by Kate Stewart
Not what my vagina needs to hear right now. I cross my legs and squirm in my seat, seeking some friction, some release. The alcohol is kicking in, and it only fires the need in me. I imagine all those inches stretching me and … I need to rub up against something.
“Are you not into black guys?” Jimmi scrunches her nose. “I mean, I have some friends who aren’t. I don’t care. I’d screw a hole in the wall if it could make me come.”
“Wow. That’s a … colorful way to say it. No, I’ve never dated a black guy, but I guess I just never had the opportunity.” I shrug. “I don’t really care.”
Especially if he looked like Grip. I’d take green Grip. Pink Grip. Red Grip. If Grip were a bag of Skittles, I’d eat every one.
“Oh.” Jimmi claps excitedly. “Grip’s gonna perform.”
“He is?” I perk up, spinning around on my stool. Sure enough, he’s onstage with a mic. Under the lights, he seems even taller, even broader.
“What’s good?” Grip spreads his smile around the club. “I don’t get to do this as much as I’d like, but they’re gonna let me spit a few bars for you tonight.”
The cheering and whistles and catcalls explode from the audience.
“I see my reputation precedes me.” Grip chuckles and nods to the drummer in the corner. “Lil’ somethin’ for you.”
I wasn’t lying when I told Grip I don’t listen to rap much. I don’t hate it. I’ve just always been indifferent. I can’t make out half of what they’re saying, and once I know, it’s all bitches and hoes and slurs. I wince through half of it and roll my eyes through the rest. It’s just not music to me. But Grip is a different breed. I understand every word he says, and I’m hanging on every one. Literally waiting for the next syllable. The images he paints are so vivid that, if I closed my eyes, they’d be spray painted on the back of my eyelids. I’d be drowning in color, floating in sound. The richness of his voice floods the room, and I realize he has us all rapt. We’re eating his words, a feeding frenzy of imagination. He’s a storyteller and a poet.
I feel the same as I did listening to Rhyson growing up. Like the sun and the moon were in my house. Like I was a part of Rhyson’s great galaxy, and he was the star. Grip is a star. Sweeping floors and doing all the things he does to survive are all just dues he’s paying. He’s lightning in a beautiful bottle, just waiting to strike. A pending storm. He’s hypnotizing. Intoxicating. I’m as buzzed off him as I am off my Grey Goose.
“He’s good, right?” Jimmi grins at me knowingly. “I felt the same way the first time I heard him. It’s his writing. His stuff is so much deeper than most of what’s out there. He’s really saying something.”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat and try to appear less mesmerized. “He’s really good. Wow.”
“Don’t look now, but we aren’t the only ones who think so.” She nudges me with her elbow and inclines her head toward a group of girls clustering around Grip. “Did you ride with Grip?”
“Uh, yeah.” I can’t force my eyes away from where he sits on the edge of the stage, girls buzzing around him. He did say you catch more bees with honey.
Or, in his case, chocolate.
“I may be taking you home,” she says with a slight smile. “Those are what I like to call ‘ground floor groupies’. They see his potential same as we do, and some of them want in on the action before the rest of the world gets a taste of him.”
My muscles lock up as I watch several girls stroke his arms and press against his side. That he doesn’t see through it makes me sick, souring my high after his performance.
“I think I do want to dance.” I knock back my drink and turn to find frat guy, who’s still a few feet away. “With him.”
I point him out, and before Jimmi can ask me any questions or try to stop me, I’m gone. I walk up to glow-bright smile, and enjoy seeing his eyes get wider the closer I get. Yep. He’s one of those. All bold and staring with no idea what to do with it.
“Hey.” I step so close I smell the whiskey on his breath. “You’ve been staring at me all night.”
“Uh, you’re hot,” he stammers, his eyes rolling over my body and sticking to my breasts.
Has it come to this?
“So … you want to dance?” I prompt. I’m not a great dancer, but the alcohol humming through my blood convinces me that I am.
“Sure.”
I walk onto the dance floor, assuming he’s following. Assuming he’s staring at my ass as I pop my hips in a loose-limbed sway. His hands clamp my waist, his fingers drifting down to spread over the curves of my butt. I press my back to his chest and start moving, start reaching for a feeling, any feeling to block the emotions that have ravaged me over the last few hours. The hurt and jealousy. The disappointment and resentment. He gets stiffer and harder with every measure of the song, with every roll of my hips. He pulls my hair aside, and his breath lands heavy and hot on my neck. Whatever my body is reaching for, I’m not finding it with him. I’m about to pull away and go order another Grey Goose, when I hear a deep voice behind me.
“Dude, step off.”
Gravel studs Grip’s voice. Whether he’s irritated with me or glow-bright, I don’t know. I whirl around to face them. My partner, apparently more a lover than a fighter, has obliged Grip’s request and is already halfway back to his frat boy friends.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I demand.
“I was just about to ask you the same thing.” The club lights stripe his handsome face, painting him in shades of pink and blue and green. “You were working that guy up for nothing.”
“For nothing?” I raise both brows, hands on my hips. “It wouldn’t have been for nothing. Have you forgotten? This is my spring break. Girls get drunk and they get laid. I’m already halfway to one, and you just ruined the other.”
His face goes hard as cement.
“You’re still hurt from your fight with Rhyson.” He shakes his head. “I’m not letting you go home with anyone half drunk and emotional.”
“I wasn’t going home with him. I would have fucked him in a bathroom stall. In the alley. We would have figured it out.”
The light strobes the emotions on his face, flashing anger then frustration.
“I’m gonna excuse that because I know you’re upset.”
“I’m not upset,” I snap. “I’m horny.”
“Shit, Bristol.” He glances at the people dancing within earshot. “That is not what you say in a club full of frat boys trolling for ass. I’m trying to protect you from all these dicks.”
“I like dick!” I say a little too loudly, drawing a few more stares. Boy, that Grey Goose has kicked in after all. “And you’re cock blocking.”
“Cock block …” Grip’s mouth drops open then snaps shut. “Let’s go. You’re exhausted and irrational, so Imma give you a pass.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
I slip past him and stomp off the floor as much as my Louboutins will allow. I have no idea how we got into the club, and I make several turns and detours. I’m sure I’m headed toward the entrance, but I end up behind the building instead of in front. I step out anyway, hauling in a cleansing breath and leaning against the brick wall to calm the tremors shivering through my body. Grinding into glow-bright did nothing for me, but catching a whiff of Grip’s clean masculine scent, feeling the warmth of his body as he stood so close—that has me trembling.
“I told Jimmi we’ll see her later.” Grip walks toward me in the alleyway. “Let’s get you home.”
My anger has died off, and so has his, apparently. His voice is gentle, his eyes compassionate. He sees too clearly, too much. He detects all the hurt festering under my clingy bandage dress. I hate that he’s so sweet and still a player. I won’t forget about the bees. And the honey. And the chocolate.
“God, just leave me alone.” Pressing into the brick wall at my back, I hold my head in my hands. “I’ve already told you I’m horny, and you just keep …”
/> I growl and fist my hair and my frustration in my fingers.
“You’re right.” I stand straight. “Let’s just go.”
I push off the wall at my back only to collide with a wall of muscles and heat at my front. Neither of us makes a move to put any distance between us. My breath stutters over my lips as I fight the magnetic pull of him. We stand there in the alley, trapped in a sensual stasis, unmoving except for our chests heaving against each other’s with each labored breath. His hands find the curve of my waist, the dip of my back. He doesn’t press me to him, but his touch scorches through the thin material of my dress. He drops his head, pressing his temple to mine, and draws in a breath behind my ear.
“Did you just …” I search for the right word, “whiff me?”
His husky laugh leaves warm breath at my neck, skittering a shiver down my spine.
“It’s better than the alternative,” he says.
“Which is what?” I pull back to peer up at his face.
“Kissing you.” His eyes boil from caramel to hot chocolate. Sweet, hot, steamy need spikes in the look he pours over me.
“I’m not doing this with you, Grip.” I close my eyes, my hands covering his on my hips. I mean to push them away, but my fingers won’t move. They trap his touch against me.
“We just met yesterday,” I remind him and myself.
“I know.” He shakes his head. “You’re my best friend’s sister.”
“I live in New York.”
“I’m here in LA.”
“I don’t even know you.” I laugh a little. “And what I do know is not good. You’re a player.”
“Who told you that?” Irritation crinkles his expression.
“Um, you basically did.” I roll my eyes. “And Jimmi. And Rhyson.”
“They shouldn’t …” He sighs, releasing his frustration into the stale alley air. “I understand why they would say that, but this isn’t … you’re not …”
He bites his bottom lip, a gesture that seems so uncertain when he’s been anything but.
“Don’t be upset with them for telling me the obvious,” I say. “I saw all those girls tonight for myself. I know what it’s like for musicians.”
“I don’t even know those girls.”
“You barely know me, either.”
He doesn’t reply, but the way he looks at me—the pull between us—defies my statement. We know each other. Not in terms of hours or days, but something deeper. Something more elemental. I can’t deny it, but I have no idea what to do with it.
“Look, I can admit I’m attracted to you.” Grip surveys my body one more time before clenching his eyes closed and giving his head a quick shake. “Damn, that dress, Bristol. All fucking night.”
An involuntary smile tugs at my lips, but I pinch it into a tiny quirk of the lips instead of the wide, satisfied thing sprawling inside me.
“Not all night.” I firm my lips. “You had quite the fan base. Women lined up after your performance.”
“Thirsty chicks.” Grip grimaces. “Banking on the off chance that one day I’ll be something they can eat off of. Maybe get themselves a baby daddy. Get some bills paid every month.”
“It isn’t an off chance,” I say softly. “It’s a certainty.”
“What’s a certainty?” A frown conveys his confusion.
“That you’ll be something one day.” I point toward the door leading back into the club. “When you grabbed that mic, when you took that stage, it was obvious you’re as talented as Rhyson. It looks and sounds different, but you both have that special quality that makes people watch and listen. You can’t teach that or train it. You either have it or you don’t.”
I offer a smile.
“And you have it.”
Surprise and then something else, maybe self-consciousness, cross his face. For one so bold and sure, it’s funny to see.
“Yeah, well, thanks.” He shrugs and goes on. “Anyway, I know the deal. My mama schooled me on girls like that.”
“Your mother sounds very wise.”
“Very. She made sure I knew their game.”
He waves a hand between our chests.
“This, what we’re feeling,” he says, his eyes going sober. “It isn’t a game.”
I hold my breath, waiting for him to tell me we should jump off this cliff. That as crazy as it seems, we’ll hold on tight and break each other’s fall.
“It’s complicated.” He lowers his eyes before lifting them to meet mine. “It’s just an attraction, and we should probably resist it. I mean, you’re only here a few days. If things didn’t work out for us, it could make shit awkward with Rhyson, and I know you want to repair things with him. There’s a million reasons we shouldn’t act on this attraction. Right?”
“Right.” I offer a decisive nod. “A million reasons.”
As we ride back to Grady’s bungalow in our first strained silence since we met at the airport, I realize he was wise to stop whatever could have happened in the alley. It would probably have been a half drunken regret. There are a million reasons we should stop. But right now, I can only think of the one reason not to stop.
Because I don’t want to.
Chapter Ten
Bristol
THE RIDE HOME from Brew is mostly silent. Yet, it’s a silence filled with all the reasons Grip and I shouldn’t indulge the attraction plaguing us. Grip’s scent alone—more than clean, less than cologne, and somehow uniquely his—makes me close my eyes and take it in with sneaky sniffs. I wonder if he’s taking me in, too. I still tingle from that alleyway alchemy, the chemistry that snapped and sizzled between us behind the club. It’s all I can think of.
“We’re here.” His voice is deep and low in the confines of the car.
I glance at Grady’s house, which is dark except for the porch light, and wonder if Rhyson is home, awake, interested in finishing the argument we started earlier. Because who doesn’t want to scratch and claw with their sister at two o’clock in the morning?
“Thanks.” I turn a grateful smile on him, not meeting his eyes. I fumble with the handle until the door opens, the cool air raising goose bumps on my arms. Or maybe that’s his touch, the gentle hand at my elbow. I look back to him, waiting for whatever he has to say.
“Bristol, I …” He bunches his brow and gives a quick shake of his head before turning to face forward. Both hands on the wheel of the ancient Jeep. “Never mind.”
“Um, okay.” I get out, ready to slam the door when his words stop me again.
“I had fun tonight.” He leans across the middle console so I can see his face a little. His interior light doesn’t work, so he’s still basically in the dark. The shadows smudge the striking details of his face, but I feel the intensity of his eyes.
“You had fun wrangling a half drunk girl off the dance floor and arguing in a dirty alleyway?” I ask sarcastically. “Yeah, right.”
I hear the little huff of a laugh from the driver’s seat.
“I had fun hanging with you,” he responds softly, the smile tinting his voice.
I let his words settle over me for a moment before I pat the roof of the car twice and step back.
“Me, too,” I finally answer. “Have a good night and thanks for everything.”
Manners.
As Grip pulls away from the curb, I can’t help but wonder why I’m being painfully polite when what I’m starting to feel for him is anything but well mannered.
A little wild. A lot unexpected. Completely unlikely, but definitely not polite.
I use the key Rhyson gave me and hope there isn’t an alarm. I walk deeper into the house, still a little wired but unsure what to do. The door leading to the kitchen opens, and Rhyson steps into the living room.
“Hey,” I say softly, watching for signs of lingering anger.
“Hey.” His eyes fix on my face, and I’m guessing he’s gauging me, too. “You too tired to talk?”
I sit on the couch and gesture for him to join me. He
sits, elbows to his knees and eyes on the floor.
“I’m sorry for how out of control things got at the studio,” he says, his voice quiet, subdued. “I … I don’t feel like we know each other anymore.”
A humorless laugh escapes my lips.
“And I’m not sure we ever did.” I smile a little sadly when our eyes connect around that truth in the lamplight.
“You’re probably right.”
He sighs, raking his long sensitive fingers through wild hair. He has an artist’s hands. Well kempt but competent and capable of creating.
“Do you remember when they insured your hands?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He doesn’t say anything more, but draws his brows draw into a frown.
“I overheard Mother discussing the policy. We were eleven.” I bite my lip and smile. “I remember asking her why they insured your hands. She said you insure things that are too valuable to lose forever. She said your gift was irreplaceable and that made you incredibly valuable. They had to protect you.”
“That sounds about right,” Rhyson says bitterly. “Protect their investment.”
I don’t acknowledge his interpretation of it because he never saw it from my side.
“I was so jealous of you that day.” I shake my head, feeling that helplessness and the frustration of having nothing to offer flood me again. “I had nothing to insure. I had nothing that valuable to our parents. They had shown me a million times, but that day she put it in words.”
“Jealous?” Rhyson’s incredulity twists his handsome face. “You were jealous of me? You had everything, Bristol. You had friends. You got to go to school with kids our age. You had a normal life. That was all I wanted.”
“You had them,” I counter. “The three of you would go off for weeks at a time, and I had nannies and therapists. You had our parents.”
“I had them?” Rhyson demands in rhetorical disbelief. “Yeah, I had them riding my ass to rehearse eight hours a day, reminding me that I might be a kid, but adults paid good money to come see me play. I had nothing.”
“You loved piano,” I insist, needing to know that things are as I remember them, because if they aren’t, what has been real?