by Kennedy Ryan
Table of Contents
Part I
Part II
Epilogue
GRIP Series
Copyright
Bristol
Grip
Grip & Bristol
Author’s Note
My Soul to Keep Sample
Also By Kennedy Ryan
Connect With Kennedy!
Acknowledgments
About the Author
STILL
GRIP #2
Kennedy Ryan
Dedicated to the Innocent
Contents
GRIP Series
Copyright
Part I
1. Bristol
2. Grip
3. Bristol
4. Bristol
5. Bristol
6. Grip
7. Bristol
8. Bristol
9. Grip
10. Grip
11. Bristol
12. Grip
13. Bristol
14. Grip
15. Bristol
16. Grip
17. Grip
18. Bristol
19. Grip
20. Bristol
21. Grip
22. Grip
23. Bristol
24. Grip
25. Bristol
26. Grip
27. Bristol
Part II
28. Grip
29. Bristol
30. Grip
31. Bristol
32. Bristol
33. Grip
34. Bristol
35. Grip
36. Bristol
37. Grip
38. Grip & Bristol
39. Grip
40. Bristol
41. Grip
42. Bristol
43. Grip
44. Bristol
45. Grip
46. Bristol
Epilogue
Author’s Note
1. My Soul to Keep Sample
Also By Kennedy Ryan
Connect With Kennedy!
Acknowledgments
About the Author
GRIP Series
STILL (Grip #2)
concludes Grip & Bristol’s epic love story.
You must read the FREE short prequel, FLOW,
and GRIP #1 before starting STILL!
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Copyright © Kennedy Ryan, 2017
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of the book.
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Editor:
Editing by C. Marie
Proofreading:
Marla Esposito – Proofingstyle
Cover Design:
Maripili Studio
Cover Art:
Stocksy
Reach Kennedy
kennedyryanwrites.com
Part I
“An artist’s duty, as far as I’m concerned,
is to reflect the times.”
– Nina Simone, Musician & Activist
1
Bristol
“Your client appears to be late.”
I glance from the pasty face across the table to my phone, noting the time. This guy could use some of our LA sun before he goes back to New York, though it is summer there, too. Maybe he just doesn’t get out much.
“A little late,” I tell Kevin, the rep from Barrow Publishing. “But he’ll be here.”
“Our team’s excited about the possibility of working with Grip.” Kevin gestures with his fork wrapped in angel hair pasta. “He’ll be great for our urban imprint.”
“Your urban imprint?” My own fork is halfway to my mouth, but I place it back down in the bowl of my half-eaten salad. “Why would you think that?”
“Well, he is a hip-hop artist.” Kevin shrugs and chews his pasta. “Seems like the reasonable placement.”
“He’s also the guy whose debut album went double platinum and who sold out the largest venues across three continents while headlining his first world tour.” I challenge him with one lifted brow. “You don’t get numbers like that reaching a niche demographic. Grip has proven global appeal and would be best placed with your flagship imprint.”
“We’ll see.” Skepticism colors Kevin’s otherwise pale face.
“Oh, I know, because I won’t settle for anything less.” I spear a cucumber with my fork and him with a glance sharpened to a fine point. “Charisma knew that when she approached me with this offer.”
My friend Charisma and I went to high school together and were roommates at Columbia. She’s now a powerful editor at a huge publishing company. I would much prefer lunch with her instead of this junior editor, but her schedule didn’t allow for that.
My phone dings with a text on the table.
“Excuse me.” I grab the phone to check the incoming text.
Grip: Hey babe. Sorry. About to get on the road.
Me: ETA?
Grip: Huh? Is that dyslexic for eat? LOL
Despite my irritation that I have to spend more time alone with this sun-deprived dickhead, my lips twitch.
Me: Estimated time of arrival, smartass.
Grip: Like 10, but if you send me a tit pic, I might be able to shave a couple min off.
I shake my head and lose the battle with my lips, surrendering a wide grin. I try to ignore dickhead’s eyes on the tits in question. This guy is a bit of a lecher; I’ll have to ask Charisma what she was thinking sending him.
Me: Not funny. Get here so we can be done with this.
Grip: I’m coming, but you know I come faster when you show me your tits.
I walked right into that one. I don’t bother responding, instead setting the phone down and turning my attention back to Kevin the lecher.
“That was Grip.” I wait for his eyes to lift from nipple level. “He got held up at his previous appointment, but he’s en route.”
“It’s fine.” His slick smile lubricates the space between us, leaving a greasy film in the air. “Gives us a little more time alone.”
“Do we need more time alone?” I take a sip of my mineral water. “For what?”
“So I can persuade you to have dinner with me.”
Is this guy for real? I glance into the eyes behind his square glasses. Everything about him screams metrosexual, pretty much the polar opposite of Grip. I guess I’m self-absorbed enough to assume everyone knows Grip and I are together. We were outed in the worst possible way just after he and Qwest broke up—via a surveillance video leak and Black Twitter feud—but we’ve managed to keep a pretty low profile ever since. Apparently, Kevin missed that bit of juicy gossip.
“I think we should stick to business,” I offer with a wry smile.
“But what about pleasure?” He re
aches across the table to rub the back of my hand.
“Pleasure?” I snatch my hand back. “Kevin, you wouldn’t know where to start pleasing me.”
He looks nonplussed, but it’s the truth. Some women have trouble admitting they love sex; I’m not one of them. I love it, but I’m a woman of discriminating tastes and hard-to-please nethers. Fortunately, my voracious appetite extends to exactly one man who’s figured it all out, and he’s probably . . . oh, less than ten minutes out.
Maybe I should have sent that tit pic after all.
“I just meant I’m only in LA for another day, and haven’t seen much of the city,” Kevin says. “I know you and Charisma are friends, so I thought maybe you could show me around before I go back to New York.”
Maybe I misjudged him.
Except his eyes are x-raying through my blouse again.
“Kevin, eyes up.”
“Sorry.” The lust in his eyes practically fogs up his glasses. “What?”
This is so not the way to get Grip on board with the book deal Charisma and I
have been brainstorming. I’m killing Charm next time I see her—not that I’ll see her any time soon. Barrow has her anchored to the East Coast, and Prodigy has me anchored to the West.
“Kevin, there’s something you should know. Grip and I—”
“Sorry I’m late.” The voice rolls over me like syrup, thick and sweet and sticking to my skin.
I glance over my shoulder, meeting the eyes I wake up to every morning, the color of chocolate flecked with caramel. Grip’s slow smile is that extravagant curve of full lips that has stuttered my breath since the day I met him. Even if he weren’t handsome, he would draw attention, reaching beyond sexuality, though sexual energy seeps from this man’s pores. It’s something more fundamental than sex appeal. Whatever it is, it’s raw and compelling and in his very bones. I’ve never been able to completely put my finger on it, but wouldn’t mind spending the next fifty years or so figuring it out.
“Grip, right?” Kevin stands and reaches past me to shake Grip’s hand. “Kevin.”
“Hey.” Grip glances from me to Kevin, accepting his outstretched hand. “Like I said, sorry I’m late.”
“Oh, no. It’s fine.” Kevin offers what is probably supposed to be a roguish grin, but comes off slightly creepy. “Gave me a little alone time with your manager here.”
Oh, please spare me this.
Grip cocks his head and narrows his eyes a centimeter. “Alone time?”
“Grip, I was just about to tell Kevin that—”
“Ah ah ah.” Grip silences me with a gesture, his eyes still locked on Kevin. “Let the man talk, Bris. And what did you use all this time alone for, Kevin?”
“I was persuading this beautiful lady to have dinner with me.” Kevin seats himself, dipping his head toward the empty seat awaiting Grip at the table.
“Oh.” Grip sits, nodding and setting his motorcycle helmet on the floor. “And how was that working out for you?”
“Between you and me”—Kevin slants me a knowing grin—“I think I was getting somewhere.”
“Uh, Kevin, you really should—” I try again.
“Was he, Bris?” Grip cuts in over me, crossing his arms—vibrantly inked and roped with muscle—over his chest. His white shirt reads HABITUAL LINE STEPPER; no telling what that means. “Getting somewhere, I mean?”
Though well disguised, humor percolates behind his polite inquiry. Grip is possessive, but he knows this guy would never be anything but a joke.
“No, I told him we should keep things strictly business.” I turn my attention from Grip to Kevin. “And I was just about to say I have a boyfriend.”
“I’m sure he’d understand.” Kevin flashes a conspiratorial wink Grip’s way.
“I’m sure he wouldn’t.” A vein of steel runs through Grip’s good-natured response. “He doesn’t like her having dinner with other guys.”
“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, eh?” Kevin leans forward slightly to elbow Grip’s arm.
“Might get you hurt, though,” Grip says, elbowing Kevin back with a little more force. “Eh?”
“Ow.” Kevin rubs his arm, frowning at the spot Grip poked roughly.
This has gone on long enough. Every word out of Kevin’s mouth imperils this book deal.
“Kevin, Grip is my boyfriend,” I tell him, annoyed and tired of stretching this out.
Kevin’s poor jaw nearly unhinges.
“Grip is your boyfriend?” Behind the designer spectacles, his eyes widen and dart between Grip and me.
Grip links our fingers on the table.
“As fuck would have it, yup.” Grip raises our hands to his lips, kissing my fingers, but keeps his eyes trained on Kevin. “Is this your strategy for signing new authors? Hitting on their girlfriends? ’Cause I gotta tell ya, it’s kinda brilliant.”
I can’t help it—I snort. My inelegant laugh draws Grip’s dark eyes and wicked grin, fanning heat low in my belly that slides even farther south. I went years barely being intimate with anything that wasn’t battery operated, and now I can’t go two hours without wanting to be horizontally naked with this guy.
Though we did do it vertically in the shower this morning. I squirm in my seat remembering the slice of steamy heaven we had before the sun was all the way up. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I can get back to the office and then home for more of that, whichever home we choose tonight. At some point, I guess I’ll sell my place, or Grip will sell his? We’ll live together, but will we get engaged first? Married? He did tell my mother he would marry me one day.
Oh, Bristol, please don’t become one of those women obsessed with getting a ring, I self-admonish.
Because if you can’t admonish yourself, who can?
We’re in no hurry, and I actually appreciate our pace. The last few months have been . . . I don’t even have language for how happy I am. It’s contentment sheathed in passion, twisted around the deepest, most honest connection I’ve ever known. I wish everyone could taste this, could have this. That’s when you know you’re far gone—when you start wishing everyone else had what you have. I know what it’s like to live without it, to live without him. It’s lackluster, a pale parallel existence I have no intention of revisiting. We got just a taste of it this summer when he was on tour and I needed to stay behind in LA.
Miserable.
“Does that sound good, Bristol?”
Kevin’s question snaps my attention back to the conversation at the table. Now I’m daydreaming? In the middle of a meeting? About proposals and engagement rings and fairy-tale endings?
“Uh, sorry.” I split an apologetic glance between Grip and Kevin. “I got distracted. Does what sound good?”
“Grip wanted to reschedule the meeting.” Kevin considers the calendar on his phone. “He has a session to get to at the studio, so maybe we can talk about the deal when he has more time.”
Does Grip really have a session? Or is he just writing Kevin and this deal off? I try to read between the impassive lines of his face. I want him to give this a chance, despite the awful first impression Kevin made.
“You have a session?” I probe to see what he’ll reveal.
His mouth kicks to the left, which usually indicates he’s privately laughing at someone.
“Yeah, and don’t you have that thing to get to?” He stands, grabbing his helmet and me, gently pulling me up by the elbow. “We both probably need to get out of here. Nice meeting you, Kev.”
So that’s a no on the session.
“You go to the studio.” I pull away, narrowing my eyes at him so he knows I have his number. “I’ll close things out with Kevin.”
A quick frown clouds his expression. Joke or no joke, he doesn’t want to leave me with some guy who was hitting on me just a few minutes ago.
“I can probably skip it.” Grip’s smile settles into an unyielding line.
“No need.” I turn to Kevin. “I’m just gonna walk
Grip out. I’ll be back to discuss alternate dates.”
“Sounds good. Great meeting you, Grip.” Kevin picks up the menu and offers a quick smile. “I’ll look at dessert.”
Grip doesn’t move, just keeps staring at Kevin, so I hook my arm through his and lead him out of the restaurant and to the parking lot. Once we reach the spot where his motorcycle is parked, Grip’s hands settle on my hips and he pulls me into his chest, locking us together.
“What’s up, little shawty?” he teases, running his nose along my neck. “What’s your name? You got a man?”
“I do,” I answer huskily. “But I could be persuaded. He’ll never know.”
“The hell.” Grip chuckles, nipping my ear and sliding his hand to the small of my back.
“You don’t really have a session, do you?” I ask abruptly, breaking the spell he’s trying to weave.
“I’m not dealing with this guy, Bris.” He pulls back to peer down at my face. “And neither are you. He’s trying to have dinner with you? I’m not doing business with that—”
“In his defense,” I cut in before he works himself into a lather. “He didn’t know I’m taken.”
