by Kennedy Ryan
Feeling this familiar closeness that I’ve missed, the closeness tragedy tried to steal from us, I’m not letting her out of my sight. Matter of fact, I’m tempted to send Amir in the car home ahead of us. Last time, we walked home from this very bookstore and were engaged by the end of the night. I’m considering shutting down the long line when someone taps my shoulder.
I turn to meet the cold calculation in Clem Ford’s eyes. Bristol’s fingers tighten around mine, a silent encouragement and warning. I tip my head slightly in her direction and nod, acknowledging her message: play it cool.
“Good job tonight, Mr. James,” he drawls, looking mighty self-satisfied for a man who ended the night with most of the room opposing his views.
“Thank you.” I can’t bring myself to lie and say he did a good job—a good job doing what? Being an entitled asshole? We’ll just leave it there.
“I didn’t want to leave without saying I was sorry,” he continues, even though my back is already half turned away.
“Sorry?” I glance at him over my shoulder, one brow lifted. “For?”
“For your loss, of course.” His voice pitches too low for the line of people waiting to hear. “I heard about the condition your daughter suffered from. It’s tragic really, but you know what many have long held about children from . . .”
His eyes flick in Bristol’s direction and then back to me.
“Marriages like yours.” He pauses, a demon’s gleam in his eyes. “Some think those children are abominations. I haven’t seen pictures of her, but I’ve heard she—”
My fist is already arcing toward his face. I know it’s a cruel, clever trap. I know he’s pushing my buttons in the worst situation possible—with the cameras probably still rolling and in front of all these fans. He wants me violent, not civilized, educated, articulate, certainly not putting his flabby, pasty, bigot ass in its place, but knowing his agenda and letting this go are two different things. It’s too much for him to speak about Zoe like that. Before I can reach him, a blur of white separates Ford from me, and a crack sounds through the space. Collective shock ripples through the crowd as they watch my wife glare up at the shit bag destined for the hard end of my fist.
“You aren’t worthy to speak my daughter’s name,” she says, low enough for no one else to hear, fiercely enough to strip bark off trees in Central Park. “She did more in one day than you’ll do in your whole miserable life, you racist asshole.”
Ford’s hand touches the livid mark on his face and he sputters, but Bristol charges on before he can speak.
“You want to send someone to prison?” she asks. “Send me. Press charges against me.”
His eyes, narrowed and angry, telegraph his outrage as the event organizers, with Amir’s help, hustle everyone outside, even though people continue to look curiously over their shoulders at the drama unfolding. His supporters try to press close, but the event security herds them through the front door while a few stay close to us.
“I will press charges and—”
“Oh, please do,” Bristol interjects. “Then I can tell the whole world that you told a recently bereaved mother that her child was an abomination. Let’s see how quickly the sponsors for your radio show disappear then, Mr. Family Values. And the super PAC raising money for your future political aspirations—how long would it take them to withdraw their support?”
He blanches, licking nervously at the spittle collected in the corner of his mouth.
“It would be your word against mine,” he says with false calm.
“And who would people believe?” Bristol tilts her head to a pitying angle. “Do you know who my brother is? The people I manage and represent? Who my father is? The power my mother wields in this town? Do you know who’s mentored me since college? You don’t have nearly enough influence or firepower to fight me.”
She takes a step closer, and I step with her, grabbing her arm, hating to see her any closer to him.
“Bristol, let’s go,” I say, reflecting the words she used to calm me the last time we had an encounter with this man.
Her eyes plead with me to let her handle it this time, and after a moment, I reluctantly nod, linking my arm around her waist in case something pops off. I know why she did it, but it’s galling and I abhor the fact that she put herself in danger—again, for me, but I’ll deal with that once we’re done.
“It’s not all those people you should worry about,” she continues, pressing her arm over mine at her waist, twining our fingers.
“It’s me you should fear, because of the three of us”—with her free hand, she gestures to herself, Ford, and me—“you and I are the thugs. My husband is an honorable man. You won’t bring him down, and the next time you try, I’ll show you what an abomination looks like.”
Ford’s eyes slit with blood-thirst and he practically bares his fangs at Bristol. The air chills around us, his malevolence sweeping in like an icy wind.
“You keep looking at her like that,” I tell him through gritted teeth, “I’ll undo all her hard work convincing these nice people I wasn’t half a second off whipping your ass.”
“You think too highly of yourself, boy,” he spits, a gnarled smile on his face. “Upstarts like you, imposters. Your day is coming, though.”
“Oh, my day is here.” I struggle to maintain my composure. He’s pushing every button, and I need to get out of here before things get worse, before he says something else that will make me want to squeeze the life from his body.
“You take our jobs, our opportunities”—his narrowed eyes shift to Bristol—“our women, and you weaken the country my ancestors built, but we will take it back.”
“They built this country on my ancestors’ backs, motherfucker.” We go from me restraining Bristol to her restraining me. “None of us were here first. Unless you’re Native American, you’re an import just like me. We didn’t ask to come here, but we’re here now, and I have just as much right to it as you do. It’s as much mine as it is yours, maybe more, because nothing about you, what you believe, looks anything like the America I believe in.”
We’re a trifuckta, three sets of horns tangled up, when Amir steps in to break the tension.
“Car’s here,” he says tersely with a belligerent glance at Ford before he looks back to me. “You ready?”
I can’t even look at Ford for another second, the muscles of my arms straining and my fists clenching with the need to pound his face until it’s unrecognizable. I help Bristol into the car and immediately fling myself into the corner of the back seat, chin in my hand. Fury hounds me as I consider the city lights, unable to look at Bristol, much less speak to her.
“Grip, if you could—”
“Don’t.” It’s the only word I can manage without tearing into her.
“I know you’re upset I slapped him, but—”
“Bristol, be quiet.”
I close my eyes. I count to ten. I try to visualize a serene locale, but there is not enough woosah in the world to calm me down right now. It’s silent for a few moments, my harshly drawn breaths the only sound in the car.
“But if you would just—”
I snap my head around and pin her to the leather seat with a glare.
“What did I say? Not another word until we get home.”
“I’m not some child you can silence when you don’t like what I say,” she fires back, irritation pinching her pretty features.
She doesn’t realize her indignation is a puny thing compared to my wrath.
“One more word outta you, Bristol James, and you’re getting spanked or fucked in this back seat,” I snap. “Amir can never un-see either of those things. You decide what it’s gonna be.”
She blinks a few times, her eyes narrowed but a little nervous because she knows I mean every word. She huffs out a breath, sitting in her little corner and folding her arms over her chest, rolling her eyes in Amir’s direction. What the fuck ever. Pout, throw a tantrum and flail on the floor for all I care, but
she better not say another damn word to me.
“Let us out,” I tell Amir when we reach our building. He and the driver take the SUV to the underground parking garage while we go through the lobby. In the elevator, I still cannot stomach looking at her. I’m so pissed right now, and the worst part? I’m harder than a motherfucker. There was a time when I’d know how this night would end. We’d have a knock-down, drag-out, we’d resolve the issue, and then we’d fuck the night away with makeup sex—but we haven’t had sex in six weeks, and the things I have to say to her may not be resolved tonight.
As soon as we’re inside, she takes off her shoes and stomps up the steps like we’re done.
The hell.
She makes it halfway before I catch up to her, grabbing her arm.
“Where do you think you’re going?” I demand, eye to eye since she’s on the step above.
“To bed,” she says. “You’re being ridiculous about this, and, apparently, you need space to calm down.”
“Oh, I need space to calm down?” The anger I’ve been checking busts the seams. “Is that what you think I need?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
“No, Bristol, what I need is for you to stop hurling yourself in front of Mack trucks every time you think you’re helping me.”
“I was helping.” She throws her free arm out to the side. “If you had hit Ford after all the things you said tonight, it would have undermined everything. That’s exactly what he wanted.”
“So you slapped a powerful, evil, dangerous man like Clem Ford? That’s your answer?”
“You have a better one?”
“Anything that doesn’t involve you making an enemy of someone like him is a better solution, but that seems to be your forte—making dumb decisions to save me.”
“Don’t you dare bring up Parker,” she says with heat.
“The same recklessness you demonstrated with Parker,” I reply through gritted teeth, “is the recklessness you showed tonight when you slapped fucking Clem Ford.”
“Don’t ask me not to protect you,” she says, her body taut with frustration and anger.
“You don’t protect me, dammit!” My voice shatters the quiet of our home, splintering any chance for peace. “I protect you.”
“That is the biggest load of chauvinist crap I’ve ever heard,” she yells back, the veins in her neck straining with the force of her anger.
“This isn’t about chauvinism or you being my equal, or whatever feminist shit you want to trot out. Call me a caveman, I don’t give a fuck. You will never put yourself in that position again.”
“Yes. I. Will.” The delicate line of her jaw juts out. “If the situation calls for it.”
“The situation won’t call for it.”
“You have a target on your back, Grip.” The concern in her eyes overpowers the anger. “Don’t you see that?”
“You think I don’t know?” I blow out an exasperated breath. “The more I do this, the deeper I get into these issues, the bigger the target gets. I can live with it, but what I cannot live with is you jumping in front of me every time you think I’m in trouble.”
“I won’t even think twice.”
“Bristol, no.” I clutch my head in both hands and look up at the ceiling. “You don’t get it.”
“No, you don’t get it.” Some of the anger melts from her face. “You’re right, this isn’t about me being a feminist. It’s about me being your wife, your partner. I’m not some damsel in distress, Grip. I don’t need rescuing, but if I ever do, I know you’d do whatever was necessary to protect me. All I’m asking is that you expect the same from me, and not lose your shit when I do it.”
I was right. This won’t be resolved tonight. I’m always going to want to protect her, and she’s always going to risk everything to protect me.
“You protect me all the time,” she adds softly. “You saved me.”
“When?” I scoff. “When have you ever sat your ass down long enough for me to save you?”
“When I was in the dark, unable to shower or eat or get out of bed . . . unable to imagine living again. That’s when you saved me.”
I wasn’t prepared for that answer. Her honesty and the naked need in her eyes chip away at my frustration.
“We saved each other,” I finally reply.
“That’s my point.” She pauses long enough for the words to reach my head and then my heart. “Yeah, I’m reckless. When you’re threatened, I don’t always think it through. I promise I’ll work on that, but I will save you if I can. That’s what this is: you and me spending the rest of our lives saving each other, supporting each other, loving each other. You say I’m precious to you, right?”
“The most precious thing in my life, yes.” I cup her neck with one hand and wrap the other around the curve of her waist. My hands are ready to make up, finding her hips, fingers spreading over the top of her ass.
“We’ve been through a loss no parents should ever have to experience,” she says, her voice wobbling, her eyes watering. “I know I wouldn’t have survived losing Zoe if it hadn’t been for you.”
“I feel the same way.” I drop my forehead to hers.
“I love you,” she whispers, angling her head until our lips brush together. Just that contact is kindling, and after six weeks, I’m a dry bush ready to burn. The fire in my belly could quickly roar out of control.
“I need to make love to you.” I dot kisses over the slant of her collarbone, lick into the well at the base of her throat, suck the gold chain and the skin beneath into my mouth.
“Yes.” She licks her lips, dropping her eyes but sliding her hands up my chest and linking her wrists behind my neck. “I want that, too.”
“Bris.” I groan into her neck, nudging the strapless dress down to expose one breast. I circle my nose around her nipple, blowing on it but not yet taking it in my mouth. It blossoms, stiffens, straining toward my lips. “I want to be gentle, but—”
“Don’t be.” Need ignites in her eyes. “I’ve been numb for too long. My senses have been muted, I guess by depression, drugs, I don’t know, but everything has been a shadow of what I felt before. This, now, us together, it feels rich. It finally feels right again.”
She seizes me by the jaw, pulling me close and forcing her way into my mouth, sucking on my tongue, her cheeks hollowing with the forceful suction.
“Fuuuuuuck.” I squeeze my eyes shut because I know I won’t be as gentle as I mean to be. “I don’t want to hurt you this first time.”
“I feel like someone who cuts just to feel.” Her eyes find mine. “That’s how numb I’ve been. I don’t mind if it stings a little.”
“You’ve been numb? You want to cut to feel?” I slide her hand down to my cock, nearly poking a hole in my jeans. “Here’s your knife.”
She squeezes my dick, her hand sliding up and down over the jeans, her eyes entangled with mine.
“Tell me what you want,” she whispers, echoing the words that have been so pivotal in our relationship, one of us always trying to out-please the other.
“I want you right here, spread on these steps.” My words are rough with desperation and lust.
Wordlessly, she drops to sit on the step, elbows behind her on the step above, the motion pushing her breasts forward. One nipple is already out, the dress still half off, half on. She’s obeyed every command, but I have one more.
“Panties off.”
46
Bristol
Grip’s smoky words heat the air, and without breaking eye contact, I reach under my dress and slide the wisp of silk off, tossing it behind me farther up the staircase. I tease the dress up my thighs and spread my legs for him.
I’m gloriously wet. Since Zoe died, I’ve been practically asexual. There were days I felt nothing. Even when I looked at Grip, I would feel love, but passion was elusive, like my heart, my body could only accommodate so much emotion at once, and grief consumed everything. Six weeks later, my heart is still broken. There
are some places that may never quite heal, but the passion, the want, the scorching need I’ve always felt for this man alone is finally blazing a trail through my body again, and it starts between my legs.
“I want you wider,” he says, his voice pitched low and dark and tortured. His eyes never leave my pussy as he methodically undoes his belt, unbuttons his pants, slides down his zipper, jerks his shirt over his head.
I yawn my thighs open, propping my heels on the step. I’m spread like a buffet for him. He licks his lips, a tell of his hunger.
I run a brazen finger down my slit. He drops his long body in front of me, stretching down the staircase below, elbows propped on the step. His head is between my legs. I reach down, spreading it, serving myself to him. He groans into my pussy, slurping and biting and licking and running his nose through my folds. Arms lengthened down my body as I keep the lips pulled back for him, my head drops to the step behind me. Pleasure long forgotten exults through me, winding between my toes like steam, circling the tense muscles of my calves, the quivery line of my thighs. My spine bows and my hips buck into his mouth. I lift one foot off the step, curling my leg around him, digging my heel into his back and thrusting over his face. Nothing exists for me except the starvation of his mouth against me and his thumb—dammit, his thumb in my ass, working its way into the spindled hole and finding neglected nerve endings.
“Oh, God,” I scream. “Yes, yes, yes, yes. Yes. Don’t stop, Grip. Baby, don’t stop.”
Ever since that day I heard Grip’s heartbeat, I’ve been living by proxy, leaning on his heart to beat for mine. Grief handed me a heart of iron, and I rusted it with my tears, a muscle not made of flesh, not pumping blood. Ever since that day I’ve been a lament in limbo, no longer in the dark but not fully in the light, but here, now, Grip’s touch drags me into the light.