Brenna

A sob rips out of me, and I lurch upright in bed, tears rolling down my face. I can’t stop crying. Even as I wipe my cheeks and try to calm my breathing, the utter fear and sorrow won’t abate. Rocking myself in the dark, I cry and cry until my chest hurts and my eyes swell. I don’t need to glance at my phone to know the time. It’s always the same when this happens—4:32 a.m., the very moment I got the call from Killian telling me about Jax, how we almost lost him.

From that moment on, I have had episodes when stressed, crying jags that tear me out of sleep and leave me decimated. I hate them, but they won’t stop. With a shaky sigh, I flop back on my bed and curl my knees to my chest. I’m freezing cold, from the inside out. The heavy duvet doesn’t help. Nothing will. I’m alone and terrified of some unnamed thing that lives inside me.

Other people have experienced deep, personal losses in their lives. I haven’t, not really. Not the death of someone I love with all my heart. And I do love Jax. He’s a brother to me. I didn’t lose him, but it was close. Too close. It shattered something in me. I hate that I can’t control this. No matter how many times I tell myself everything is okay now, I can’t actually feel it. Nights like this, when it all comes crashing back in, are the worst.

I’m so cold, so empty. Scared. I’m scared. Because I am alone, and I don’t want to be. Not right now. I want arms to hold me tight, the warmth of another body pressing into me. But there isn’t anyone I want in my bed with me either. There’s the rub. I want something that doesn’t exist.

Before, I’d have called Jax, just to hear his voice. Sweet man that he is, he’ll always answer the phone. He never asks why I am calling; somehow, he knows. He simply says, “I’m here, Bren. I’m still here.” That’s enough for me. I’ll tell him I love him and hang up. We never speak of it, never tell the others. But now, Jax has Stella. I can’t call him and wake her too. Besides, I need to cut the cord.

Doesn’t make the emptiness end, though. For a brief, mindless second, I consider calling Killian. He truly is the closest thing I have to a brother. Growing up together, we’d often have sleepovers. We thought nothing of curling up together in bed and talking about our dreams. His were always grand and colorful but focused on music. Mine were generic—my own horse; kissing Justin Timberlake; making Becky Todd, my archenemy at age ten, eat dirt. Killian’s dreams came true. I followed along for the ride.

But Killian has someone too. He’s curled up with Libby now, telling her his dreams.

Do I even have dreams anymore?

Heaving myself out of bed, I make my way into the kitchen. I know my apartment so well now, I navigate it easily in the dark. Making myself some warm milk with cinnamon and honey and heating a hot water bottle, I stare out the windows to where the city glitters like white diamonds against an indigo sky. It’s a sight I’ve never tired of. But tonight, any excitement I usually feel is gone.

Unbidden, I hear his voice in my head. It’s a promise. A promise, Bren, of how fucking good it can be if you just let go of your pride.

“Jesus.” I still can’t believe Rye said all that. It’s like some bizarre nightmare. Any time one of our friends even joked that Rye and I were hot for each other, Rye would react with such offended dignity that I started to develop a complex—nipped only in the bud by returning his disdain with equal measure.

Unease prickles over my skin. He talks of pride. Pride is the only defense I have to protect myself from him. Pride and vigilance. I never let myself slip with Rye. Never let myself think about him as anything other than…What are we to each other? I don’t even know how to define it. He wasn’t exactly my enemy, but we certainly weren’t friends.

He doesn’t even know why I started to hate him. He only thinks he does. The truth is far more complicated and painful.

Unbidden the memory comes to the fore as sharp and cutting as it was when it happened.

“Happy Birthday, Brenna.” Lacey, a sound engineer, gives me a lingering smile as I make my way through the party. There’s been a spark of interest between us, but I push it aside and keep my responding smile light.

“Thanks.”

Disappointment flickers in her gaze, but she simply nods as I keep walking. I feel a little bad about it, but since one disastrous and humiliating band meeting where the guys grilled me about my freaking sex life, I made an ironclad rule not to get involved with anyone on the payroll. Scottie once reminded me of the old adage: Don’t shit where you eat. Gross, but true. Getting entangled with someone you have to work with day in and out isn’t a good idea.

I wish the guys took that to heart. One full tour under my belt, and I’ve already had to deal with tearful encounters with various staff members who fooled around with my bonehead friends. I love them, but they’re idiots most of the time. Well, I love three of them. The other one… Nope, I will not think about him.

It isn’t easy. Stupid, annoying Rye makes it nearly impossible to ignore him. He’s always there, taunting, teasing, all but daring me to try and forget about him. My face flames with familiar irritation. It’s my damn birthday party, and here I am thinking yet again about Rye Freaking Peterson. No more! That ship is sunk, landed at the bottom of the ocean, and rusted over. His opinion of me means nothing. Nothing.

I move past well-wishers, people dancing, couples hooking up. I turn a blind eye to the drugs spread out on one table. Jax is chugging a bottle of vodka as a brunette goes down on—fuck, I did not need to see that. I turn from the party and head down a narrow hallway that’s been roped off for all but the band. Kill John has rented the entire top floor party space of the hotel for this stop on the tour, knowing they’d have multiple afterparties and my birthday celebration. Scottie insisted on having a quiet place to unwind and several rooms are ours alone.

Frankly, I think he’s the only one to take advantage of that, though. The guys have been partying hard and fast. It worries me, sometimes, how they act as if they’re invincible. I’ve already seen enough of the underbelly of this business to know that it will suck you down and spit you out if you’re not careful.

“You’re beautiful.”

I stop in my tracks, my heart leaping wildly in my chest. Rye’s voice is unmistakable. And I’m utterly ashamed to admit that, for a hot second, I thought it was directed at me. But no, it came from the open doorway of a small lounge a few feet away. I hear a woman’s pleased laugh, and my stomach sours. Ugh. I don’t want to witness yet another one of his conquests.

“You are too kind to me, dear boy.”

My blood runs ice cold. Because I know that voice too. It’s my Aunt Isabella. Alone with Rye the Wonderfuck. What the hell is she doing back here with Rye? I knew she was at the party. Isa is a world-famous supermodel; anytime she enters a room, people notice. We’re in Manhattan where she lives, and she came to say hello. But I had lost track of her hours ago.

Her laughter, soft with undeniable flirtation, ripples over the silence, and my insides flip.

With a queasy sense of dread, I edge toward the door, even though my sensible voice is screaming at me to walk away. I’m quiet and slow, and neither of them sees me. But I see far too much. Rye sits in a lazy sprawl against the end of a black leather sofa, his profile to me. There’s a flush of red on the back of his neck and a certain tilt to his head that tells me he’s been drinking too much. No surprise there; all of the guys have been drinking far too much lately.