by Kennedy Ryan
“Rhyson’s had stalkers,” I remind him. “And he always resisted having a lot of security, but that taught him how vulnerable he is because of what he’s chosen to do. Now that he has Kai and Aria, security is tight and everywhere all the time.”
Grip just nods.
“Doing this for a living, it makes the stakes high,” I say. “But when you love someone, it raises them even more. You have more to lose, and I don’t want to lose you, Grip.”
Just the thought of something happening to him is like a hot poker through my heart. I know he can see the fear in my eyes. I don’t even try to hide it, and I am not above exploiting his love for me to get what I want it if means keeping him safe.
“Besides,” I say, struck with sudden inspiration I can’t believe I didn’t use earlier. “If Amir is there protecting you, he’s there to protect me, too, right?”
Grip’s eyes narrow and his hands go still as he considers this.
Bingo.
“Okay, he can come,” he finally says, but sets his face in stone. “But no way is he living in the same apartment. I don’t care how many floors it’s got.”
“I thought you might say that, which is why I already called about another apartment up for lease in the building.”
“You already . . .” He shakes his head, exasperation and grudging admiration in his eyes. “Okay, Bris.”
I turn to go before I feel less magnanimous, glad I’ve found at least enough peace with the situation not to ruin what was already going to be a difficult day.
“We’re good?” he asks, soaping the heavier muscles of his shoulders and his ink-splattered arms. Water skids over his chest and between the stacks of muscled abs. A trail of suds migrates south, catching in the hair nesting around his cock.
I lick suddenly dry lips and subtly squeeze my thighs together to suppress the involuntary pussy clench the sight of him incites. While I was negotiating, I could block out the absolute perfection of him, but now I can’t look away from the wide head that still feels like it’s splitting me open every time even after months together. I don’t know if my body will ever fully adjust—I hope not, because the almost-too-much-ness reflects my emotions, like this love is almost too much, straining the seams of my heart until I think I may burst from what I feel.
“Yeah . . .” I clear the huskiness—and hussy-ness—from my voice and try again. “Yeah, we’re good.”
A strong hand vices my wrist and tugs me forward until I’m just beyond the shower threshold, close enough for steam to slip under my dress, but not close enough to get wet—except I am wet. I may not be in the shower, but my panties are soaked. Then it only gets worse when, with his other hand, he strokes himself languorously, lazy flicks of his wrist that lengthen him into a thickly veined, rigid column.
“Bristol.”
My name on his lips pulls my attention from the steady pull between his thighs to the dark stare trained on me, his eyes narrowed with water droplets clinging to the thick lashes tangled at the corners.
“Tell me what you want.”
Those are my words, the ones I used to probe about New York. I knew what he wanted then, and he knows what I want now. I grit my teeth against all my wanton urges, but the words spill out.
“You.” My breath comes short and quick. “I want you.”
In a quick motion, he jerks me into the shower, fully clothed. My dress plasters my skin, and water seeps into my shoes. It will infuriate me later that he has ruined a perfectly good pair of Jimmy Choos.
8
Bristol
“You did this on purpose.”
I flip down the visor mirror to study the bright red mark on my neck. I should have left that bathroom, but no, I just couldn’t resist. Grip’s shower ended like so many do—with me up against the wall.
Grip lets out a salacious chuckle from the driver’s seat. He’s one of the few people allowed to drive my car, and as he navigates back roads on our way to his mother’s house, I’m glad I trust him to do it. As nervous as I am, I’d probably run off the road.
“So, you think in the middle of shower sex, I had the presence of mind to give you a hickey?” Grip flicks me a disbelieving glance. “Just to embarrass you at my mom’s house?”
“Yes, I absolutely do, because you’re always looking for ways to embarrass me.”
“Babe, I don’t even know if the sky is blue when I’m inside you.”
“You’re so full of shit.” My laugh takes flight on the wind with the top down. “Your sweet talk doesn’t work on me.”
His knowing look picks my bravado apart, because his sweet talk totally works on me and he knows it.
“As if I’m not nervous enough.” I play with the cuff of my linen shorts, focusing on that small movement instead of the next few hours meeting Grip’s friends and family. I’ve met some here and there over the last few months, of course, but with Grip on tour all summer, not many.
“Don’t be nervous.” Grip’s frown comes quickly now that he sees I’m legitimately not looking forward to this. “Amir will be there, and Shon. You know them and they love you, and my mom is asking about swirl grandbabies every time we talk, so I’m pretty sure you’ve won her over. Once we procreate, you’ll have her eating from the palm of your hand.”
“Swirl . . . wait, what? Oh, my God.” I’m not sure if my stomach flips over inside because of his mother’s outrageousness or at the thought of having Grip’s kids. I never saw myself as maternal—like, at all—but imagining myself pregnant with Grip’s child is a different matter altogether. I’m assaulted with images and feelings better examined alone than when I’m heading into what feels like social battle.
“Everybody at this party,” Grip says, “they’re guys I grew up with, neighborhood ladies who whooped my ass when I was a snot-nosed kid, people from Ma’s church.”
“Church?” My hand flies to my neck to cover the bite marring my skin. “Oh, God.”
“It’ll be fine.” He grabs my hand from my lap and kisses my fingers, not taking his eyes from the road.
“I want them to like me,” I say. That’s hard to admit because I can count on one hand the people I want to like me, and it’s been that way all my life. I was born with a limited amount of fucks, but all of a sudden I need the approval of Ms. James and this whole group of nameless, faceless people who may hold the same views as Jade.
Ugh, Jade.
“Will Jade be there?” I ask, braced for the affirmative.
“Probably.” Grip’s shoulders lift and fall, quick and careless. “Look, Jade gets on board with us, or she doesn’t. I don’t give a damn.”
He says that, but I know how happy it made him to restore their relationship, and the last thing I want is to be the reason it falls apart again. I’m still considering that when we pull up to the house where Grip grew up. The narrow street is lined with cars, trucks, bikes—everything from the infamous Impala to three-wheelers.
Some mix of nerves, dread, and anticipation climbs up to lodge in my throat where I can’t gather enough breath. This is ridiculous. I run a record label. I make stars for a living, literally pluck people from obscurity and do whatever it takes to propel them into planetary stardom, from no-name to household name in the manner of an album release—and yet a house full of strangers on this crowded Compton street fills me with trepidation.
But it’s not them. It’s him.
Grip opens my door, the color of his skin even richer against the pink polo shirt he’s wearing with army green cargo shorts. His eyes are set to simmer as he peers down at me in the passenger seat. He leans down and takes my lips between his softly, tenderly, like I’m the most precious thing in his world. His eyes say that, and he tells me all the time. He’s the reason for my trepidation. Relationships, friendships—especially longstanding ones, familial ones—mean the world to him.
Would he always put me first?
I know he would.
Would it hurt him if he had to make those choices?
I know it would, and part of loving someone is doing everything in your power to make sure they don’t hurt.
There’s barely room to walk in the driveway with all the cars slotted into the tight space. Grip weaves his way between the vehicles, single-filing us in the narrow passages, his hand wrapped reassuringly around mine. The sounds flooding Ms. James’ stamp-size front porch—90s Snoop Dogg, raucous laugher, and dozens of voices clamoring to talk over each other—reach us before he opens the screen door.
There is what must be a code-breaking number of people squeezed into the front room, running over into the hall, and presumably spilling into the back yard. The smell of grilled meat wafts past my nose, joining a tangle of other sensations. The whir of a fan oscillating in the corner of the crowded living room. The rich palette of colors—skin tones ranging from gold to bronze to copper, nutmeg to hazelnut to walnut, but none that match my skin, barely sun-kissed, stark and pale among the rich range of pigmentation.
They greet Grip, enthusiasm and undeniable pride in their words and the affectionate embraces they offer him. When their eyes latch onto me, though, they hold questions, speculation. They don’t know me. They aren’t sure I can be trusted with the boy they watched grow up and do better than most ever imagined anyone from this neighborhood could. I swallow my discomfort, determined to fit in, determined to shake off my sense of displacement and get to know the people Grip loves, the ones who obviously love him.
“Bristol, hey!”
I turn toward the familiar voice in the crowd, hoping there’s a familiar face to go with it. I’m grateful to see Shondra, Amir’s longtime crush and maybe now girlfriend.
“Shon, hi.” I reach for her like a lifeline, accepting the hug she folds me into.
“You got this girl,” she whispers, a genuine smile spread across her pretty face. “These folks ain’t nothing to be scared of.”
Shon bore witness to the carnage of confrontation between Jade, Ms. James, and me the first time I was here. She spoke up for us, for Grip and me, and I’ll never forget that.
“What are you whispering about, Shon?” Grip asks, pulling her into a tight hug. “No, don’t tell me. I probably don’t wanna know. Where’s your boy?”
“And what boy would that be?” Shon lifts her brows in challenge.
“Whoa.” Grip’s grin turns into a full-bodied laugh. “You got more than one? Does Amir know?”
“Gotta keep him on his toes,” she says with an audacious wink. “He’s out back playing bones and losing.”
“I’ve never seen Amir win at dominoes. I might whoop his ass in Spades later, too.” Grip laughs, but is distracted when a gorgeous girl, no higher than his breastbone, walks up and places her hand on his arm, an invitation stamped clearly on her heart-shaped face.
“Grip, hey baby,” she purrs, her wide eyes and the dark hair curling around her shoulders a seduction. “Welcome home.”
My discomfort and nervousness dissipate at the sight of this beautiful woman with her richly golden skin practically petting my boyfriend. I’m standing right here. He’s holding my hand. We’re obviously together. I suppress the possessive growl curling at the base of my throat; better to let Grip handle it instead of behaving unreasonably and alienating people any more than I have to.
“Sierra, hey.” Grip deliberately lifts her tiny hand from his arm. “It’s been a minute. I heard you opened that shop down off Central Ave. Congratulations.”
“Same to you.” She tips her head back, the long hair winding down her spine and nearly touching her curvy backside. “You done good. Come a long way since we snuck behind the bleachers at football games.”
Her sultry laugh grates on my nerves, and my fingers tighten around Grip’s in a warning. If he doesn’t back this bitch up, I will.
“Uh . . . yeah. That was a long time ago.” Grip clears his throat and pulls me forward. “I don’t think you’ve met my girlfriend Bristol.”
Sierra’s subtly scornful glance starts at my wedge-heeled espadrilles, crawls over my legs in mint green mini shorts, gains momentum when she searches my face, and finally is downright rude by the time she reaches the artfully messy bun I gathered my hair into.
Fuck. Her.
“Hi.” I extend my hand and smile politely. “Nice to meet you.”
She stares at my hand like it’s palsied for a moment too long before taking it between her French manicure-tipped fingers.
“I guess you’ll miss Grip when he moves to New York,” she says, watching for my response.
“Not really, since I’m moving with him.” I widen my eyes innocently. “Grip says this is my going away party, too, so thank you for coming.”
Grip catches his half cough, half chuckle in a fist at his mouth.
“It was good seeing you again, Sierra,” he says neutrally. “Good luck.”
“Well maybe we could—” she starts.
“Sierra, your sister’s looking for you out back,” Ms. James interrupts, suddenly appearing at my side.
“But I was just—”
“I know, baby.” Ms. James turns Sierra by one slim shoulder toward the back yard. “But she said something ’bout potato salad. Child, you better get out there. We need that potato salad.”
Ms. James waits for the tiny thorn in my side to get out of earshot.
“She always was a fast tail girl.” She tsks and shakes her head, her neat dreadlocks swooshing with the motion. “Been after my boy since training bra days. She don’t ever give up. Marlon, why you always late? You stay on CP time. You can take the boy out the hood, but you can’t take the hood out the boy. Bristol, come to this kitchen and help me with these greens.”
And she’s gone.
In a flurry of lightning-strike words, affectionate admonishments, and dreadlocks, she’s gone, plowing her way through the knot of bodies slowly realizing Grip has arrived and lining up to greet him. At the threshold of her neat kitchen, she turns, one brow lifting and reminding me of her son.
“You coming?” She rests a fist on one slim cocked hip. “These greens won’t cook themselves.”
Grip widens his eyes meaningfully and cocks his head for me to follow his mother.
“Don’t shoo me,” I mutter, untangling our fingers. I can’t hold back a smile, though, over what just happened. Ms. James put that “fast tail” girl in her place and chose me—I mean, she just chose me for collard greens, but I’ll take it.
“Hey, wait.” Grip tugs me back into his hard body, one hand palming the small of my back. He squats enough to kiss my nose then settles his lips over mine, lingering and taking his time to stake a claim on my mouth. “Don’t be too long. I want everybody to meet my girl.”
Pleasure blossoms inside me. I hope when we’re half blind and soaking each other’s dentures, he’ll still call me his girl. I’m feeling so good, even the weight of many pairs of eyes—curious, speculative, assuming—bearing down on my shoulders and back the whole way up the short hallway leading to the kitchen can’t short-circuit my grin.
They can’t, but Jade does as soon as I see her leaning against the kitchen counter. Our eyes clash and our smiles fade in sync. Her hair is neatly braided into rows, and her smooth skin is the color of burnt caramel. The big doe eyes narrow on my face, and she doesn’t try to hide her irritation when she tosses her ever-present Raiders cap onto the counter.
“Hey Jade.” I brighten my voice, hoping the undercurrents that always run through our interactions won’t be as strong today.
“What’s up,” she responds dispassionately, not trying as hard. Apparently, I’m much better at faking than Jade is . . . or maybe I just care more.
“Put this on.” Ms. James passes me a red apron with Thug Life printed on the front. Her full lips tip into a smile.
“That was Marlon’s idea of a joke one Christmas. Just put it on so your pretty outfit won’t get wet.”
“Wet?” I tie the apron over my clothes and await further instructions. “You wanted me to help cook the c
ollard greens, right?”
I try not to sound too eager. My heart should not skip a beat at the prospect of finally learning the secret to the greens she makes for Grip.
But it does.
“Oh, no, little girl.” Ms. James pats my shoulder. “You ain’t ready for heat yet. You’re on wash duty this first time.”
“Excuse me?” I glance at Jade for a clue about what wash duty means, but she’s grinning down at her phone, fingers flying furiously over the keys. “Wash duty?”
Ms. James hefts several bags of greens onto the counter.
“Wash all these.” She grabs a knife, using it to wave me closer. “Watch me now. You gotta take the leaves off the stalk just like this.”
She demonstrates, cutting the leaves away and discarding the center stalk while I stare at the massive pile of greens.
“And then I get to cook them?” I ask tentatively.
“No, baby. You ain’t graduated to cooking yet. Today your lane is just washing.” She heads for the door without looking back. “Stay in your lane. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Let me go check on this grill—you know Amir is out here grilling these links, and ain’t no telling what he’s messing up.”
She blows out of the kitchen as swiftly as she blew into it, and in her wake, I stand clutching the knife in one hand and a bushel of greens in the other. I really wanted to cook, but sense that she’s testing me. I’ve never met a test I couldn’t pass, and this one—though I don’t fully comprehend the point of it—will be no different.
While Jade continues texting, laughing under her breath intermittently, I set myself to methodically washing and cutting. The muted sounds of laughter and conversation from the living room along with the shouts of men playing dominoes in the backyard settle my nerves. I’m here, but not here. Nothing is expected of me for a few minutes. It gives me time to collect myself, and maybe that’s what Ms. James wanted to happen. Maybe she saw past my serene façade to the uncertain girl floundering inside and knew I needed a few minutes alone.
Well, alone with Jade, who wears a huge grin and keeps texting as if I’m not in the room. I clear my throat to remind her I’m here and ready to be her friend. I’m an idiot. I should be glad she’s not castigating me or looking at me like I’m pocket lint, but instead I’m drawing her attention. Why? Because though she’s a bitch, Grip loves her. I know he wants her in his life, which means she’ll have to be in my life, and I’ll have to be in hers.
