by Kate Stewart
“This is gorgeous,” I whisper, taking the last few steps to the center of the roof.
“Yeah, I can’t take credit for the view or this set up. The decorator did it.” Grip eyes his rooftop retreat with a pleased smile. “I don’t get up here as much as I’d like, but every once in a while to eat or write.”
I can see how it would be the perfect place to write. Padded benches tuck into the far corner, and slate-colored cushions rest against the brick wall. Four low, square tables stand in the center with candles of various sizes and shapes strategically dotted on them.
Grip sets the bags on one of the tables, and walks to the wall to turn a few knobs. Soft music fills the air around me, and strands of fairy tale lights now glimmer over our heads. It’s all very romantic.
“You know this is just two friends eating dinner, right?” I flop onto the padded bench and put down our drinks.
“I do know that.” The innocent expression is the only thing that doesn’t look right on Grip’s face. “But if you need to remind yourself, I understand.”
I make sure he sees me rolling my eyes before tearing open the bags of precious fried dough.
Correction. Baked.
“You said these were fried,” I complain around a bite of empanada.
“My bad.” He stretches his brows up and takes a leisurely sip of his beer. “That’s your second one, though, right? I guess you barely notice the difference when you inhale them.”
“Very funny.” I actually do laugh and polish off another one.
“Well, so much for leftovers.” He leans back against the cushion beside me until mere inches separate our shoulders.
“You shouldn’t have invited me to stay if you wanted leftovers.”
“I think your company’s a fair trade.” Our eyes connect across the small slice of charged space separating us.
I sit up from my slouch, inserting a few much-needed inches between us.
“You mentioned needing to talk about the email I sent.” My business-like tone clashes with the soft music and lighting, which is exactly what I need it to do.
“Yeah.” He considers me for an extra moment, as if he may not allow me to steer our conversation into safer territory. “You mentioned that next Wednesday at three you have a sit down scheduled with that reporter from Legit.”
“I checked the shared calendar, and that block of time was free. Was I wrong?”
“It’s my fault.” He shoots me an apologetic look. “I forget to add personal stuff there sometimes. I’m talking to some students in my old neighborhood that day. Could we reschedule?”
Between my request to cancel tomorrow’s interview for Qwest’s would-be booty call, and nixing next Wednesday’s sit down, Meryl won’t be too happy with me.
“What if she tags along?” I sit up straighter, twisting to peer down at him. “She could see you talking to the students and then you guys could chat a few minutes maybe right there on the grounds. Get some local color shots.”
“Local color?” A husky laugh passes over his lips. “There’s four colors in Compton. Black, brown, red, and blue. In the wrong place at the wrong time, on the wrong street, any of those could get you killed. I don’t know. And I don’t want the talk exploited. Like headline shit. That isn’t why I’m doing it.”
“I know that. Of course it isn’t. I’ll make sure it isn’t like that.”
He glances up at me, wordlessly reading between lines.
“You’d be coming, too?” His voice is soft, but the look in his eyes is loud and clear. His eyes tell me he likes having me near. It makes my stomach bottom out like we’re back up on that Ferris wheel, and if I’m not careful, I’ll fall.
“Why not?” I give what I hope is a casual shrug, though it feels as stiff as my neck.
“You just haven’t been around much lately.” His eyes never leave my face, and I hope I drop my expressionless mask in place fast enough to keep him out.
“We connect every day.” I look him straight in the face like it isn’t hard to do. “So I don’t know what you mean.”
“We text, email, FaceTime, but we haven’t seen each other much.”
I rub at the knots in my neck, wishing a masseuse would magically appear.
“Are you tight?” His voice and eyes seem to simmer, both hot and steady.
The double entendre of that question is not lost on me. As little sex as I’ve had the last year . . . years, I’m probably as tight as a peephole, but he’ll never know.
“It’s just been a long few weeks.”
“I know something that could relax you.”
He bends over me, pressing me back into cushions.
“Grip, what are you—”
“Relax,” he interrupts with a laugh, stretching a few inches more to unscrew a jar sitting on the concrete pedestal beside my seat. He settles back into his space, freeing up my lungs to breathe again.
“My Uncle Jamal used to say if you can’t have a good hoe.” He holds up a joint. “Have good dro.”
“Have I mentioned that your uncle is a misogynist who subscribes to antiquated and archetypal notions of womanhood?”
“Yeah, more than once, but I’m pretty sure he was a pimp, so that makes sense.”
What the what?
He says it as if he just told me his uncle was a fireman.
“You mean like ‘big pimpin’, Jay-Z’ kind of pimp?”
“No, like, ‘bitch, go get my money on the corner’ kind of pimp.” A frown pleats Grip’s expression. “By the time he came out west, no, but I think back in Chicago he may have been a pimp.”
I’m having trouble processing this. I’ve met Grip’s Uncle Jamal a few times, and he never struck me . . . maybe that is an unfortunate way to think of it considering he may have struck the women who worked for him . . . but he never struck me as a pimp.
“He’s actually my great-uncle,” Grip says. “My grandmother’s brother. When she left Chicago to move out here in the seventies, he followed.”
Grip shakes his head, blowing out a heavy sigh.
“The generation before him thought Chicago was the answer to Jim Crow, so they left the South. And then they thought the answer to poverty and crime was California and left Chicago,” Grip says. “Always running. Stokely Carmichael said, ‘Our grandfathers had to run, run, run. My generation’s out of breath. We ain’t running no more.’”
We have Grip’s mother to thank for all the varied people he can quote.
“So your mother moved here for better opportunities?”
“My mother moved here because her mother moved them here.” Grip considers me a few extra seconds before going on. “My grandmother was part of the Black Panther movement, which was huge in Southern Cali.”
“What? I never knew that.”
“It isn’t exactly what I lead with when I meet someone.” Grip laughs.
“Weren’t they violent?” I ask carefully. “Like ‘blowing up things’ violent?”
“They were . . . complicated. They weren’t perfect, by any means, but they were providing free lunch for kids in poor neighborhoods, tutoring students, teaching self-defense, doing a lot of good. That’s what drew my grandmother to the movement.”
“And your mother?”
“Ma definitely ain’t a Panther.” He chuckles. “But don’t cross her because I wouldn’t put it past her to blow shit up.”
I have no plans to cross her.
He pulls a lighter from the pocket of his jeans, and I notice the black plastic watch on his strong wrist. I’ve never seen him without it since I won it at that carnival. I don’t know what to think about that, so I don’t let myself think about it.
“So you in or what?” he asks.
I drag my eyes from the plastic watch to the expectant expression on his face.
“You know I don’t smoke weed.”
“Oh, I’m giving it up, too.” His sculpted lips stretch into a smart-ass smirk. “Next week. Come on. When was the last time you got hi
gh? Not high off contact, either.”
“Columbia. Senior year. Finals.” The memory of munching my way through my study sessions bubbles laughter from my chest. “I was lit through half my econ exam.”
He leans into my shoulder, his deep laughter rumbling through me.
“Come on, Bristol,” he cajoles, drawing on the joint, blowing a circle of smoke out, and then offering it to me. “It’s legal in half the country now, ya know?”
“Medicinally.”
“Well, it’s all the way legal in Cali.” White smoke halos his head, contrasting with the devilishly handsome face.
This is a bad idea. Even at my most vigilant, it’s sometimes hard to stave off the attraction between Grip and me. If I’m . . . impaired . . . there’s no telling what I’ll give in to. But the string of tough days, the months of non-stop work getting the label off the ground, this hellish week—it all bombards me, and in a moment of weakness, I take one draw. And then another. And then another.
An indeterminate amount of time later, I’m feeling nice.
Shoes off. Feet up. Hair down. High as a kite.
The wine conspires with the weed and my exhaustion to create a laid-back haze. My eyes keep closing, and my head keeps lolling onto Grip’s shoulder. When I manage to crack my eyes open, he’s watching me intently, alert. He’s a creature who hides his weapons, lulling his prey into thinking he poses no danger. Maybe it’s a survival mechanism he picked up from his childhood in a gang-infested war zone, camouflaging the threat, but he isn’t hiding how dangerous he is now. The jet brows slant over eyes with the color and heat of melted caramel. His desire is a cloak, heavy on my shoulders, tight around my arms, hot on every part of me it touches.
He’s such a beautiful man, his body a palette of precious metals—darkened gold, bronze, copper. I should remember that I’m not the only one who thinks so. If I took what that look offers, he would never be just mine. I’d have to share him. Not right away, maybe not the first time or the first year, but eventually. That’s the way it is with men like him and women like me. I get it, but I don’t have to choose it.
“I can’t believe you cut your locs.” Even to my ears it sounds like a diversion, nervous and chatty.
“Technically, I didn’t.” His steady eyes don’t waver. “Jade did.”
I follow the line of conversation like a lamp lighting my way out of a dark cave, hoping it will dispel the tension coiling around us.
“As many times as you’ve talked about Jade,” I say. “I never envisioned our first meeting would be at gunpoint.”
“She thought you broke in.” The corner of his mouth tips.
I give him my “you’re shitting” me look.
“Yeah, because I look like such a criminal.”
“Some of the worst criminals wear three-piece suits and have an Ivy League pedigree.”
“Oh, you don’t have to tell me. I grew up with half of them.” I grimace and lean back, closing my eyes. “Just make sure I’m somewhere else if she ever does come by the studio.”
“Bris, don’t be sadity.” His words and voice chide me.
“I don’t even know what ‘sadity’ means, so I seriously doubt I’m being it.”
“Sorry.” His laugh rolls over me. “It means uppity. Stuck up. Jade’s had it hard. Don’t judge her.”
“Me, judge her?” My eyes pop open, and I sit up, hand pressed to my chest and eyes stretched wide. “She’s the one who called me a bitch before she even knew my name.”
I lie back only to snap up into a sitting position again.
“Oh, and again after she knew my name.”
“She isn’t the most polite, I give you that.”
“And apparently, when I finally meet your mother it won’t go any better.”
That was the absolute wrong thing to say, and I don’t examine what prompted me to say it. I’ve never actually met Grip’s mother, but I know they’re incredibly close. I never plan to be “the one” he takes home to Mama, but to think she would disapprove simply because I’m white is galling.
“My mom would adjust. She isn’t narrow minded, just . . .” Grip trails off, his long lashes dropping over clouded eyes. “You have to cut them both some slack. You can’t imagine the things we experienced living where we grew up. I was lucky going to the School of the Arts. That was my exit. It could easily have been Jade. She just didn’t apply. She’s a better writer than I am.”
“I doubt that,” I mumble.
His gaze latches onto my face, narrowed and searching.
“Why, ‘cause she’s hood? I’m hood, Bris.”
“Maybe you are, but you never called me a bitch.”
“At least not to your face.” He doesn’t even crack a smile.
Our eyes catch and hold. At the corners, my lips fight a smile. He stops holding his back around the same time I give in. Our laughter clears the air.
“And I didn’t doubt Jade was better than you because she’s hood or stupid.” Eyes down, I circle the lip of the wine glass with one finger. “I doubt it because I’ve never met a better writer than you.”
I inwardly slap myself. Why the ever-living hell do I keep saying things like this? As soon as things lighten, I say something stupid to let him know just how much he means to me. Must be the weed.
“You wanna know the real reason Jade didn’t like you?”
Grip leans into me, pushing back my hair and rolling his still-icy beer bottle over my neck. I swallow, but don’t dare look at him, hoping he’ll drop it, but he doesn’t.
“When you grow up on the streets, you don’t just develop a sixth sense.” He captures a lock of my hair and tests it between his fingers. “You have six, seven, eight, nine of ’em, because those instincts could be the difference between death or life. My mom and Jade have so many senses they almost know what you’re thinking before you think it. And even though I’ve never told her, Jade only had to be in the room with us for a hot minute to know I want you.”
I clench my eyes closed and pull in a stuttering breath, trapping my bottom lip between my teeth.
“Don’t do this, Grip.”
“Jade’s right,” he continues as if I hadn’t spoken, hadn’t asked him to stop. “My mom would flip if I brought a white girl home. If I brought you home. Maybe it is bigoted and ancient, but that’s just her. You know better than most that we don’t get to choose our family, but we still gotta love them.”
I don’t respond to that. He knows how contentious things have been between my brother and my parents. Beyond the headlines everyone else has seen, he knows how hard I’ve worked to reconcile them. I moved to LA to help Rhyson with his career, yes, but also to bridge the country-wide chasm between the two factions of my family.
“Like you, I’d do anything for my family.” He comes in an inch closer, caressing under my chin and tilting it up with his index finger. “But if you’d ever give me a shot, I wouldn’t give a fuck what anyone thought. I’d take you home to my mama.”
I’m a little too high and a lot too horny for this conversation, for the stone-hard thigh pressing against me, for the heat coming off his body and smothering my resistance. I try to sit up, hoping it will clear my head so I can make my escape, but his hand presses gently into my chest, just above the swell of my breasts, compelling me back into the cushion. His lips hover over mine, and I will him to kiss me because I’ll make the first move if he doesn’t. After years of not moving, I have no idea how I’ll explain that once the smoke clears.
Sometimes at night after the chaos dies, I think about our first kiss at the top of a Ferris wheel. Just like then, his lips start soft, brushing mine like wings in sweet sweeps, coaxing me open and delving into me. Sampling me, he groans into my mouth and chases my tongue. The rough palm of his hand cups my face, angling me so he can dive deeper. He doesn’t come up for air, but keeps kissing me so deeply I can’t breathe. He tastes so good, I’ll choose him over air as long as I can. Why is it never like this with anyone else? I want
it to be so bad, but it never is.
He releases my lips to scatter kisses down my neck. My back arches, and my nipples go tight. He knows that’s my spot. After all this time, he still knows. My neck is so incredibly sensitive, a gateway to the rest of my body.
“You taste exactly the same.” His words come on a labored breath in my ear. “Do you know how long it’s been since I kissed you?”
Eight years.
“Eight years.” He shakes his head, eyes riveting mine in light lent by candles and the moon. “And you taste exactly the same.”
His words shiver through me, searching out my nerve endings and invading my bones. If I don’t get out of here, we’ll be fucking on the rooftop before I can draw another breath.
“I should go.” I slide from under him, scooting down the couch as far as I can without falling off. “This is why I don’t smoke weed.”
I force a laugh, hoping he’ll let me get away with it. I scoop my hair behind my ears and drop my chin to my chest. When I glance over at him, displeasure clumps his brows and tightens his mouth.
“It’s not the weed, Bristol.” His glance slices through the haze hanging in the air. “It’s us. Don’t pretend it isn’t us.”
“There is no us.” My feet explore the floor, searching in the dark for my shoes. “You know that.”
He puts a staying hand on my knee until I look at him.
“What I know is that neither of us has been in a serious relationship in years.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.” I stand and slide my feet into the Jimmy Choos. “You haven’t exactly been waiting around, have you?”
“Damn right I haven’t been waiting around.” He doesn’t get up, but his firm hold on my wrist stops me from walking away. “I’m not Rhyson.”
I look down at him, frowning my confusion.
“What do you mean?”
“Remember when Kai put Rhyson in the friend zone?”
Of course I do. For a long time, my sister-in-law Kai denied the attraction between her and Rhyson.
“Yeah, so?”
“When Kai wasn’t checking for Rhys, I assumed he had to be sleeping with other girls.” Grip shrugs. “I mean, he and Kai were just friends. But, nope. He said he only wanted Kai and didn’t sleep with anyone else.”