“If you wake up Felix with that music, Sophie is going to—ah!”

Rye grabs hold of my wrist and gently but firmly tugs me into the room, kicking the door shut. He pulls me into his arms and starts dancing. His grin is wide and boyish. “Be bad with me, Bren.”

I have things to say. But it’s impossible to resist him. He’s too good a dancer, moving me with competence that’s utterly sexy. The song is bluesy, funky-dirty sex. His thick thigh slides between mine as we bump and grind.

Rye’s arm wraps more firmly around my waist, and he spins me. I’m on air, alive and pulsing with the beat, flowing with him. Flick-bump-sway. I’m no longer worrying about tomorrow or regretting yesterday. I’m young and free in his arms, laughing breathlessly, feeling the music in my blood and bones.

Then our gazes collide, and everything changes. God, the heat in his. The way he looks at me as though I’m the only thing in his universe. This isn’t the look of regret.

Heart pounding, I lift my arms, dip my hips. His thigh hits my sex and everything clenches. I suck in a breath, my breasts brushing his chest. Rye’s lids lower. Mouth pursed in concentration, he works me to the pulsing rhythm. Flick-bump-sway.

It’s too much. He’s all around me, the scent of his skin, the firm, warm feel of his body moving with mine. I’ve missed touching him. I’ve missed him touching me. And this is all I’m going to get anymore, this parody of sex, a quick dance. No more skin to skin. No more of his mouth, his taste, his touch.

I swallow hard, my step faltering.

Rye frowns, and I swear he’s about to pull away. But he simply watches me.

“I remember the first time I heard this song,” he says.

“You do?” I’m too flustered to remember anything right now.

Rye spins me again, popping his hips against mine. “It was the 2010 fall tour, at an after-party in Paris.” His palm spreads wide on my lower back, bracing me, drawing me closer. “You were wearing black leather pants like you’ve got on now, a pair of wicked silver heels, and a little beaded top that flashed your cute belly button every so often.”

My lips part on a breath, and I can only stare at him.

His smile tilts. “You climbed up on a platform with one of the roadies and danced to this song. I watched you move—all sex and grace and utter perfection—and I wanted you so much, it was a physical ache.”

I can’t breathe. I can only hold on, my hand cupping the warm column of his neck.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he says, almost lightly, like he’s not slicing into my heart. “I’ve spent my entire adult life either wanting you or wanting to forget you.”

Holy shit. I feel his truth like a hot grip along my body and stumble against him.

He pauses. “Did you know?”

My voice trembles. “Yeah. I think I did.”

Not so deep down, I had known. And I’d been doing the same, wanting him, wanting to forget, knowing he was my weakness and resenting him for it.

Something flickers through his gaze. “But in all that time, I never tried being your friend.” He glances away for a second, giving me his tightly drawn profile, before meeting my eyes once again. His are dark and troubled. “I should have tried.”

A lump swells in my throat. It hurts. This hurts.

He shrugs one big shoulder, smiling tightly, moving me like we’re fucking. The combination scrambles what’s left of my brain. “Better late than never, huh?”

It’s not better!

The words won’t come out, and the song ends. He must have just been playing the one, because nothing follows. We stop in the middle of the room, me panting lightly, Rye staring down at me with an expression I can’t read, sad maybe. But then he steps away, releasing me.

“Song is over.”

I fear I might fall and never get back up.

“Yeah,” I rasp.

A mix of regret and hopefulness shines in his eyes. We’ve hurt each other. Many times. And yet he’s been the one who kept me going, a driving force to prove my worth—both to him and to myself. He’s the one who told me I could fly, who gave me hope that everything in my life would someday be okay.

“I should have tried harder too, Rye.”

His shoulders droop in apparent relief. “We’re here now. That counts for something.”

“Of course it does.”

Rye runs a hand over his beard then smiles. “Friends, then?”

“Always.” Because I need him, in whatever way I can have him.

The truth of him—of what he means to me—sweeps through my body in a rush so strong, I brace a hand to my middle. What do I do? Beg, maybe.

“Rye…”

The door opens with the effect of a gunshot. Rye and I both visibly jump. Whip stops in the doorway, cringing as though he knows he interrupted something.

“Sorry,” he says. “But your parents are here, Bren, and we’re supposed to head into dinner soon. I thought you’d want to prepare.”

I glance at Rye and hesitate, but then my shoulders sag. Facing my biggest mistake and my parents in one night is too much. I sigh and head for the door. All the preparation in the world won’t be enough for what’s coming.

Chapter Thirty

Rye

 

Family dinner at Varg Hall is a bit different than our normal band family dinners. And by that, I mean it’s a formal, uncomfortable trial. With food.

Okay, the food is good. I’ll give them that. And there’s a lot of it. If you don’t mind being served endless courses by waitstaff in black ties. A woman fills my wine glass with Cabernet then slips away just as another waiter sets down a plate of prettily cut rounds of roast beef, dribbled with a glossy brown sauce, which probably has some fancy name, but I could give fuck all about it at the moment.

Not when Brenna sits at my side, her pretty, long neck and graceful shoulders so stiff, it’s a wonder she doesn’t crack. I don’t blame her. Her parents have been complaining about this or that for much of the meal.

Patricia and Neil James are, in a word, killjoys. At a distance, Brenna looks like a younger version of her mom, albeit about four inches taller. They both have the same red-brown hair, the same amber eyes. Patricia’s hair is faded, a washed reddish gray like the undercoat of a fox. Frown lines crease her slightly rounder face, and her nose is more snub than Bren’s. Brenna has her father, Neil’s, height and narrower, longer features. Neil looks like a version of his brother, Xander, gone to seed.

They both wear a perpetually pinched expression, as if they smell something bad. And they’re not afraid to speak their mind. As in all the fucking time. With every damn snipe and whine they dole out, Brenna’s slim body flinches, the softness of her lips pressing tighter. It breaks my heart, and it’s all I can do not to reach under the table and set my hand on her knee. To hold her or say, Fuck it, let me take you out of here.

But I know she won’t want that. Brenna has pride. She wears it like armor and strides on five-inch heels made of brash confidence and pure guts.

It doesn’t stop me from wanting to toss her parents out on their ears. I slide a look Brenna’s way, inwardly aching at how even the golden candlelight can’t hide the pale cast of her creamy skin.