“Right here on this public bench?” I tease, stalling the moment.

“Yes, ma’am.”

The chances of being seen are low, but there’s still a chance. We’re a few blocks from my office. Rye uses this particular route for running and so does Scottie.

But Rye looks so good, that wide firm mouth of his perfectly framed by his close beard, and he’ll taste so good…My breath grows short.

“Kiss me, then,” I whisper.

His nostrils flare, then he’s cupping my cheek, dipping his head. He kisses me soft and slow but with such depth that I feel it behind my knees, in the empty ache of my sex. My breath catches, and he gives me his with a little nuzzle and suck.

“Do what you’ve got to in LA,” he says against my mouth. “And then come back to me.”

Late that night, I pack for my trip, but I can’t shake the feeling of wrongness within me. I shouldn’t be leaving Rye. He backed my trip with unfailing conviction. It means more to me than he’ll know. And yet he’s still alone and floundering. No one knows about his hand, his fear, his pain. It isn’t right.

I shouldn’t be leaving. But I have to try. I have to see if…

With a hard swallow, I bat at my prickling eyes. I have to go. But that doesn’t mean I have to leave him all alone. I pick up my phone and call Scottie.

“Brenna.” His voice is warm and slightly amused. Why, I have no idea, since I call him at least twice a day for the most part.

“I’m going to LA for a week on personal business.”

Silence follows, and damn it, he knows. I have no idea how he does it, but he knows I’m going to see Marshall. Refusing to squirm, I wait out that silence. Scottie likes to draw it out, hoping his victim will roll over and blab away all their secrets.

Not today, Satan!

“All right,” he says finally, grumpy because I didn’t fold.

“I need you to do something for me, though.” My hands have gone ice-cold, and I clutch the phone tighter.

“If it’s to water your plants, be warned, I once killed a silk fiddle leaf fig tree. Sophie called it dark sorcery.”

“Ha.” My throat is dry, and the sound comes out far too rough. I lick my lips and try for cool cynicism. “It’s about Rye. He’s been evading his PR schedule…” God, I’m the worst betrayer. “And I know he’s missing band meetings. And…Check on him, will you?”

If I thought the silence was bad before, it’s freaking ominous now. But, to my surprise, Scottie breaks it quickly. “You want me to check on Rye?”

We both know how out of character it is for me to show any concern about Rye.

Cheeks hot, I grip my phone like a lifeline and close my eyes. “We both know something is off with him.” I’m sorry, Rye. I’m so sorry. But I’m leaving and he’s hurting. I can’t stomach knowing he’s alone with this. “Just…take the guys with you and check on him, all right?”

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.