Promise Me Forever (Top Shelf Romance)

by Kate Stewart

  “In the living room.” I tip my head in that direction. “Knocked out.”

  “On that couch? She’ll regret it in the morning. I’ll get her to the guest room.”

  He closes the fridge and sits down again. I can’t tell if it’s nerves about seeing his sister after so long, or that frenetic energy we feel after being immersed in our music for so long. You’re exhausted, but you’re on this high and can’t settle right away.

  “Yeah, she was pretty tired,” I say. “We had lunch at Mick’s.”

  “For real?” Rhyson glances up, a slight quirk to his lips. “How’s Jim?”

  “Still feeling you.” I roll my eyes but have to laugh. She’s been into Rhyson since tenth grade, but he’s never given her the time of day.

  “Not gonna happen.” He shakes his head for emphasis. “We’re such good friends. Why does she want to spoil it with fucking?”

  “I usually like it when girls ‘spoil’ things with fucking.” We both laugh at my half-joke. “But in Jimmi’s case, I know what you mean. Just friends.”

  “Right, and that isn’t changing.” Rhyson runs his hands through his already-disheveled hair. “How is she? My sister, I mean?”

  “Go see for yourself,” I say. “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Four, five years,” Rhyson mumbles, sliding his glance to the side, not so much, it seems, to avoid my eyes as to avoid something inside himself.

  “Man, how’d you go that long without seeing your twin sister?”

  “You know how things went down with my parents after I emancipated.” Defensiveness stiffens his voice and his back.

  “Your parents, Rhys, not your sister.”

  “Same thing.” Rhyson’s shrug is supposed to look careless, but it doesn’t. He cares. “She’s been under their roof all this time. She’s probably just like my mother.”

  The girl I spent the day with is nothing like the she-dragon Rhyson described his mother to be.

  “Maybe she isn’t,” I say. “Or maybe you never spent enough time with her to know her in the first place.”

  “Is that what she told you?” Rhyson narrows his eyes. “If we didn’t spend time together, it wasn’t my fault. She got to go to school and parties and shop and have friends. Be normal. Do whatever the hell she wanted while my parents tracked my every step, dragging me all over the world like a show pony.”

  “I just can’t imagine not seeing my family for that long, at least not my sister, if I had one, much less my twin sister.”

  “Yeah, but you’ve got your mom and Jade and your aunts. You have a normal family. I’ve got the Borgias.”

  “Normal?” A snort of disbelieving air whooshes past my lips. “I’m pretty sure my Uncle Jamal was a real life pimp at some point.”

  “Dude, you may be right.” Humor lightens his expression for the first time since he came through the garage door.

  “Seriously! You’d get arrested doing half the stuff he tells you to do to girls.”

  We laugh, recalling all the slightly disturbing advice my uncle often dispenses about women.

  “Okay, so maybe your family isn’t completely normal,” he concedes. “But you have to admit, mine is the freak show that everyone had tickets to.”

  Even before I met Rhyson, I’d seen the news about the courtroom battle he endured to emancipate from his parents. The sensationalized details were inescapable, plastered on the front page of every tabloid for weeks.

  “I just don’t know what she wants from me,” Rhyson says softly, his eyes unfocused as if he’s asking himself.

  “I think she wants her brother back.”

  I straighten from the wall and walk over to join him at the counter so I can talk softer in case she wakes up and hears.

  “Seems like she’s missed you,” I say in a low tone, looking at him intently. “She seems hurt that you let it go this long and haven’t been really responsive when she reached out before.”

  “I just didn’t know where she stood,” Rhyson says. “Battle lines were drawn, and I thought she took my parents’ side. To survive, I had to distance myself from everything associated with them.”

  Rhyson looks haunted for a moment, like he’s seen a ghost. I know the ghost is actually himself when he first left home, addicted to prescription drugs and barely able to function.

  “Maybe you should just tell her that,” I say. “Maybe that’s the quickest way to a fresh start.”

  “Maybe.” Rhyson rolls his shoulders and sighs. “So, what’s she look like?”

  Beautiful.

  “Um … good.” I say instead, clearing my throat and dropping my eyes to study the swirling pattern in the countertop. “She looks good.”

  It’s so quiet that I finally look up to find Rhyson staring a burning hole through my forehead. We know each other too well.

  “She’s my sister, Marlon.” A warning lights his eyes. “Don’t mess with her. None of that chocolate charm shit you put on these other unsuspecting girls.”

  “I wouldn’t.” I steel my voice against the doubt I have even in myself. I should be able to leave Bristol alone, but after today, I’m not sure that I will. But I’m not admitting that to my best friend until I absolutely have to.

  “Not that I have to worry about you since you’re”—he throws up air quotes—“’taken’. Aren’t you and Tessa still a thing?”

  I just shrug, too tired to discuss the complication of disentangling myself from Tessa.

  “Not for much longer,” I settle for saying and leave it at that.

  When we go back into the living room, she’s in the same spot as when I left her. She’s pulled her knees under her and tucked her hands under the cheek laid against the couch. I draped a blanket over her, but it’s slipped some, leaving visible her face, the slim shoulders in her tank top, all the dark and burnished hair falling down her back, tendrils clinging to her neck.

  Rhyson gapes like he’s never seen her before. If that picture was anything to go by, I guess she’s changed a lot in five years. He approaches her with slow steps and then squats down by the couch. He stretches his hand toward her hair but then hesitates, dropping it back down to his side. A muscle knots at his jawline, and his lips clamp tight. He blinks rapidly and swallows whatever emotions he doesn’t want her to see when she wakes up.

  “Bristol,” he says softly, shaking her shoulder. “Wake up.”

  Her eyes open slowly, lashes fluttering over her cheeks for a few seconds. She turns her head to see who woke her, and she doesn’t have the time Rhyson had to prepare. Emotion soaks her eyes, and a wide smile comes to life on her lips.

  “Rhyson,” she whispers, none of the irritation and hurt I’ve seen her fight all day evident. “You’re here.”

  “Yeah, I’m here.” I wonder if she notices how his laugh catches a little in his throat. “You’re here, too.”

  The seconds stretch into a minute as they stare at each other, taking in the face so like their own, but so completely different.

  “You look …” Rhyson tilts his head, studying his sister with sober eyes. “You’re beautiful, Bris.”

  Tears flood her eyes, one sneaking over her cheek. She swipes it away quickly.

  “Stop.” She smiles self-consciously. “I look the same.”

  Rhyson shakes his head, brushing her tousled hair back with one hand.

  “My little sister grew up.”

  “Little sister?” She quirks one dark brow, some of the spark I saw today returning to her eyes. “We’re twins, doofus.”

  “I was born first,” he counters, his crooked smile telling me he’s enjoying this.

  “And that one minute more in the world gives you so much of an edge?” She fires back.

  “Whether you want to admit it or not, you’re my little sister.” The look he gives her already apologizes before his words do. “I’m sorry we missed the last five years.”

  “Me, too,” she says, the smile dying from her eyes.

  “And for m
issing today. I wish I could say tomorrow would be much different. I have to be in the studio a lot, but you can come with me.”

  “Okay. That sounds fun.” She stretches, yawns, and tosses the blanket off, standing to her feet. “We can talk about it in the morning. I’m off to bed.”

  “Me, too.” Rhyson stands, talking through a yawn. “Marlon, it’s so late, you should just crash here tonight.”

  Bristol’s eyes shift over his shoulder, widening like she just realized that I was still here. She offers me a smile more reserved than the ones we exchanged while we talked all night. When we made each other laugh.

  “Thanks again, Grip, for keeping me company today.”

  “No problem.” I take the spot and the blanket on the couch she just vacated, not looking up to meet her eyes. “Any time.”

  I feel her eyes on me. After all we discussed today, all we shared, my tone probably seems impersonal. She may not know it now, but she’ll realize soon, that’s for her own good. She’s something rare—smart, classy, gorgeous, funny, opinionated, and under it all, where she tries to hide it, kind. And burrowed beneath all of that, vulnerable. She isn’t the kind of girl you mess over.

  I repeat that warning to myself for the next hour as I stare into the darkness of Grady’s living room. No, she isn’t the kind of girl you mess over. A guy needs to be very sure he wants her, and just her, before he makes a move.

  Yeah. A guy would have to be very sure.

  Chapter Seven

  Bristol

  “HMMMMM.”

  I moan as soon as the warm bite of syrup-soaked waffle hits my tongue. “Don’t tell me you’re a short-order cook, too, when you’re not deejaying or sweeping floors or writing songs.”

  Grip laughs, not looking up from the waffle maker on the kitchen counter. Powder sprinkles his face, right above the corner of his mouth, sugary white against the caramel of his skin. I want to lick it away. That realization has me choking on my waffle.

  “You okay?” Rhyson pounds my back like I’m a little girl.

  “Yeah.” Eyes still watering, I sip my orange juice. “Just went down the wrong way.”

  Grip brings another stack of waffles to the table.

  “Send these down the right way,” he says.

  Our eyes catch and hold across the table. Sunlight floods Grady’s well-appointed kitchen, and you’d never know Grip slept on the couch and hasn’t showered. Damn, the man looks good in this light. He’d probably look good in no light. A thin layer of stubble coats his chiseled jaw, and I wouldn’t mind rubbing up against it, feeling the scrape as he leaves a mark on me.

  My vagina needs a serious pep talk.

  “So what’s the plan for today?” Grip slices into his stack of waffles.

  “Well, I’m in the studio pretty much all day again.” He glances at me while he chews. “Sorry about that. It’s bad timing but unavoidable.”

  “It’s fine.” I pause with my orange juice halfway to my mouth. “You did say I could tag along, right?”

  “Won’t you be bored?” Rhyson spears a waffle square. “I mean, if you want to come, you can.”

  “And the alternative would be … what?” I ask. “Sitting here in Grady’s empty house all day?”

  I could make the uncomfortable expression on his face go away, but I won’t. I want him to feel the discomfort. I’m spending my spring freaking break here so we can reconnect, and that’s what I want us to do.

  “You have to be in the studio tonight?” Grip asks.

  “Yeah. The singer’s coming in to lay some new vocals.” Rhyson scowls. “I hope we can knock everything out tonight. Maybe go to Santa Monica Pier tomorrow. But there may be another short session or two.”

  “If you want, I can swing by the studio to get Bristol tonight on my way to Brew.” Grip directs the comment to Rhyson, not looking at me. “Take her with me.”

  He’s barely spoken to me all morning. We talked last night for hours, and if I hadn’t conked out, we probably would have talked for hours more. Maybe he has this kind of connection all the time, authentic and easy. He probably stays up all night talking to girls all the time. To me, though, it feels exceptional to be able to talk with someone so openly in such a short time.

  “That cool with you, Bris?” Rhyson asks.

  “Sure.” I check Grip’s face for any sign that this is a pain in his ass. “If you don’t mind. Aren’t you working?”

  “Just deejaying.” He taps his fork against his lips. “Jimmi will be there, too. You guys can hang.”

  I chuckle and drag my fork through the sticky syrup on my plate.

  “She seems cool,” I say. “And really talented. She blew the roof off Mick’s yesterday.”

  “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.

&n
bsp; “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.