Promise Me Forever (Top Shelf Romance)

by Kate Stewart

  “You may have me halfway to understanding that,” I say. “But you will not get me to be okay with the misogyny that is such a part of hip-hop culture.”

  “I don’t disrespect women in my lyrics,” he says immediately. “My mom would kill me.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll listen to some of your stuff.”

  “I feel honored that you would deign to listen to my music.”

  I toss a napkin across the table at him, and it bounces harmlessly off his face. He throws it back at me and laughs.

  “I mean, for real,” he says. “What kind of self-respecting, white millennial doesn’t listen to hip-hop?”

  He laughs when I roll my eyes at him.

  “Are you one of those people who thinks hip-hop belongs to black people?” I ask.

  “Of course it does.” He smooths the humor from his expression. “We made it. It’s ours in the same way jazz and the blues and R&B are ours. We innovated, making sound where there was no sound before. The very roots of hip-hop are in West Africa from centuries ago. But we share our shit all the time, so you’re welcome.”

  I lift a brow at his ethno-arrogance, but he throws his head back laughing at me, maybe at himself.

  “Art, specifically music, is a living thing,” he says. “It isn’t just absorbed by the people who hear it, but it absorbs them. So, we shared hip-hop with the world, and it isn’t just ours anymore. The Beastie Boys heard it. Eminem heard it. Whoever heard it fell in love with it, added to it, and became a part of it.”

  “And that’s a good thing?”

  “Mostly. If that hadn’t happened, if we hadn’t shared it and someone other than us loved it, it’d still be niche. Underground. Now it’s global, but that wouldn’t have happened if it hadn’t gone mainstream. Mainstream means more opportunities, so I’m all for white, Asian, Hispanic. We need everybody buying hip-hop, because ultimately, it’s about that green.”

  He rubs imaginary dollars between his fingers before going on.

  “I think some fear that when hip-hop goes mainstream, it’s mixed with other influences. It’s diluted, and I get that, but we have to evolve. That isn’t selling out. That’s survival.”

  The way he talks about music and art fascinates me. Rhyson’s talent, his genius, always isolated him from me. I’ve been around musicians all my life, but with no talent of my own, I was always on the outside and couldn’t figure out how to get in. Grip just shared that with me. He let me in.

  Before I can dig anymore, Jimmi takes the stage for her performance. And when I say she takes the stage, she takes it. She owns it. She overpowers the small space, and you know she’s something special.

  “Wow.” I spoon into the fudge brownie and ice cream I ordered during Jimmi’s set. “She can back those tits up, huh?”

  “She definitely can,” Grip says. “And speaking of double standards, I think you have one criticizing hip-hop for its misogyny and then hating on another woman just because she has a great rack. Is it any worse when men judge women’s worth by their looks than when women do it?”

  He’s serious. At first, I think he’s joking, but then I realize his eyes hold a subtle rebuke. He’s protective of Jimmi. Maybe they’re together? The thought sours the ice cream in my mouth, and it shouldn’t. I’ve known this guy for all of a couple hours. And he isn’t my type. And I’m leaving in a week.

  “I wasn’t judging her.”

  His look and the twist of his lips say otherwise.

  “Okay, maybe I was judging her a little bit.” I laugh and am glad when he laughs, too. “She’s a pretty girl, and sometimes they get a bad rap.”

  “They?” Grip lifts his thick brows. “Do you not realize how beautiful you are?”

  I have no idea how to respond. I’m attractive. I know that. Guys have been hitting on me since middle school.

  “Whatever.” I shrug. “I just don’t define myself by my looks. There’s a lot more to me than that.”

  “I believe you,” Grip says. “I’m just saying there’s a lot more to Jimmi, too, so maybe you guys have a lot in common. And maybe you should withhold judgment until you know her better. If not altogether.”

  I’m quiet while I finish my brownie and think about what he said. He has a point. One I hadn’t considered. I had to leave my Ivy League college to get the most thought-provoking, stimulating conversation I’ve had in ages. Maybe ever. And with a rapper. Jimmi isn’t the only one there’s more to than meets the eye.

  Chapter Four

  Grip

  I FIGURED RHYSON’S sister would be attractive. I mean, they’re twins, and he’s one of those guys girls trip all over themselves for. And I knew she went to an Ivy League college, so of course she’s smart. But Bristol is all kinds of things I could not have anticipated or prepared for. Her curiosity, her authenticity, and her honesty hook something in me and draw me closer. I didn’t expect the conversation we had at Mick’s to go where it did. I loved that she wasn’t afraid to wade through the difficult questions of race, and that she gave measured, thoughtful responses and expected the same from me. Those are tough conversations to have with someone you know, much less with someone you just met, but it felt like nothing was off‑limits. As if I could give her room to be naïve and she could give me room to be obnoxious. We both gave each other space to be misunderstood, because we really wanted to understand.

  I admit only to myself that I’m drawn to her in a way that is dangerous because she’s Rhyson’s sister. Starting something that can’t go anywhere could be awkward down the road. I’m not that guy. Usually I fuck them and then I leave them. That’s it. That’s all. And I can’t do that to Rhyson’s sister.

  The string of text messages reminds me there’s a girl I’m trying to leave even now. I’ve been dating Tessa for two months, but we haven’t really talked in the last couple of weeks. She blew my mind the first time we had sex, and her pussy put some kind of hex on me and made me agree to “dating.” Well, that hex has worn off. I told her we probably need to take a break, but she either wasn’t hearing me or was ignoring me. When I tell a girl we need to take a break, that’s code for there’s this other chick I’m feeling so we should cut this off before I do something we’ll both regret. I wish I could just let it fade, but I’m going to have to actually break it off. She keeps hitting me up, so it seems like that conversation will have to happen soon.

  I steal a glance across at Bristol, who’s slumped in the passenger seat with her head dropped to an awkward angle while she sleeps. She probably wouldn’t give me the time of day anyway. Rhyson’s so unassuming that you’d never know he comes from deep pockets. Old money and new. He turned his back on that life to emancipate from his parents, but Bristol still occupies that world. A guy like me, driving this piece of shit Jeep, sweeping floors, and doing odd jobs to make ends meet—no way would she check for me. She doesn’t even listen to hip-hop. She probably hasn’t ever dated a black guy, and I wouldn’t be the exception.

  Now me? I like to think of myself as an equal opportunity connoisseur. My dick is not so much color blind, as it loves every color. And I have a rainbow coalition fuck record to prove it. If it’s wet and tight, I don’t really care what color it is.

  Crude, I know.

  Maybe that’s an issue of race I won’t explore with Bristol. I’m sure she has her limits.

  I pull up in front of my apartment complex. I’m kind of glad Bristol’s asleep. Maybe I can sneak inside and get back out to the car before she wakes up. I need to grab my laptop for the tracks I’ll work on while I’m at Grady’s. I wouldn’t have stopped otherwise. We joked at the airport about her suitcase being bigger than my apartment. She isn’t far off.

  I’m carefully, quietly opening the driver side door when she stirs.

  “Hey.” She sits up and stretches her arms over her head, straining the tank top against her breasts. “Where are you going?’

  My mouth goes dry when her nipples pucker through the thin material. I can resist her for my best fri
end. Bristol and Rhyson may not be close, but she is still his sister. A pretty face and a great set of tits aren’t worth any possible static with him. I may need to sticky note that over my mirror this week, though.

  “Oh, you’re up.” I lean through the window. “I just need to run inside my apartment and grab something before we head to Grady’s.”

  “Can I use your bathroom?”

  Shit. I mentally run through the disaster area that is my tiny apartment. I’ll be lucky if a roach doesn’t greet us at the door.

  “Um, sure. Come on.”

  When we cross the landing, I remind myself I have nothing to be ashamed of. I pay my rent. I’m making my own way and not breaking any laws. I have the integrity of my art, not selling out for the quick buck, but holding out for the right opportunity. It all sounds hollow when Bristol, in her lambskin leather and designer distressed jeans, blows into my one-room apartment on a cloud of expensive perfume.

  “Through there.” I point to the tiny bathroom off the one room that encompasses the kitchen, living room, and bedroom. The brochure called it “studio,” but hovel is probably a more accurate description.

  Bristol’s sharp eyes wander over the threadbare thrift store couch and the Dollar Store dishes in the drying rack. The disarray of my narrow, unmade bed, which is flush against a wall, mocks me.

  “Could you hurry up?” I ask curtly. “We need to get going.”

  Her startled eyes stare back at me for a moment before she moves quickly to the bathroom. I grab my laptop and am already standing by the door when she comes out.

  “There wasn’t a towel.” She holds up her dripping hands.

  “Oh, sorry.” I take the few strides to the kitchen and grab a roll of paper towels on the counter for her.

  She dries her hands and tosses the used paper towels in the trash. Instead of following me back to the door, she leans against the counter.

  “I thought you were tired.” I shift from one foot to the other, back propping the door open. “Let’s go.”

  “I have that same print.” She nods to the poster of Nina Simone hanging on the wall over my bed. “She was an excellent pianist, and my mother loves her.”

  My shoulders, which have been tight since we pulled up in front of my dump apartment, relax an inch.

  “Yeah?” is my only response.

  Bristol nods and walks over to my turntable against the far wall, running her fingers over the dust cover.

  “You use this to deejay?”

  I’m standing here holding the door open for her to leave, and she’s conducting an inspection.

  “Uh, yeah. “

  “You’re still deejaying tomorrow at that place Jimmi was talking about?” She looks up from the turntable, apparently in no hurry to leave. “Brew?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’ll use for some of the set. I prefer vinyl, but most set ups nowadays are completely digital.” I sigh and nod my head out to the hall. “Look, we better get going.”

  “What’s the hurry? Rhyson’s at the studio and Grady’s at his retreat all week. Just an empty house waiting for us.”

  “I’m ready to go. I have better things to do than give a perfect stranger a grand tour of my place when I need to be working.”

  Hurt strikes through her eyes so quickly, I almost miss it. She lowers her lashes and walks toward me without addressing my rudeness. She’s squeezing past me in the doorway when my conscience reprimands me. I grab her elbow to stop her from leaving, tucking her into the doorway, too.

  “Hey.” My hand slides down her arm to take her hand. “I’m sorry. I’m an asshole. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I don’t know why I did that.”

  She looks up at me, her back against one side of the doorframe, mine against the other. With her coming where she’s from, and me coming from where I’m from, there should be a vast ocean separating us, filled with our differences and all the reasons we should never meet on shore. But there’s only this wedge of charged space between our bodies that seems to be shrinking by the second. What should be foreign feels familiar. When I assume I know something, she surprises me.

  “You have nothing to be ashamed of,” she says softly. “I’m sorry I made that crack at the airport about my suitcase being bigger than your apartment. “

  “I actually said that,” I remind her, pulling up a smile from somewhere.

  “Whatever.” She waves a dismissive hand, grinning just the smallest bit in return. “My point is that I’m a spoiled bitch sometimes. I can’t blame you for assuming I would judge your place. I just want you to know that I don’t. Hearing all the things you do on the side so you can pursue your craft, I admire that kind of commitment.”

  “Thank you.” I look at her, cataloging her features one by one and realizing the most fascinating thing about this girl isn’t visible to the naked eye.

  “When you’re rich and famous, you’ll look back on this time—this apartment—and laugh. And appreciate how far you’ve gone.”

  “You haven’t even heard my stuff.” I scoff and smile. “How do you know I’ll be successful?”

  “My brother’s a genius. You must be talented or he wouldn’t make time for you.” Her lips twist just the slightest bit. “Believe me I know from personal experience how little time Rhyson has for the mediocre.”

  “So you don’t sing or play?”

  Her face lights up with genuine humor.

  “Much to the dismay of all my music instructors. Everyone thought they’d get a female version of Rhyson.”

  “And you …” I lift my brows, waiting for her to tell me what they got.

  “Can’t carry a tune in a bucket or a note in my pocket to save my life,” she says. “I tried the clarinet, and was only … I think the word my instructor used to describe me was ‘adequate.’”

  “It can’t be that bad. I mean, Grady and Rhyson are both obviously incredible musicians. Your parents played themselves, didn’t they, before they started managing?”

  “Yes, they all play, which makes me the ugly duckling.”

  I don’t even realize that my hand has lifted to brush my knuckle across the slant of her cheekbone until it’s done. Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t pull away. Her skin is like warm silk to touch.

  “Ugly? I doubt that.” My voice comes out all deep and husky. If I keep this up, I’ll be excusing myself to jerk off in the tiny bathroom. “We better go.”

  I drop my hand from her face and clear my throat. I need to stay focused, not on her face and body and that clever brain, but on getting out of here without spreading her out on my unmade bed.

  Chapter Five

  Bristol

  I’VE READ THE same line several times. My laptop could be upside down and I probably wouldn’t notice. I’m sitting here on the couch with my computer propped on my knees, not making any headway on the essay for my internship application. I could blame fatigue considering I haven’t really stopped since I left New York this morning. And my body clock may still be on East Coast. And I am getting hungry again. I could use those excuses for my lack of focus, but there’s only one real reason if I’m honest.

  Grip.

  He’s an unexpected fascination, a tantalizing riddle I keep turning over in my head. I keep hoping he’ll make sense eventually, but then I’m somehow glad he doesn’t add up or behave the way I think he should.

  If he were in the same room, I’d still be surreptitiously gawking, stealing glances at one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen, but he’s in Grady’s music room working on his own stuff. He went there almost immediately after we arrived, and I haven’t heard a peep from him since. I guess he is as obsessed with music as my brother. Yet another reason not to venture too deeply into the attraction I feel for him.

  “Not that he’s here,” I mumble. “He isn’t much company.”

  I’m the one who said he doesn’t have to keep me company, and now I’m complaining because he isn’t. Maybe I imagined the charged moment at his apartment in the doorway
. He touched my cheek. It was barely a brush of his fingers over my face, but it ignited … something. Emotion? Desire? I’m not sure, but I haven’t felt it before. Based on what I’ve seen of the player and his “chocolate charm,” I shouldn’t be feeling anything at all if I know what’s good for me.

  I learned early on that people aren’t careful with your emotions. They’re too self-involved to consider how their actions affect others. I saw it when my parents forced Rhyson to tour, even though it was ripping our family apart. I’ve seen it in Rhyson’s own disregard for our relationship and how easy it was for him to walk away, forgetting he had a twin sister on the other side of the country. I’ve seen it in my parents’ sham of a marriage. They’re partners, but I’m not sure they genuinely care for one another at all. Certainly there isn’t any love. I protect my heart because no one else will.

  Sometimes I wish I didn’t have a heart at all because, despite knowing what I know, I keep putting it out there to my family. Here I am, visiting Rhyson and willing to move after graduation if he’ll have me. I used to be afraid I’d be like my parents, careless. Now, I fear that I care too much about people who don’t give a damn.

  “Machiavelli?” Grip’s voice, as deep and rich as espresso, caresses the nape of my neck from behind, making me jump. “Interesting choice.”

  I look from the sharply hewn lines of his face to the flashing cursor behind Machiavelli’s name on my screen.

  “Sorry.” He walks around to sit beside me on the couch. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  I set my laptop on the coffee table and scoot a few inches away, tucking myself into the corner of the couch. I wasn’t doing a good job focusing when he was in the other room. With the breadth of his shoulders, the stretch of his muscular legs, and the towering energy he brought with him, I give up. I’ll work on it tomorrow. A thrill passes through me at the prospect of another conversation with him. I’m not one of those giddy girls who gets all breathless when a guy comes around. And yet, with those caramel-colored eyes resting on my face, I’m short of breath.