Exposed (VIP 4)

I know I’ve shocked the hell out of Scottie. But his voice remains cool as silk. “All right.”

Relief sweeps through me. I’ve betrayed Rye’s trust by pushing this, but I can’t regret it. Not when I know how much he needs his friends, not when I know he won’t ask them for help when they’re the only ones who will truly understand what he’s facing. Maybe before everything happened with Jax, I could let it go, but now I just can’t. I won’t ever leave someone I care about in the dark again.

It’s how much I’m beginning to care that scares me and makes my reply to Scottie stilted and stumbling. “Okay. Good. Thanks.”

I move to hang up when Scottie’s voice stops me. “Brenna?”

“Yes?”

He hesitates for a fraction of a second. “Take care.”

The worst part is, I’m not certain it’s myself he’s asking me to take care with.

Chapter Twenty-One

Rye

I’m playing “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore” on the piano when they invade. And by “they,” I mean Jax, Whip, Killian, and Scottie. The Four Stooges.

“I’m beginning to regret giving you guys the code to my door,” I say while I keep playing smooth and easy. It feels good to make music that doesn’t hurt.

Jax stops by the baby grand and sings, “‘Thought I’d visit the club. Got as far as the door…’ Nah, it’s like I’m serenading you.”

“I’m crushed. Your melodic voice makes me all warm and fuzzy. Maybe something a little livelier? Without lyrics.” I play a few lilting bars of the classic Gershwin Jazz piece “Rhapsody in Blue.”

He shakes his head. “Doesn’t work as well without the full symphony to back you. Not nearly as stirring.”

With a dramatic sigh, I move on to “Für Elise,” taking it nice and slow, drawing out the notes. It was the first song I’d learned on the piano—at the sweet and innocent age of five. Part of me misses those days. My parents had been over the moon about their musical prodigy.

Music, music, music. It is part of the fabric of my being. Pull it away and I unravel.

Scottie looks me over with a narrowed gaze. “You’ve groomed yourself at last.”

Leave it to Scottie to notice that first. I resist the urge to touch my jaw. But I can’t hold back the memory of Brenna’s fine blush, like cherry wine spreading across her creamy cheeks when she confessed she liked the feel of my beard against her skin. I spent the rest of the night between her legs to show my appreciation for her taking care of me. Too bad she’s on her way to LA. I’d rather be with her right now instead of facing the firing squad glaring down at me.

The memory of Brenna must show on my face because Scottie’s eyes narrow. “Looking rather smug about something too.”

I shrug, my fingers dancing over the keys. “Not particularly.”

“You’re well enough to play piano, at least,” Jax says.

“Which makes us wonder,” Killian puts in, “why the fuck you keep blowing off band meetings?”

I play a few more notes and then trail off. A lump fills my throat, and I spread my hands over the cool keys.

Whip sits on the bench next to me and taps out the beginning of “Chopsticks.” He doesn’t look up when he speaks. “Why don’t we ask Rye what’s up before laying into him? It’s not like he’s ever disappeared on us before.” He glances up a Killian with a pointed look.

Killian flushes a ruddy color and glares. But he catches my expression, which I’m trying really hard to keep blank, and his shoulders sag. “Whip’s right.” He says it so grudgingly that I huff out a laugh. But neither of us is smiling. He stares at me, hard. “Rye, man, what’s up?”

“Is this some sort of weird intervention?” I quip, the lump in my throat growing bigger, sharper. The fucker has tips that puncture deep.

“Avoiding it is only going to make it worse,” Jax points out.

Given that he knows this better than anyone, I don’t make a joke. Even though I’m dying to make a joke, to do anything to put off the inevitable.

A finger twitches, hitting the E-flat. “I…ah…I went to the doctor today.”

The words slap down onto the room like a thunderclap, and I know my friends are collectively unsettled. But no one says a thing. So I keep going.

“Been having pain in my hands, wrists—fuck, my whole arms.” Goddamn, that lump is getting too big to manage. “They seize up and I can’t…” I draw a deep breath. “I can’t play sometimes.”

Someone makes a strangled sound. Maybe Jax or Killian. I can’t tell because I’m staring at the black and white keys of the piano. “Turns out, I have acute tendinitis. Nothing for it but to rest and let it heal.”

“Then why the fuck are you playing the piano?” Whip snaps, visibly pale as if he expects my hands to seize up at any second.