Exposed (VIP 4)

Whip laughs and takes a long drink of water. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he looks away, clearly thinking about something. When he turns back to me, his expression is considering. “This arrangement you’ve got going with Bren isn’t working for you, is it?”

The words gut-punch me so hard, I hunch over, pressing the heels of my hands against my tired eyes. “No.”

It tastes like betrayal. Like the end. At this moment, I’m not sure what hurt more to say, that my hands were jacked or that I can’t continue like this with Brenna and keep my head up.

My body is tense, wired. I close my eyes. The rhythmic thump of bass and the occasional cry of the crowd in the club punctuate the silence in the room.

Whip’s voice, soft yet insistent, slides over me. “You gotta end it. I know it seemed like a good idea at the time, but you keep going like this and it will get so twisted, neither of you will come out of it intact.”

“I know. I know, all right? I just…” Can’t. Not yet. I need more time. More of her. Our official “day” is tomorrow, and I’m going to miss it. My throat closes in on me. “I like her, Whip.”

Like is too weak a word. But it’s the only one I can say.

“Yeah, I know.” His quiet acknowledgment cuts deeper. He pauses. “Bren asked Scottie to check on you.”

My heart starts trying to pound its way out of my chest. “What?”

But it’s not a question; it’s shock.

Whip nods in acknowledgement. “She knew you needed us but were too stubborn to ask for help.” His smile is brief but fond. “Probably because she’s stubborn about showing her feelings too.”

Brenna always had to be tougher than any of us. To her, revealing any hint of emotional weakness meant the possibility of losing everything.

I rub a hand over my tight chest, as Whip lets it all sink in.

“I think you know what you have to do to fix this.” Whip and I have a connection deep enough that I understand what he means. Of course, I do, because he’s read me too well and knows exactly what I’ve been thinking. It’s not an easy decision to make.

Truth is, the whole thing scares the shit out of me. But a person can only lie to themselves for so long, and I’m no longer willing to play myself a fool.

“It’s a risk,” I say.

Whip shrugs. “Everything worth having is a risk.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Brenna

I am seriously messed up. I acknowledge that much in the privacy of my head. I had a great time with Marshall and his team. Anyone who possesses even a modicum of passion for publicity and marketing would kill or die to work with them. Dream job is an understatement. Yet I couldn’t wait to get back to Rye’s house, wanting nothing more than to burrow my head under a blanket and forget everything.

I have the period from hell. My body hurts. I’m so bloated, I imagine this is what a tick feels like. All of that, I expect; I live through it every month. The true horror here, the totally twisted part, is that I’m moping and feeling sorry for myself because I can’t have sex with Rye for nearly a week.

No, it’s not sex that I want right now. And that’s not why I miss him. Truth is, my desire to be with Rye has never been solely about physical gratification. That was simply the lie I told to allow myself to get closer to him. Stupid pride has kept me from admitting that he is one of my favorite people—maybe my absolute favorite. When he is near, I hum like a struck tuning fork. Everything is more with him.

So why am I here? Why does the prospect of forging a new career path fill me with excitement but also feel like a betrayal?

“Stop it,” I mutter while putting on my rattiest but most comfortable nightshirt. “This is a golden opportunity, damn it.”

And I’m talking to myself now. Yay.

Muttering, I curl up in bed and pull the covers up high. I have to get a grip. I will not wonder what he’s doing now. I do not want to hear the sound of his voice, or to tell him how my day went.

“Ugh.” Flipping onto my stomach, I hug a pillow close. It’s cool and lumpy, and what I really want to hug is his big, strong body. Which means I’m definitely screwed. “And an idiot.” With a huff, I flip onto my back. “An idiot who can’t stop talking to herself.”

Great.

An idiot who stares at the clock. It’s two minutes to midnight. Our witching hour. Only he won’t show tonight. He’s in Chicago.

Yesterday, he sent me a short video of himself and Whip performing at a club. And though it appears as if all he’s doing in the video is fiddling with knobs on a console and dancing along to the beat, I know the level of skill it takes to create music like that on the fly. It’s sexy as hell. Pure competency porn.