In the halting tones of the reluctant and confused, I explain what happened, starting on the night I eavesdropped on her conversation with Jules. I leave out the personal bits and give him the bare bones of the situation.

“Problem is,” I say when I finally get to the present situation with her going off to LA and me sitting here twiddling my thumbs, “I can’t think straight anymore. I miss her when she’s not around. A lot. I hate hiding what we’re doing, but I understand why she wants to. At least that’s what I tell myself. But in here?” I thump a fist to my chest. “It feels like bullshit, keeping quiet and pretending we are the same as we were before. Because we’re not. We’re…Shit. That’s the other problem. I don’t know what the hell we are.”

When I finish, Whip sighs. “What made you think getting physical with Brenna without the possibility of any kind of real relationship in the cards was a good idea?”

I stare blankly at him. “My dick?”

He chuffs. “Yeah, I just bet your dick was doing all the thinking.”

“To be clear, I’m not regretting the decision, and neither is my dick, because the sex is off-the-charts fantastic—shit, I didn’t say that! You did not hear me say that.”

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.

I suppose it’s for the best that we’re in different sections of the country. I’d never be able to stay away otherwise.

The thought barely crystalizes when I hear the front door open. Ordinarily, I’d be terrified. But security in the house is topnotch, and there is only one person who would be able to get through it without any problem.

Then again, it could be a killer or evil rapist. Clutching my phone, I sit up and wait, ready to scream bloody murder if I need to. From the way my heart is doing a little happy dance within my chest, I don’t think I will.

The sound of footsteps draws closer. I shouldn’t be able to identify anyone by the cadence of their step, but I recognize the pattern anyway. The bedroom door pushes open, revealing an all-too-familiar silhouette. A smile threatens to spread over my face. I hold it in ruthlessly.

“Sneaking into a woman’s bedroom is a great way to end up in jail,” I tell him, fairly proud that I don’t sound breathless and giddy.

Rye pauses at the threshold. He’s a hulking shadow, his head tilted to the side as though he’s studying me. I doubt he sees much; the room is cool shadows and inky darkness. “I was trying not to wake you.”