“They finally let her on stage?” Rhyson rubs his eyes and yawns. “Good for her.”
I read between the lines of fatigue on my brother’s handsome face.
“You still seem sleepy, Rhys. Why don’t you go catch some z’s until you have to be at the studio?”
“You sure?” Rhyson’s eyes already seem to be drooping at the prospect of crawling back into bed. “I only need like another hour or two, then we can roll out.”
“No problem.” I walk my plate over to the sink and rinse it off. “I can clean up in here.”
“You don’t have to clean up after me.” A small frown lands between Grip’s eyebrows.
“You didn’t have to cook for us,” I come back, loading my plate and utensils into the dishwasher. “But you did. It was delicious, by the way.”
“Glad you enjoyed it,” he says politely before looking away. I’m struck again by the contrast from last night when he was warm and open. This morning, he isn’t so much cold as he is indifferent. I just met him yesterday and refuse to allow myself a sense of loss. I mean, come on. We had a few intelligent conversations and a couple meals. No big deal.
Keep telling yourself that.
“Take a change of clothes with you to the studio,” Grip says. “You can get dressed there before we go to the club.”
He comes to the sink, handing me his empty plate. When I tug, he doesn’t let go, and we have a childish tug-of-war for a second between our hands and between our eyes. He finally relents, grinning and walking back to the table. Rhyson watches the byplay between Grip and me with eyes that are suddenly alert and speculative.
“I better get going.” Grip grabs his backpack from the floor near his seat. “Stuff to do and people to see.”
“Thanks again for everything,” Rhyson says.
“It’s nothing.” Grip gives me a smile before waving at us both and disappearing through the kitchen door.
“You know not to get all giddy over Marlon, right?” Rhyson watches me with big brother eyes. “I mean, he’s a great guy. My best friend, in fact, but he goes through girls like toilet paper.”
“You mean he wipes his ass with them?” I ask with false innocence.
“Good one.” Rhyson doesn’t grin as he comes to stand beside me at the sink. “Seriously, Bris, all the girls fall for Marlon, and he isn’t ready to be good to any one girl.”
“And are you?” I challenge him with a smirk, disguising the pinch in my chest hearing him describe Grip. I should be glad he’s telling me, though I don’t need him warning me about his best friend. “Ready to be good to one girl?”
“Hell, no.” Rhyson laughs, crossing his arms over his wide chest. “I want to be as good to as many girls as I can.”
We laugh, but once the joke is over, I realize we’re alone for the first time since I arrived in LA. Alone for the first time in years. This is nothing like the comfortable silences Grip and I shared yesterday. This is awkward, filled with the memories of the last time we saw each other. We were in a courtroom, and he’d just been awarded his “freedom” from our family. And, boy, did he take flight. He never looked back from that day forward. If I hadn’t reached out, there’s no telling when we would have reconnected. Maybe never. Maybe he would have been fine with that.
“So how are the folks?” There’s a studied relaxation to Rhyson. I may not have seen him in years, but I still recognize the tension in his shoulders. The stiffness of his back belying his false ease. He isn’t just waiting for news of our parents. He’s braced for it.
“They’re good.” I load the last plate in the dishwasher. “They talk about you a lot. I know they miss you.”
“Miss me? Or the money?” he asks bitterly. “Are they not getting their monthly royalty checks?”
“That isn’t fair, Rhyson. I know they didn’t handle everything the right way all the time when they managed your career.”
“Is that what you call enabling my addiction to prescription drugs so I could get through shows? So they could build their fortune at my expense?” Anger flares in Rhyson’s eyes and colors his face. “Spare me the song and dance about them missing me. They have fifty percent of every dime I’ve ever earned. That was the price they named to let me leave. They aren’t getting anything else from me.”
I’m quiet for a moment, wondering how much I can press on this wound before he lashes out at me even more.
“And me?” I blink at the tears blurring the vision of my brother in front of me. “Do I get anything else?”
“I didn’t know you wanted anything in the settlement, Bristol.” Rhyson frowns. “But we can arrange—”
“How dare you?” Indignation tremors through me and makes my voice shake. “I call you. I write you. I text you. I fly to freaking Los Angeles and am hauled around the city all day while you Liberace in the studio, and you have the nerve to think I want your money? I don’t need your money, Rhyson. I have a trust fund that will take care of me for the rest of my life if I don’t want to work, which I do.”
His eyes lay so heavily on me I feel them like a weight. He never looks away from my face when he asks his next question, as if he might catch me in a lie.
“Then why are you here, Bristol? What do you want?”
God, I come here with my heart bleeding on my sleeve, and it’s still not enough for him. He needs me to cut it out and hand it to him in chunks of flesh and blood.
“I thought it would be obvious what I want.” I tip my chin up defiantly and meet the skepticism and mistrust in his eyes. “I want my brother.”
FLOW - Chapter 7
Bristol
WHEN RHYSON SAID I could come and watch him in the studio, he wasn’t lying. That’s about all I’ve gotten to do. He certainly hasn’t talked to me much, and I can’t imagine the complete focus it takes to create music at this level. Rhyson hasn’t budged in eight hours. He’s obsessing over four or five notes that, to his ear at least, are not “falling right.” Whatever that means. He’s barely looked up except when I brought him a sandwich, which still sits half eaten on the piano.
At least I’ve knocked out my internship application. Machiavelli is all done.
An irrepressible grin springs to my lips as I remember Grip’s reaction to my thinking his tattoo was misspelled. Mental images of the muscled terrain the tattoo adorns melt my grin. I’ve had plenty of time to remember how much I enjoyed hanging out with him yesterday. Rhyson’s warning wasn’t necessary, but it remains fresh in my mind.
He isn’t ready to be good to any one girl.
And I am but one girl.
I glance down at the cleavage on display in the dress I changed into. Definitely a girl and definitely ready to let off some steam. The painted-on black bandage dress shows off all my assets, especially the ones up top. It lovingly traces the curves of my waist, hips, and ass, leaving my legs bare from mid-thigh. I’ve left my hair hanging down my back in loose waves. My make up is smoky eyes and red lips.
“I deserve a night out,” I tell the girl in the mirror. “Three thousand miles and I’m closeted in a studio all day?”
The girl in the mirror mocks me with her smoky eyes. She knows as well as I do that I wouldn’t have traded today for anything. It felt like old times. Rhyson may have forgotten, but I used to do my homework outside his rehearsal room. I loved hearing my brother play, replaying a passage until it was perfect. That hasn’t changed. I may not make music, but I love it. My parents may manage musicians now, but they were both brilliant musicians when they were younger. Uncle Grady, too. I told Grip I was an ugly duckling in my family. Maybe I’m not ugly, but I’m certainly the odd man out.
My eyes drop to the shadowy cleft between my breasts.
Correction. Odd woman out.
I slip back into the studio unnoticed, and my heart skips a stupid beat when I see Grip at the piano with Rhyson. Both of their faces, which are so different but so handsome, wear matching frowns of concentration.
“Did you try it here?” Gr
ip points to a place on the pad Rhyson has been scribbling on all day.
“Yeah.” Rhyson chews on the end of his pencil. “But it’s a major third.”
“Ahhhh.” Grip nods since that apparently holds significance to him that I don’t grasp. “I see.”
Neither of them looks up when I step farther into the room, keeping their eyes trained on the pad.
“Oh!” Grip’s face lights up. He grabs Rhyson’s pencil and music pad, writing furiously, a wide smile spreading over his face. “What about that?”
Rhyson takes the pad, frowning for a few silent moments before laughing and slapping Grip on the back.
“That does it.” Rhyson’s shoulders slump with his relief. “Man, thanks. I’ve been looking at it too long. I didn’t even see what was right in front of me.”
“Glad I could help.” Grip’s expression shifts, amusement twitching his lips. “Hey, did that guy send you his demo or mix tape or whatever? The guy from Grady’s class?”
“That dude.” Rhyson grimaces and then shifts into an odd British accent. “I was gonna listen to that, but then I just carried on living my life.”
Huh?
“That’s one of your goofy ass movie quotes, isn’t it?” Grip shakes his head, his grin teasing Rhyson. “Which one?”
“Russel Brand in Forgetting Sarah Marshall. You’d like that one.”
“That’s what you said about Little Nicky.”
“Okay.” Chagrin wrinkles Rhyson’s expression. “Upon further consideration, that was an Adam Sandler miss, I admit.”
“I’ve never known anyone as obsessed with movies as you. You got a quote for every day of the week.”
Really? I don’t remember Rhyson ever watching movies. He never had time. It strikes me—again—how little I know this version of my twin brother. Grady, Grip, and Jimmi seem to all know more about him than I do. Maybe because they’re his family now.
“Yeah. You know that’s how I decompress.” Rhyson returns his attention to the music pad, halfway gone already.
“I can think of several ways to decompress that …”
Whatever Grip planned to say goes unsaid when he catches sight of me. His eyes scroll over my body in a quick assessment and then go back up and down for slow seconds. When he finally reaches my face, his eyes burn into mine. His mouth falls open just the tiniest bit, and in that small space between his full lips, I see his tongue dart out for a quick swipe. Like he wants a taste of something. Like he wants a taste of me. It’s a nanosecond, but it’s real, and I see it before he stashes it away and schools his face into the indifference he showed me in the kitchen this morning.
“Bris, wow.” Rhyson’s brows disappear under his messy fall of dark hair. “You look … wow. Grip, you’ll have to protect my little sister at the club tonight.”
I saunter closer, my Louboutins adding another inch or so to my confidence and some sway to my hips.
“Maybe I don’t want to be protected.” I laugh at the nauseous look on Rhyson’s face. “This is my spring break, brother, and I am all grown up. I’ve been in this studio all day working on my essay. I’m ready to be hair down, bottles up, and I’m glad you won’t be there cramping my style.”
“You finished?” Grip asks, speaking for the first time. “The application?”
“Yeah.” We stare at one another for a few seconds before I untangle our eyes. The leftover heat in his gaze is still too hot for me. “I’ll read over the essay one more time before I submit.”
“What’s this essay for anyway?” Rhyson asks from behind the piano, linking his hands behind his head.
“An internship I’m applying for with Sound Management.” I watch his face to see if it sinks in for him.
“Sound Management?” Rhyson bunches his brows. “They manage some huge acts. What’s your major?”
“Business. But my emphasis will be entertainment. Entertainment management is what I want to do.”
I feel Grip’s eyes on me. I hadn’t mentioned that in all our discussions about music yesterday. I wanted to talk with Rhyson about this myself.
“Following in our parents’ footsteps.” Cynicism twists Rhyson’s lips. “Shocking.”
“Well, it is the family business.” I shrug my shoulders nonchalantly. “Besides, maybe you’ll need someone you can trust to manage you when the time comes. I want to learn everything I can. Maybe move here after graduation.”
Two sets of eyes snap to my face, Rhyson’s and Grip’s. Even pointedly eyeing my manicure, I feel them both looking at me.
“What the hell?” Rhyson’s face is somewhere between thunderstruck and thundercloud, shock and anger competing. “Manage me doing what? I’m not a performer anymore, Bristol, and I won’t be.”
I give up feigning interest in my nails and focus all my will on my brother, even managing to block out Grip’s magnetic presence.
“You are a genius, Rhyson.” I set my face in stone. “One of the most brilliant pianists to ever live. There is no way you’re supposed to spend the rest of your life writing music for other people and producing their stuff.”
“Did Mother put you up to this?” Rhyson levels a cold stare at me. “I knew it. You come here all ‘I want my brother back’, but this is your agenda. Their agenda. To get me under their control again.”
“Fuck you, Rhyson.” The words erupt from the pool of lava boiling in my belly. “I’m the one who has made any effort to maintain a relationship between us, not you.”
“Yeah, and I know why.” His anger, which matches mine, slams into me. “They couldn’t get me back themselves, so they use you to manipulate me.”
“Use me?” A bark of laughter hurts my throat. “Why would they ever think I had any influence over you? When have you ever cared about me, Rhyson? If they didn’t know by the absolute disregard you had for me when you lived at home, surely they would have known by the way you cut me out of your life when you left.”
The anger on his face stutters, going in and out like a bulb with a short.
“Wait. Known what?” Bewilderment puckers his expression. “What would they know, Bristol?”
“That you haven’t ever given a damn about me.” Emotion overtakes me, inundating my throat, burning my face, saturating my eyes. “They have to know that. I certainly do.”
“That isn’t true, Bris.” He runs a hand through his hair, his movements jerky. “Look, this escalated fast. I shouldn’t have—”
“No, you shouldn’t have.”
Someone entering the studio silences us both, curtailing our argument. A guy around our age wearing headphones looped around his neck pauses, watching the three of us cautiously.
“Sorry.” He adjusts his black-rimmed glasses. “Rhys, am I early or …”
“No. We, um … I’m ready.” Rhyson propels a sigh, looking at me. “Bristol, I—”
“Are we going to this club or what?” I cut him off, slicing a look Grip’s way.
“Uh …” Grip’s eyes skid from me to my brother. “Maybe you should—”
“Never mind. I’ll go by myself.”
I charge down the hall, my red bottoms making a meal of the carpet and eating up inches with every step. I’m almost at the studio exit by the time Grip catches me, grabbing my elbow and turning me to face him.
“You don’t even know where you’re going, Bristol.” Concern and irritation blend in his eyes.
“I’m pretty good at figuring shit out.” I tug on my arm. “Let go.”
“Just calm the hell down.” He scowls and doesn’t let me go. “Come on. The car’s parked out front.”
I follow him to his Jeep, blinking at the tears rising up as I mentally replay the argument with Rhyson. How dare he question my motives? I’ve gone above and beyond to show him how important he is to me, and he insults me? Doesn’t trust me? I’m tempted to demand that Grip stop the car and hitch a ride to the airport. Just leave all my crap at Grady’s and go back to New York right now.
“You’re both so dam
n stubborn.” Grip negotiates the traffic, sparing me a quick glance.
“Me?” My harsh laugh bounces off the Jeep interior. “He’s the one.”
“You know he’s just hurt, Bristol.”
“He’s hurt?” I turn in my seat to face him, the seatbelt cutting into my chest. “He’s the one who left five years ago. He’s the one who acted like I was a nuisance every time I reached out. And then I come out here on my spring break, just to have him work the whole time. I swear he’s using it as an excuse not to deal with me.”
“He does have actual work,” Grip inserts.
“And he’s the one hurt?” I power on. “The hell.”
“You can’t control him, Bristol.”
“Contr … you’re on his side.” Even though Rhyson is Grip’s best friend and I’ve only known him a day, I feel betrayed. “You think I’m trying to control my brother? I’m trying to help him fulfill his dreams.”
“No, they’re not his dreams.” Grip shakes his head adamantly, eyes trained ahead. “Not right now. They’re your dreams for him. The same way your parents worked him to death doing their dreams. It feels the same to him.”
“It isn’t the same.” I say it even though what he says makes sense. I don’t want to accept it. He takes my pause as the chance to speak some more.
“Think about it.” Grip’s voice gentles, and the look he sends me from behind the wheel gentles, too. “Their priorities weren’t straight. They seemed more concerned with the career than with him. When you take the reins like you did back there, it makes him think that you’re just like them, especially your mom.”
I let that set in for a second, let it sink through my pores and trickle down to my heart. It hurts because, though I love my mother and have done all I could to please her, she’s a hard-nosed bitch.
Am I?
“You’re not like her,” Grip says softly, as if he read my mind. “At least not the way he described her to me. You’re not that.”
I turn my head and look out the window so he won’t see my lip trembling or the tears quivering on my lashes. It feels like I keep hiding from him when he seems to see everything.
LONG SHOT: (A HOOPS Novel) Page 48