by Rye’s side, I study the hieroglyphs someone carved into the stone over a millennia ago then pause with a jolt. “1821? Someone carved graffiti.”

Rye leans in, his eyes narrowing. “Son of a bitch, they did. It’s all over the place. I can’t believe I never noticed it before.”

“Maybe because it’s usually crammed with people breathing down your neck in here?”

He huffs out a laugh. “Probably. Damn, look at that. One of them was from New York. Dude must have thought he’d left a piece of himself in Egypt for all time. Now it’s here.” Rye shrugs. “He’ll live on in infamy, that’s for sure. I guess that’s one way to be immortal.”

“How does it feel? Knowing that you’re going to live on like that too?”

His brow wings up as he turns my way. “In infamy?”

“Rye.” I nudge him with a laugh. “No. You. Your music. It’s going to live on far after you do.”

He steps into my space, running his fingers along my waist as though he can’t help himself. His voice lowers to a husky rumble. “I don’t know. Sometimes, I think about it, and I feel…empty.”

“Empty?” My hands slide over his chest to cup the back of his neck.

He leans into the touch, ducking his head so his cheek brushes mine. “Yeah. Empty. It will hit me that someone might listen to my music when I’m dead and gone, and I feel so fucking empty. Because I know my life will be over, and I wonder if I will ever…” He trails off, swallowing hard.