by Kennedy Ryan
“And to think I was about to donate to his community bail program.” Grip shakes his head, disgust written plainly on his face.
I stiffen against his chest, pushing a chunk of hair behind my ear and processing what he’s saying. On our flight back to New York, Grip showed me the preliminary plan for Dr. Hammond’s program. His eyes lit up, passion and purpose humming through every cell of his body. I can’t get that image of him out of my head, and his friend Matty is there in my mind’s eye, too—the one who sat in jail for months because he didn’t have money for bail, the one who hadn’t really done anything wrong. For him, I have a name and a face, but how many men are in that position and worse? Men we don’t know are suffering, and nobody is saying their names.
“But now you won’t?” I ask. “Because Dr. Hammond doesn’t approve of us, of me, you won’t work with him?”
A scowl etches Grip’s expression.
“Hell no I’m not working with him. He’s a bigot, Bris.” The words fly from his mouth like hornets, swift and stinging. “Why am I here? I uprooted my life, had you uproot yours, to chase a small-minded reverse racist. I feel like a fool.”
I understand his disappointment, but I can’t say I agree fully with his assessment. I’ve known Grip a long time and he’s breathed his convictions since the day I met him, but I’ve never seen him the way he has been these last few months. There is a focus and determination all encircling this incredible sense of purpose, like he understands what he was made for. I don’t want him to lose that because of me. Besides, his mother felt the same way about us not too long ago, but her heart has changed; why can’t we give the professor’s heart the chance to change, too?
“Imagine something with me for a minute.” I trace the velvety line of his eyebrows and run my thumb over his full lips.
His eyes drift closed as he absorbs my touch, sounds of contentment stirring in his throat and vibrating against my fingers.
“Let’s say I have cancer.”
He opens his eyes to glare at me.
“I don’t like this.”
“Just hear me out. I have cancer, and there’s nothing more they can do for me.”
He goes still, and for a moment I don’t even feel his heartbeat through his chest, like the thought of my heart stopping stopped his.
“I don’t have much time left,” I whisper, letting him feel the possibility of me being gone. “But then someone discovers the cure for cancer.”
He tips his mouth to the left and he traces the curves of my knees.
“There’s just one catch.” I dip my head to capture his eyes. “The man who discovered the cure—he’s a white supremacist.”
He looks back at me unblinkingly for a second before allowing himself one blink—just one.
“Do you accept the cure for cancer?”
“What good is this when—”
“Answer the question. Do you accept the cure for cancer from a white supremacist to save my life?”
“I’d accept the cure from the devil himself to save you. You know that.” He sighs. “It’s not the same.”
“What’s the title of Dr. Hammond’s book?”
He rolls his eyes.
“You know the title, Bris.”
“Humor me.”
“Virus. The title of his book is Virus.”
“And the point is that racism is a virus that’s constantly changing, constantly adapting, right?” I ask. “That it adapted when slavery was outlawed and when Jim Crow was eradicated and when segregation was legally struck down. It works its way into our systems, like our penal system, right? It’s a nasty bastard that just keeps morphing and surviving like a cockroach.”
Now I have his attention. He’s stopped countering my every word, stopped protesting and thinking this is a useless exercise. He’s finally listening.
“The person who finally cures cancer won’t be perfect,” I tell him. “They’ll just be the person who figured out the cure for cancer, and the people who live because of that won’t care that he cheated on his taxes or stepped out on his wife. They’ll care that he cured cancer. Dr. Hammond has a cure, at least for part of the problem. With his ideas and your resources and influence, imagine how much good you can do.”
“He doesn’t think we should be together, thinks I’ve been societally conditioned to ‘acquire’ you.” Grip’s flinty look doesn’t dissuade me, even though that is some bullshit.
“I bet there are more things you agree on than disagree.” I prop my elbows on his shoulders, leaning into him and persisting. “I bet when he gets to know me, I’ll go from being a ‘they’ to being Bristol. Isn’t that what you said months ago when you performed ‘Bruise’ for the Black and Blue Ball? That sometimes it takes us being around each other and getting to know each other, at least giving us the chance to go from being a category to who we really are? As individuals, who we really are?”
He shakes his head, genuine humor apparent for the first time since his steps stuttered through our front door.
“So, what?” A grin tilts his mouth. “You remember every word I say?”
He really has no idea.
“If I only get one life with you,” I mutter into his neck, “then, yes, I’m holding on to every moment and every word you say.”
He pulls me away from the crook of his neck, studying my face. His eyes darken, emotion redolent in the air between us.
“You’re so precious to me, Bristol,” he says, his voice the perfect blend of raw and reverent.
I kiss him deeply, my tongue sliding against his, a choreographed dance between two partners, sensual and tender. I feast on his bottom lip, nipping and licking at the spot until he groans and shifts me lower again, his hardness marrying my softness, my wetness. Not this again. He keeps getting me off topic.
“Will you consider it?” I ask, inserting space between our lips, cutting into the hungry kisses.
“Huh?” Passion glazes Grip’s eyes. “Consider . . . what?”
“Dr. Hammond.” I pant between our lips, resisting the temptation to sink into another kiss. “You’ll think about still working with him?”
He tilts his head back into the sofa cushion, lashes lowered over the resentment in his eyes at the mention of the professor’s name.
“Yeah.” He nods, but derision still twists his lips. “I’ll think about it.”
“Good.” I startle him when I hop off his lap.
“Hey, where are you going?” He points to the situation behind his zipper, the pole in his pants.
“We’ll have to handle that later, babe. You think you love me now? Wait’ll you taste my garlic lemon chicken thingy.” I head toward the kitchen, calling over my shoulder, “By the way, don’t bother me tonight. I have lots of reading to do.”
I downloaded Virus a long time ago, and it’s well past time I read it for myself. If I used Grip’s own words to prove my point, maybe I’ll need to use Dr. Hammond’s own words on him, too.
19
Grip
“Can I see it?”
Amir and I are in the kitchen. He’s frying, of all things, bologna, and I’m on my laptop working on an assignment for Iz’s class. Things have not been the same between the professor and me since our argument. He was watching the door the next day when I came in, like he wasn’t sure I’d show, and honestly, I was ready to pack up my shit, grab my girl, and fly back to LA. Even sitting through his class felt like a betrayal the first few minutes, like I was telling him it was okay to think the things he does. If it hadn’t been for Bristol, I would have chucked the deuces on his ass.
But during class, we dove into case after case, injustice after injustice that reiterated just how broken our justice system is, how black, brown, and poor people are clearly disproportionately suffering the brunt of it. This is bigger than even something as important as whether or not Iz approves of me loving Bristol. For me, that’s a heinous bias, and I can’t believe the same bright mind that produces brilliant ideas for programs and po
licies confines itself to that kind of thinking, but he does have solutions. He does have good ideas, and together, we can help a lot of people. Maybe we can even change things.
“Bruh, you gonna show me or what?” Amir scowls through the smoke rising from the sizzling pan.
“Not while you got my house smelling like a heart attack.” I glance from my laptop to the sizzling grease in the pan. “You can’t keep eating like this. We’re thirty, not thirteen. You need to eat better.”
“Who you supposed to be?” Amir demands, a grin on his face. “The surgeon general?”
“The surgeon gen—” I shake my head and laugh. “Also, if we’re gonna get technical, you’re thirty-one, a year older than me.”
“Aw, hell. Here we go.” Amir rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his beer.
“I mean, we can’t forget you flunked the first grade.”
“You know I was sick that year and missed a lot of days.”
“Still.” I slant him an amused glance. “First grade.”
“You ain’t ever gonna let me live that down, are you?” He shakes his head and adjusts the flame on the burner.
“My point is you gotta adjust that diet. You know all the shit that runs in your family.”
“What runs in my family?”
“Hypertension, heart disease.” I tick the afflictions off on my fingers. “Diabetes.”
“Always with the ’betes,” he mutters.
“And that’s just your mama’s side.”
“Don’t talk about my mama,” he warns, but still chuckles.
“I’m just saying, half your aunts died with no feet ’cause of the ’betes. You can’t even crip walk with no feet, bruh.”
“Do I have Bristol to thank for the lecture?” Amir asks. “She got you eating healthy? She cooking vegetables for you every night or something since we moved to New York?”
My laugh booms in the kitchen, and even after it fades, a grin still hangs around on my face.
“Did you ask if Bristol . . . my Bristol . . . has been cooking every night?” I clarify with a laugh. “Occasionally she’ll get in here and try a little something. Not that I give a damn. I don’t care if Bris can’t boil water. She has other talents.”
“Please don’t talk about your sex life.” Amir grimaces. “It turns my stomach to see a man so pussy-whipped.”
“Least I’m getting some.”
“Ooooooh. That’s low.”
“On the regular,” I continue goading. “Daily. Usually twice a day, and it’s the bomb.”
“You just gotta rub it in, don’t you?”
“Hey, you can’t call a brother pussy-whipped then get salty when he tells you how good it is.”
“You got me there.” Amir laughs.
We’ve been teasing each other this way since eighth grade when we both got our dicks wet for the first time. I’m not one of those guys who fucks and tells, especially about Bristol, but I’ve never been able to take a shit without Amir knowing. That won’t change any time soon.
“What about you and Shon?” I ask.
“What about us?” Amir’s eyes narrow, wariness seasoning his words. “What you mean?”
“I mean what about you and Shon? I tell you all my business. You’ve told me jack shit about you and Shon.”
“Nobody asked you to spill all your business.”
“I’m pretty sure you did ask me to spill all my business.”
“Yeah, but now you can’t shut up about your girl.” Amir offers a good-natured smile and shrugs. “Since it’s Bris, I’ll let you get away with it. Me and Shon went on a few dates. We’re taking it slow.”
“Slow?” I ask with disbelief. “Dude, you met her in pre-k. How much slower can you take it?”
“You didn’t close the deal with Bristol for eight years. I think I’m on pace to do better than you.”
I laugh when grease flies up from the hot pan and pops his hand.
“See, that’s what you get for cooking that shit in here.”
“You know you love some bologna,” Amir says with a grin. “Don’t even try to get all new now that you live in Tribeca.”
“If I’m not mistaken, you live downstairs in Tribeca.”
“I ain’t footing the bill, though. That’s on your dime.”
“You a freeloading motherfucker.” I laugh at the expression on his face. “You knew good and damn well I didn’t need you to move with me to New York, and you let Bristol get herself all worked up about security. I hope you’re happy now, living in Tribeca and getting paid to do jack shit all day.”
“Man’s gotta make a living,” he says, his grin unabashed.
My discussions with Iz about increasing enterprise in urban communities, a green revolution for people of color, come to mind.
“What do you want to do, Amir?” I flip the high-backed chair around and straddle it, folding my arms on its back.
He glances up from flipping the bologna to the other side.
“Do with what?”
“Bruh, with your life.” I shoot him a skeptical glance. “It’s gotta be more than pretending to protect me for the next fifty years.”
Amir turns down the corners of his mouth.
“I was taking some night classes before I won the lottery on your security detail.”
We share a grin before he sobers, shrugs.
“I took some business courses at the community college. Maybe I’ll get on the Magic Johnson tip, ya know? Bringing quality businesses to the hood, that kind of thing.”
“Hey, I’m here for that, too.” I hesitate before voicing the idea that has been unfolding in the back of my mind for a few weeks. “You could do what I’m doing, get a degree online, business or something. Between music and the stuff I want to do with Iz, I might not have much time for the businesses I’d like to see happen.”
“So, what?” Amir points the spatula he’s holding at himself. “You want me to do some black enterprise stuff or something?”
“Why not?” I ask. “You’re smart. You know how to hustle and understand the hood, know what it takes for businesses to make it there. I trust you. Who better to invest with? All you’d need is some training.”
Interest sparks behind Amir’s eyes before he looks away to open a loaf of bread.
“I’ll think about it,” he says and clears his throat. “Now back to my original question. Can I see the ring?”
I let him get away with changing the subject.
“I hate that I even told you I had it.” I grin and make no move to get it out.
“Stop being a pussy and show me the ring.”
I reach into my bag, take out the ring I’ve been carrying for the last week, and walk over to the counter where he’s still frying up heart disease in the form of meat product.
“Shiiiiiit.” He stretches the expletive out like a Slinky, obviously impressed as he takes it from my fingers. I want to take it back as soon as it leaves my hands, not because of how much it costs—though, damn, it cost a lot—it just feels like he’s holding my future in his big ol’ clumsy hands.
“If you get grease on the ring, I’m gonna—”
We hear the front door open, and Amir’s eyes go as round as plates. Bristol’s heels tap on the hardwood, the sound louder as she rounds the corner. Before I can take the ring back, Amir tosses it into the sugar canister.
“What the . . . ?” I smack the back of his head.
“I panicked!” He shrugs just as Bris enters the kitchen.
“What’s that smell?” She wrinkles her nose, distaste on her face.
She joins us at the counter, tipping up for a kiss. I try to think what acting-normal Grip would do . . . he would cup her face with both hands and kiss the hell out of her, so I do. She’s liquid against my chest and breathless by the time I’m done. She glances at Amir, smiling a little self-consciously even though he’s used to us.
“Is that what you’re wearing to the debate?” Bristol asks.
The conversation o
n race and mass incarceration between Iz and Clem Ford is tonight and being broadcast live from a nearby bookstore.
“Yeah.” I glance down at my narrow black slacks, gray button-up, fitted black leather jacket, and boots. “What? It looks busted?”
“No.” She frowns at her pantsuit, not even wrinkled after a full day of meetings. “The opposite—you look too good. I need to step up my game and change.”
She looks gorgeous.
“You look gorgeous.”
“You have to say that.” But my compliment puts a smile on her face. “Are you going with us tonight, Amir?”
He meets my eyes over her head, and I silently shake my head and give him the finger-slitting-the-throat warning.
“Uh . . .” His eyes dart from her to me and back again. “Nah. I have . . . um . . .”
“Shit,” I offer helpfully. “He’s got shit to do tonight. Besides, the bookstore is only a few blocks away. We can easily walk. We’ll be fine.”
“There’ll be a lot of racist idiots there.” She glances uncertainly between the two of us.
“I said we’ll be fine.” I’m barely holding on to my patience now.
“You strapped, dawg?” Amir asks.
I lift my pant leg and show him the gun at my ankle.
“Is that really necessary?” The concern trebles in Bristol’s eyes once she sees the gun. “You know how I feel about guns.”
“And you know how I feel about not being able to protect you—not gonna happen.” I drop the pant leg and turn to Amir. “Like I said, we’ll be fine walking.”
“It’s cold out there.” Bristol rubs her arms like she’s still standing on the sidewalk. “It’s December.”
“I’m the Cali dude,” I tease, “and I’m willing to walk in the cold, but you grew up here and are wimping out?”
“She’s right, though,” Amir says, poised to take the first bite of his sandwich. “It is cold.”
I point in the direction from which Bristol just came.
