Promise Me Forever (Top Shelf Romance)

by Kate Stewart

  “Let you get what?” Tiny thrills of panic and anticipation alternate through me. “Grip’s bag? What do you mean?”

  “He left his bag here earlier today when he met with Rhyson.” She bends to gather the spilled items from the floor, shoveling them into her purse. “He needs it tonight, and I told him I’d drop it off on my way home.”

  Apparently, I’m back at the lowest level of hell. After a week like I’ve had, the last thing I need is Grip being all . . . Grip. He’ll ask me out. I’ll refuse. He’ll try to kiss me. I’ll evade. I’ll leave, and he’ll go screw some random girl, thereby proving I was right not to give him a chance.

  It’s what we do.

  We’ve been playing this game that isn’t a game for years. One day, he’ll realize I mean it when I say there isn’t a chance in . . . well hell, that it’ll ever happen between us.

  “I need to give you the code for his loft. He texted it to me.” Sarah pulls out her phone, scrolling through messages. “He says he misses the bell all the time. So just use the code and go right in because he’ll probably have the music up or be in the shower.”

  Grip in the shower. My mind paints vivid pictures that involve Grip’s powerful body, rivulets of water, and not much else. I may not want a relationship, but I’m not blind or dead south of the waist. My heart, though, last time I checked, was north of my belt. I don’t let anyone near that thing. If I let Grip in, the compass goes out the window. North or south wouldn’t matter. No territory would be off limits with him. I see Grip all the time. Here at the label offices. In the studio. At shows and appearances. But alone. At his house. Freshly showered. And me vulnerable, and let’s face it—horny, is a disaster waiting to happen. A disaster I’ve managed to avoid for a long time.

  “Maybe he’ll be fine without the bag tonight. I mean . . .” I falter, embarrassed at how husky my voice sounds, though Sarah would never guess it’s because of the shower scene playing in my head. “It can’t be that urgent.”

  Disappointment and resignation flicker across Sarah’s face, but she covers it quickly.

  “Don’t worry about it.” She pulls the purse on her shoulder and reaches under her desk to retrieve a black leather backpack I recognize as Grip’s. “He offered to come get it, but I said I’d bring it. I’ll do it.”

  Guilt burns in my chest. Sarah lives around the corner. She’d really be going out of her way to take the bag to Grip. I, on the other hand, pass his exit on my way home. I really wish I was as much of a bitch as people think I am.

  “Gimme.” I flick my fingers for her to hand the bag to me. “I got it. You go home, dope yourself up with Midol and chocolate, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “You sure?” Relief slumps her shoulders and brightens her eyes.

  “Of course.” I take the bag and shoo her out the door. “Go.”

  “You’re the best boss ever.” Sarah makes her way carefully toward the door like lady parts might fall out if she walks any faster.

  “Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” I manage a grin. “Remember this when I have you working ’til midnight next week.”

  Once she’s gone and the office is quiet and it’s just me and my never-ending pile of tasks, I get back to work. I can barely focus, though, with that bag sitting in the corner mocking me. Daring me. Taunting me.

  I keep working until the angle of the sun through the window behind me shifts from shine to shadow, the only indication I have of how long I’ve been at it. Other than the growl of my stomach.

  I touch the home button on my phone to check the time.

  “Shit.” I drop my head into my hands and blow fatigue out through my nose. “Food, Bristol. Food should have happened hours ago.”

  Sarah usually makes sure I eat. She’s becoming invaluable to me in ways I didn’t anticipate. Mostly personal ways. Slipping me food. Ordering my favorite coffee blend that I can only ever find online. Putting up with my bitching when things don’t go my way. Being a friend. Generally, I only allow myself so many of those. Her continued proximity has me bending that rule.

  The problem of proximity. It’s exactly why, despite my working with Grip as closely as I do now as his manager, I still find ways to keep my distance. If anyone could make me bend and forget the rules, it’s Grip. He doesn’t know that, though, and I need to keep it that way.

  It’s getting darker in the office now, not quite sunset. The dimming light camouflages the bag tucked into the corner, but I know it’s there, and it’s time for me to deal with it.

  And the man who owns it.

  Chapter Two

  Bristol

  HE’S COME A long way.

  When I first met Grip, he lived in a one-room hovel and subsisted on two-for-the-price-of-one street tacos. His pride wouldn’t allow him to ask my brother for much help financially, and Rhyson respected him too much to force the issue. So Grip was sweeping floors in exchange for studio time, deejaying in clubs all over LA, writing for other artists. He paid his dues pursuing his dreams. As I pull into the underground parking lot of the exclusive loft complex where he lives now, I can’t help but think he’s finally getting paid back.

  Even though Sarah said I should use the code and go right in, I can’t make myself do it. In the lobby, I press the button to ring his place, waiting for a response over the intercom that never comes. With a heavy sigh, I shift his bag on my shoulder and punch in the code that opens the cage-like elevator that will take me to the top floor.

  It’s all very industrial and modern, an old warehouse renovated into upscale loft apartments. A rolling garage door of sorts faces me as soon as I step off the elevator. The blare of nineties hip-hop bleeds through the concrete walls. I pull out my phone again to check the instructions Sarah sent. Once I punch in the code, the door rolls up, and high-decibel Tupac gushes out like water from a cracked dam. The first night Grip and I met, we talked about Tupac. I barely knew any of his music. I barely knew anything about hip-hop. Raised in a family of classical music aficionados, I’m still not a huge fan, though ironically, I’m managing one of its rising stars.

  The loft consists of a large, open space with high ceilings, red brick walls, and exposed rafters. Pillows pepper an L-shaped sectional the color of molasses. The thick slab of wood serving as a coffee table is flanked on another side by a latte colored backless couch. Four barstools line up along the strip of matte steel converted into a countertop separating the living area from the kitchen. A set of rail-less steps float up to the second floor, where a length of walkway leads to a closed door. Grip’s bedroom, I presume. Vinyl albums fill decorative mahogany crates stacked and lining the wall housing the fireplace. A multi-shelved arch is built into another wall and holds dozens and dozens of books. Grip is nothing if not well-read.

  A beautiful brown leather journal on the coffee table catches my eye. I gave him that three birthdays ago. I walk over to brush my fingers over the supple leather. He says some of the best lyrics he’s ever written were conceived between those sheets.

  “Nosy bitches get shot.”

  The words are followed by the click of a gun being cocked. My heart slams against my rib cage when I see the girl standing just a few feet away in the open door of a bathroom, eyes and hand steady over the gun aimed at me.

  “Don’t shoot.” My hands fly up automatically. “I’m a friend of Grip’s.”

  “Not one I ever met.”

  She’s a pretty girl. Her unblemished skin glows, smooth and richly colored mocha. No makeup that I detect. Her hair is cropped close to her head and worn with its natural texture. A plaid shirt hangs large over baggy jeans and Chucks. Big brown eyes, almost doe-like and framed by long, curly lashes, never leave my face. They lend her an air of innocence belied by the nine millimeter aimed at my heart.

  “Jade.” Grip’s voice drops from above. He stands at the walkway rail, looking down at us. “Put that damn gun up.”

  For a moment, I forget about the gun trained on my torso. With the arresting picture Grip makes, T-s
hirt looped at his neck and hanging over his bare chest, he’s more dangerous than the armed girl in front of me. A stack of abdominal muscles trail down to the indentations carved into his hips. Drops of water bead the smooth slope of his shoulders and the arms splattered with vibrant ink. Beltless dark wash jeans hang low on the lean hips. I lift my eyes to his face, a dazzling arrangement of jet-colored brows and bold bones balanced with lips so sculpted you would never guess how soft they are.

  I don’t have to guess. I remember.

  “Your hair,” I gasp. Gone are the dreadlocks he’s been growing the last few years. There’s barely any hair at all it’s cut so short, just a subtle dark wave shadowing his scalp.

  He runs a hand over his head, a wry grin tipping one corner of his mouth.

  “Just something different.” He exchanges a look with the girl holding the gun at her side. “Jade cut the locs out for me.”

  “Jade?” I drag my eyes from his face to hers. “As in your cousin Jade?”

  Her eyes shift to mine, adding another question about me to her gaze.

  “Yeah.” Grip slips the T-shirt over his head and starts down the steps. “Good memory.”

  Jade and I watch each other warily. Grip told me they grew up together in Compton. He also told me about a dark day on a playground when an officer went too far while searching her, crossed a line of innocence. Knowing that, my heart softens some, even though she’s still giving me the same hard look.

  Eyeing Jade, focused on her, I took my eyes off Grip. Now he stands right in front of me, looms over me. I’m usually braced for the raw sexuality that clings to him, so strong my knees have been known to go weak. But him being so near and looking so much like the guy I met eight years ago, before the dreadlocks. Before the underground mix tapes and concerts and record deals. Before his fame. The start of a beautiful friendship. Anything else we could have been ended almost before it started.

  Almost.

  “So, Bris, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

  Grip grabs a remote from the table and silences Tupac. In the abrupt quiet, his eyes make a slow voyage down my body, his perusal pouring over me like hot oil. The silk romper I wore to the office today suddenly feels too short as he takes in my legs. Even though the sleeves reach the elbow, my forearms prickle with goose bumps under his stare. By the time his eyes reach my breasts, my nipples are tight and beaded in the silky cage of my bra. His eyes linger there before lifting and roving over my face.

  He knows.

  Even though I ignore this awareness that always seethes between us, no matter how much I pretend it isn’t there, he knows. Even with Jade standing just two feet away, his proximity, his nearness and heat, cloister us in false intimacy.

  “Um, Sarah was sick so I’m just bringing . . .” I don’t bother finishing the sentence. My voice is unnaturally husky. My breath, abridged. I just hold up his backpack as explanation.

  “Oh, yeah,” he says. “Thank you.”

  He takes the bag by the strap, his fingers deliberately touching mine. I glance from where our fingers mingle to the face that looks even more handsome with barely any hair framing it. He looks so much like the guy who picked me up from LAX when I visited for spring break years ago. Nothing has changed, and everything is different now. He looked at me that day the way he’s looking at me now, as if I were some new mystery he wanted to lose himself in solving. Conversely, he looks at me like he knows my every secret.

  Jade clears her throat before speaking, snapping the moment between Grip and me.

  “Man, I hope you ain’t trying to bring her home to your mama.” Jade’s eyes follow the same head-to-toe journey Grip’s took over me, but derision weights her look at every stop. “You know Aunt Mittie would have a fit if you start shit with some white bitch.”

  “Bitch?” I have a low give-a-fuck threshold, and she just crossed it. “You’ve called me bitch twice, and you don’t even know me. Or did we meet and I forgot you already? I see how that could happen.”

  “Bristol.” Grip chuckles down at me, the warmth that probably made Jade suspicious in the first place evident in his eyes. “She does still have a gun.”

  I glance from the firearm to the smirk on Jade’s face, feeling bold now that I know who she is and bolder still now that Grip is close enough to hide behind if necessary. He’d never let anyone hurt me. Except himself. I’m pretty sure Grip could crush me without noticing.

  “Jade, ease up,” he says. “She’s Rhyson’s sister.”

  “And Grip’s manager,” I add. “You and your Aunt Mittie can rest easy. There’s nothing going on between us.”

  I feel Grip’s eyes on me when I say there’s nothing between us. I won’t give him the satisfaction of looking, of letting him mock the defenses I wrap around myself to guard against anything that could develop. They’ve held this long, and I have no plans of yielding any time soon.

  “Your manager, huh?” Jade studies me again, as unimpressed as the first time. “I see.”

  “You need to be thinking less about me and more about you. About what I said.” Grip hooks an elbow around her neck and kisses her forehead. “Come to the studio next week. Lay some tracks.”

  Jade stiffens under his arm, observing him with narrowed eyes. Grip also told me their relationship wasn’t as close after that day at the playground.

  “Hmmm. We’ll see.” She pulls away and walks over to grab an LA Raiders cap from the countertop. “I’m out. Some of us still gotta actually work to make them ends meet.”

  Grip is one of the hardest working artists I know. He’s what they call a studio rat. He’s behind the board and in the booth every chance he gets. Not to mention the appearances, writing for other artists, photo shoots. Indignation rises up in me on his behalf. Before I can mount my defense, he’s diffused it with a grin aimed at his cousin.

  “Whatever, J.” He tweaks her nose, his affection for her obvious and, from my perspective, inexplicable. “Just come to the studio. Maybe it’ll keep you out of trouble.”

  “I am trouble,” she bounces back with a sassy grin.

  I already knew that.

  “I’ll think about it.” She looks to me, raising her eyebrows like she’s waiting for me to say something.

  “Nice meeting you,” I offer in her expectant silence. Even in the face of rude bullshit, the manners instilled in me are flawless, not that Jade appreciates them. She ignores my comment and brushes past me and out the door.

  Rude ass.

  “I’m gonna walk J out.” Grip takes my wrist gently between his fingers. “Could you wait a second? I have questions about the email you sent last night.”

  I see right through this ploy. He knows that without a good reason to stay, I’d be right behind him and on that elevator. Except I’ve been in hell all week. Working myself to the bone for longer than I can remember. There’s tightness across my shoulders, noosed around my neck, trapped in the fists balled at my side. I just want to unfurl, and as much as he makes me tense, there’s no one else I can relax with the way I can with Grip. So, against the better judgment I’ve exercised for years, I stay.

  When he comes back, the two take-out bags he’s holding release tantalizing scents into the air. I’m settled onto the huge comfortable sectional taking up so much of the living room. I could fall asleep right here if I weren’t so hungry. Starvation has eroded my sense of self-preservation, and as much as I dreaded coming here to see him, I dread going home to my empty cottage even more.

  “Ran into the delivery guy.” He raises the bags and gives me a measured look, like he knows I could bolt at any moment. “You hungry?”

  “I could eat,” I understate while the lining of my stomach feasts on itself.

  “Empanadas?” He smiles because he knows they’re my weakness. One of my many weaknesses.

  “Baked or fried?” I ask, as if I’m particular.

  “Which do you want it to be?” he parries.

  “Fried.”

  “Then they’re fri
ed.” He hooks the bag handles over one wrist and grabs plates from the cabinet with his free hand. “Come on.”

  In utter laziness, I watch him cross the large space to a door in the far corner.

  “Make yourself useful and grab me a beer from the fridge and whatever you want to drink.” He looks over his shoulder at me expectantly. “I can’t carry you and the food up to the roof, Bristol.”

  “The roof?” I groan my exhaustion and settle deeper into the cushions.

  “Oh, sorry.” He pauses, concern sketching a frown on his face. “Is it too high?”

  I have a selective fear of heights. Put me in a little bucket in the air on a ride that could plunge me to my death, I’m chop suey. But sitting safely on the roof, I should be fine. I do not, however, need him reminding me of our night on that Ferris wheel. Not tonight when I’m already feeling weak.

  “No, the roof isn’t too high,” I answer. “It’s too far away. I’m tired.”

  “Well, food’s going up and so will you if you want some,” he says, disappearing through the door.

  Sigh.

  I grab a beer for him and a bottle of Pinot Gris for me. If I were alone, I wouldn’t bother with the glass I pull from the rack. It has been a straight-from-the-bottle day . . . week . . . month. But I’ll save that for the privacy of my own home. And it’ll probably be vodka, my self-numb-er of choice.

  Damn these shoes. I’ve got a thing for heels. Even wearing the romper, I’m still sporting three-inch Jimmy Choos. By the time I make my way up the winding stairs to the roof, I want to toss the shoes off the building despite how much they cost.

  The second I step through the door to the roof, I forget about my shoes, my empty stomach. I even forget the empanadas for a moment. We’re just high enough to see the city’s skyline in the distance, set ablaze by the horizon’s last hurrah before sunset. There’s no fear, and the view takes my breath. For just a second, the sheer scope of the sky makes all the problems that followed me home from the office seem small in comparison.