by Kate Stewart
“I am.”
“You sure? ’Cause I could fit my whole apartment in that big ass suitcase coming at us like a meteor.”
“Very funny.” A teasing grin pulls at the corners of her bright eyes. “Maybe that says more about your apartment than it does about my suitcase.”
The one-room hovel I call home right now appears in my mental window.
“You might be right about that,” I admit with a laugh, grabbing the colossal suitcase when it reaches us and setting it on the floor. “Shit. You pack your whole sorority in here?”
“I’m not in a sorority, but thanks for the stereotype.” She reaches for the handle, and her hand rests on top of mine. Both our eyes drop to where her slim fingers contrast with my rougher, larger ones.
You know that electric tingle people talk about? That thing that zips up your spine like a tiny shock when your hands first touch? That isn’t this touch. It isn’t electric. It’s something that … simmers. A heat that kind of seethes under my skin for a second and then explodes into a solar flare. I watch her face to see if she’s feeling anything. If she does, she hides it well. If she’s anything like her brother, hiding things is a habit. Her expression doesn’t change when she tugs the handle until her hand slips from under mine.
“It’s got wheels.” She pulls the suitcase toward her and finally meets my eyes. “My feminist sensibilities tell me to carry it myself.”
“Maybe my manhood won’t let me walk idly by while a delicate lady carries her own suitcase.” I shrug. “I got a rep to protect.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt you have a rep.” Bristol’s brows arch high and her lips twist into a smirk. “Where to?”
I grab the suitcase by the handle, pulling it from her grasp, and start walking. When I look over my shoulder, her narrowed eyes rest on the mammoth suitcase I’ve commandeered. The defiant light in her eye makes me want to commandeer her like I just did this overpriced baggage. This is Rhyson’s sister. I need to keep reminding myself she should be squarely placed in the NO FUCK bin. But, damn, if all bets were off, she’d be feeling me every time she walked for a week.
If things were different.
But they’re not.
So I won’t.
I’m just gonna keep telling myself that.
Chapter Two
Bristol
I’M MORE THAN capable of dragging my luggage around, but I appreciate the view as I watch Grip do it for me. My eyes inevitably stray to the tight curve of his ass in the sweatpants dripping from his hips. His back widens from a taut waist, the muscles flexing beneath the outrageous T-shirt hugging his torso and stretching at the cut of his bicep.
Ever since he called my name and I looked up into eyes the color of darkened caramel, I haven’t drawn nearly enough air. Soot-black eyebrows and lashes so long and thick they tangle at the edges frame those eyes. Lips, sculpted and full. Some concoction of cocoa and honey swirl to form the skin stretched tightly over the strong bones of his face. I’m almost distracted enough by all this masculine beauty to not be pissed at my twin brother.
Almost.
Five years. I haven’t seen Rhyson outside of a courtroom in five years, haven’t even spoken to him since Christmas. I finally initiate this visit to him in Los Angeles, and he sends some stranger for me?
I fall into step beside Grip so I can read his expression when I drill him. In profile, he’s almost even better, a tantalizing geometry of angles and slopes. He tosses a quick look to me from the side, a caramel-drenched gaze that melts down the length of my body before returning to my face, stealing more air from my lungs.
“So, why couldn’t Rhyson come get me?” I ask.
“Long story short,” Grip says as we reach the exit. “The album Rhyson’s been working on—”
“He’s working on an album?” A grin takes over my face. “I didn’t know he was working on new music. Piano, I assume? I can’t wait to hear—”
“It’s for someone else,” Grip corrects. “He’s producing an album for an artist, and her label wants all these changes before it drops. Some remastering, maybe some other stuff.”
“Oh, I was hoping he was back to performing. Doing his own music.” I narrow my eyes and nod decisively. “He should be.”
I’m actually here in part to convince him of it. I’m staking my entire college degree and career aspirations on him seeing things my way. People usually do see things my way if I play my cards right. My mother taught me to play my cards right. She may not be much of a mother, but she’s a helluva card shark.
“He will one day.” Grip offers me a small smile. “When he’s ready.”
“You think so?” I hope so.
“Yeah.”
He drags my suitcase toward an ancient Jeep with a mountain-sized airport security guard standing in front of it.
“Thanks, man.” Grip pounds fists and accepts keys from the guy. He glances up and down the busy sidewalk. “Anybody give you shit yet about the car being here?”
“Nah.” The guard gives a quick head shake. “You know I run this place.”
“Yeah right.” Grip sketches a quick grin. “Well, thanks.”
“No problem, bruh.” The guard’s eyes flick to and over me briefly before returning to Grip, brows lifted in a silent query.
“Oh, Amir, this is Bristol, Rhyson’s sister.” Grip waves a hand between us. “Bristol, Amir. We grew up together. He made sure my car wasn’t towed while I came to get you. It was all kind of last minute.”
At the last minute, Rhyson decided he would delegate me to strangers. I swallow my disappointment and spit out a smile.
“Nice to meet you, Amir.” I extend my hand, and he brings it to his lips in unexpected gallantry.
“The pleasure is all mine.” Amir grins roguishly, his eyes teasing from beneath a fall of dreadlocks. “You didn’t tell me Rhyson’s sister looked like this.”
“Didn’t know.” Grip laughs and hauls my huge suitcase into the back of the Jeep. “The operative words being ‘Rhyson’s sister’, so pick your jaw up and say ‘Goodbye, Bristol’.”
“Goodbye, Bristol.” A delightful smile creases Amir’s face.
“Goodbye, Amir.” I can’t help but reciprocate with a wide grin of my own. Amir salutes and makes his way back inside the airport. When I glance back to Grip, he’s leaning against the dilapidated Jeep watching me closely, traces of a smile lingering on his handsome face.
“What?” I quirk an eyebrow as the smile melts from my face.
“Nothing.” His shoulders push up and drop, languid and powerful. “Just thinking those braces worked out well for you.”
“Braces?” My fingers press against my lips. “How’d you know I used to wear braces?”
Grip hands me his phone, and if I didn’t have enough reasons to string Rhyson up, sending “ugly stage” adolescence pictures to his hot friend gives me another. Once I get past embarrassment for my twelve-year-old, frizzy-haired, flat-chested self, I really study the picture more closely. It’s a rare family photo, and I remember the day we took it with absolute clarity. Rhyson was home off the road for a few weeks. We’d known since he was three years old what an extraordinarily talented pianist he would be, but it was only around eleven that he actually started touring all over the world. Music is a family business for us, and my parents went with him on the road as his managers. I, however, had no talent to speak of, so I stayed home with a nanny who made sure I ate, went to school, and had a “normal” childhood. As normal as your childhood can be when your parents barely remember you exist.
“Rhys sent that so I could identify you at the airport.” Grip holds out his hand for his phone.
I study the photo another few seconds. Rhyson looks like he’d rather be anywhere but with the three of us. Just a few years after that picture was taken, he would find a way to leave us. To leave me. As much as I told myself over and over that he emancipated from our parents, not from me, that never made me feel less abandoned or less alone in our spraw
ling New York home. After he moved to California to live with my father’s twin brother, Grady, I’d sit in the music room at his piano, straining my ears for the memory of him rehearsing in there for hours every day. Eventually, I stopped going in that room. I draped his piano in white cloth, locked the door, and stopped chasing his music. Stopped chasing him. I told myself that if he wanted to be my brother again, he’d call. Except he never did, so I called him. It hurts to feel so connected to someone who obviously doesn’t feel as connected to me.
“You okay, Bristol?”
Grip’s question tugs my mind free of that tumultuous time in my family that felt like a civil war. His hand is still extended, waiting.
“Sorry, yeah.” I drop the phone into his palm, careful to avoid actual skin-to-skin contact. Based on how my body responded to the brush of his fingers when he took my suitcase, I suspect he could easily fry me with another touch. “Just feeling sorry for that geeky little girl in the picture.”
“Oh, don’t cry for her,” he says with a grin. “I have it on good authority when she grows up the braces are gone and she has a beautiful smile.”
I roll my eyes so he won’t think his lines are actually working on me, though he does actually make me feel a little better.
He opens the passenger door and I slide in, catching a whiff of him as I go. It’s fresh and clean and man. No cologne that I can detect. All Grip.
“So where to now?” He starts the old Jeep but lets it idle while he turns radio knobs, searching for a station.
“Food.” I blow out a weary breath as the long trip and lack of food hit me hard. “I hope Grady’s got food at his house.”
Grip’s eyes widen just a bit before sliding away from me.
“Uh, there may not be a ton of food at Grady’s place.” Grip taps long fingers on the steering wheel. “He’s kind of out of town.”
“Out of town?” I snap my head around to stare at his rugged profile. “He knew I was coming, right? How can he be … what?”
My father and his twin brother Grady weren’t close before, but after Rhyson emancipated from my parents to live with him, our relationship with him grew even more strained. My parents resented him “taking” Rhyson away, and I haven’t seen him either. I never had much of a relationship with my uncle, and it doesn’t look like that will change on this particular trip.
“A colleague had a death in the family,” Grip says. “He needed Grady to step in for him at a songwriters’ conference.”
A piece of lead rests heavily on my chest, constricting my breath for a second. Why am I even here? It’s obvious I’m the only one looking for any connection, any reconciliation for our family.
“He couldn’t have anticipated this,” Grips adds hastily.
“I get it.” I force a stiff curve to my lips and stare out the passenger side window so Grip doesn’t see the smile never reaches my eyes. “This is gonna be some family reunion. Uncle Grady away and Rhyson … tied up.”
We don’t cry in front of strangers.
My mother’s voice echoes back to me from childhood. We don’t cry in front of anyone, truth be told. I blink furiously and sniff discreetly, hoping a red nose isn’t betraying the stupid emotion swelling in my belly and pushing up into my chest. I must be PMSing. I suckled at my mother’s iron tit. Something this insubstantial after all I’ve been through shouldn’t affect me this way. I know not to wear my emotions in places people can see them. And yet, here I am, against my mother’s wishes and advice, clear across the country, risking parts of my heart with family who apparently don’t give a damn about me.
“Bristol, Grady will be back soon and Rhyson will be around.” I hate the deliberate gentleness of Grip’s tone. It’s as if he sees my cracks and knows that at any minute I might break.
Red nose and teary eyes or not, I’ll show him I won’t break. I’ll make sure he knows I’m stronger that that. That I don’t need my brother or my uncle. That they are the ones who missed out on knowing me.
I whip around to tell him so, to unload my defenses and assurances on him, but all my bravado slams into the compassion of his eyes. More disconcerting than how beautiful his eyes are, is how much they seem to see. How much they seem to know. The bitter words die on my tongue. I swallow the shattered syllables. I swallow the pain. With practice, it goes down easy, lubricated by tears I’ll never shed. I’ve had lots of practice. I’ve had lots of tears, but this stranger, this beautiful stranger, won’t see. I steady my trembling mouth and level my eyes until they meet his stare squarely.
“I’m hungry. Are we going to eat, or what?”
I know I sound like the spoiled sorority girl he assumed I was, but whatever. Talking about food is highly preferable to discussing my family drama, which goes back too far and down to deep. Especially on an empty stomach.
He shifts his glance back to the line of cars pulling away from the airport. Those full lips don’t tug into the easy smile he showed me before. I regret making things heavy. Shit got too real too fast.
“Sure.” Eyes ahead, he shifts from park to drive and pulls away from the curb. “I know just the place. Food’s great.”
Maybe to distract myself from the familiar disappointment sitting alongside the hunger in my belly, I run my eyes discreetly over all six feet and however many inches of him. He’s nothing like the guys I’ve dated, but gorgeous nonetheless. He tucks his bottom lip between an even row of white teeth, concentrating on the ever-hellish LA traffic. As much as I know I shouldn’t, I imagine biting that bottom lip.
Am I hungry? Oh, yeah.
Chapter Three
Bristol
ALL THOSE CAUTIONARY tales about stranger danger apparently didn’t take because I’m currently cruising down the I-5 with a man I met only minutes ago, who may have the face and body of a lower level deity but has not provided any real proof that he actually knows my brother. Yet, how else would he have known my name? And he did have that hideous throwback picture on his phone. I’m fairly certain he’s no Ted Bundy, but I could have at least asked to speak with Rhyson to confirm. I slide a surreptitious glance his way, studying the hands on the steering wheel. Those hands are grace and capability, rough and smooth. Doesn’t mean they wouldn’t wring my neck …
“So, how did you say you know my brother again?” I ask, deliberately nonchalant.
“I was wondering when you’d get around to asking some questions.” His expression loosens into a grin. “You keep looking at me like I might pull over at the next rest stop and stuff you in the trunk.”
“Who … what … me? Noooo.”
His breaks away from the traffic long enough to give me a knowing look, accompanied by a smirk.
“Okay, maybe a little.” A nervous laugh slips out. “I actually was thinking I should have asked for some proof or ID or something. Not just hopped in the car with a perfect stranger.”
“Perfect?” Cockiness curves his lips. “I get that a lot.”
“You’re so full of yourself, aren’t you?” I laugh.
“Oh, I shouldn’t be?” Even in profile, his grin is a little dazzling. “No, you’re right. I could have offered more than ‘I’m Grip. Let’s eat.’”
He tips his head toward the phone in my lap.
“Why don’t you call Rhys so you can breathe a little easier?”
I should have thought of that. What’s wrong with me? Maybe subconsciously there’s some part of me that’s hesitant to call, dreading those first awkward moments when Rhyson and I have no idea what to say to each other. When it becomes terribly apparent I no longer know my twin brother and he no longer knows me.
If he ever really did.
“It’s ringing,” I tell Grip, phone pressed to my ear.
“Bristol?” My brother’s deep voice rumbles from the other end. Even arranging this trip we talked very little, coordinating most of it by email and text. Hearing his voice, knowing I’ll see him, affects me more deeply than I thought it would. He has no idea how much I’ve missed him
. Emotion blisters my throat. Even though we haven’t talked much the last few years, he sounds the way he always did when I would slip into his rehearsal room while he was playing. Exhausted and distracted.
“Yeah. It’s me.” I draw a deep breath and dive in. “So, you couldn’t break away long enough to meet your long lost sister at the airport, huh?”
“Lost sister?” Rhyson emits a disbelieving puff of air. “You? Lost? Never.”
He really has no idea. No one does.
“I would have been there,” Rhyson continues. “I made sure I’d be done with this by the time you landed, but this artist and her label are riding me hard about re-mastering—”
“Yeah, I heard,” I cut in. “It’s fine. I’ll see you when you’re done. You will be done soon, right?”
“Uh … soon? Sure. Relatively soon.”
That could mean anything from tonight to next year when Rhyson’s immersed in music. At least, that used to be the case, but I doubt much has changed.
“Then I guess I’ll see you when I see you.” I try to keep the disappointment and irritation out of my voice, but Rhyson’s sigh on the other end lets me know I fail.
“Bristol, I’m sorry. I’ll see you at Grady’s tonight, okay? And I promise we’ll catch up tomorrow.”
“So you’ll be done tomorrow?” My heart lifts the tiniest bit. I don’t want to sound needy, but he’s the whole reason I’m here. Against my parents’ advice, against my better judgment, I’m seeking him out. I’ve crossed the damn country to try. If I don’t try, who will in what’s left of our family?
“Not sure if everything will be wrapped today or not,” he says. “I’ll send them the tracks, but they may have more tweaks. We’ll see.”
“Sure.” I clip the word. “We’ll see.”
“In the meantime, you’re okay?” Rhyson sounds half in the conversation, like the music is already siren calling him.
I flick a glance Grip’s way. His expression is completely relaxed and impassive, and his eyes are set on the road like I’m not even there, but he doesn’t fool me. There’s this constant alertness that crackles around him, as if he’s been trained to be on guard but is wily enough to let you believe he isn’t. I think he’s always completely aware of everything around him, and this conversation between Rhyson and me is no exception.