by Kate Stewart
“Then you’re right.” I tug at my wrist, but he holds on tight. “You’re definitely not Rhyson.”
“It was months, Bristol. She shut him out for months. Not years.”
“I’m not shutting you out.” I release a tired breath. “I’m living my life, and you’re living yours.”
“Right.” He nods and turns his mouth down at the corners. “So, if you won’t be with me, then I’ll fuck whoever the hell I want. If you have a problem with that, you know what to do about it.”
For a moment, our eyes tangle in the dimness. His words sink into my flesh like briars. Every word out of his mouth only proves that I’m right to get out of here. That I’m right not to give in. If I ever gave him a chance and he fucked around on me . . . I’ve seen what that looks like. It looks like a woman as strong as my mother reduced to pathetic, teary drunkenness.
“It’s none of my business.” I shift my eyes away from him and to the glittering city skyline just beyond the rooftop.
“It’s none of your business until you say it is.”
I force myself to look back.
“Don’t hold your breath, Grip.” I say my next words with deliberation. “I mean, it’s not like I’m sitting around saving it, either.”
He pulls me forward, and I press my hand to the hardness of his chest so I don’t fall into him. My knee supports me, pressed against his on the couch.
“Are you poking me?” One strong hand wraps around the back of my thigh, anger marking his expression. “Do you want to know if it bothers me when you fuck other guys?”
I just stare at him unblinkingly. He presses my leg, urging me forward until I’m fully on the couch, fully on him, one knee on either side of his legs, facing him. Straddling him.
“It makes me want to set the world on fire.” His words come softly, but the truth roars in his eyes. “To think of you with them.”
There haven’t been nearly as many men as he probably assumes, but I don’t reveal that. I can’t offer him any relief.
“You wanna know what consoles me, though?” He looks up at me, calculation in his eyes. Before I can tell him I don’t want to know, he goes on. “For one, I know when we’re together, it’ll only take once for me to fuck their memory out of you.”
I shoot him an uncertain look. He sounds fierce enough to follow through on that threat right now. I manage to snatch my wrist from his grasp. I back off his lap, walking swiftly toward the steps that will take me back into his loft. I’m only a few steps down when he calls from the top.
“It also helps that I know how much it bothers you, too.”
I freeze on the fourth step, my palm pressed to the wall.
“I don’t know what you mean.” The words echo in the narrow stairwell, sounding much more confident than I feel inside.
“The other women.” He mock-sighs behind me like he’s getting impatient. “Like I don’t see it, Bris.”
I know I should keep going, but I’m stuck on the stairs, afraid of what he has perceived. He slips past me and down onto the step below, his height still putting him eye level with me.
“You think I’m that oblivious?” He walks his fingers up my arm. “You always conveniently have somewhere to be when I’m with someone else.”
“I’m busy.” I study my shoes on the step, not looking up. “I have more to do with my life than hang around waiting for you to screw some groupie.”
“And you watch me.” He dips his head until he traps my eyes. “You watch me all the time. You can’t keep your eyes off me any more than I can keep my eyes off you.”
“You’re delusional.” I offer a hollow laugh. “Thanks for dinner.”
I shove past him, squeezing between the stairwell wall and the taut muscles of his body.
“You don’t want to know the third thing that consoles me?” he asks at my back.
“No,” I fling over my shoulder. Only a few steps to go and I’ll be in his loft and then out the door.
“They don’t satisfy you.” He plays the comment like a trump card. “Sexually, I mean.”
My hand is on the knob to his loft, but I look up at him, anger overtaking the fear and confusion of the last few moments.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” I snap. “To presume you know anything about my sex life.”
“Oh, but I do.” He takes the few steps separating us until he’s right in front of me, his hard body pressing me against the door. “Remember last year when you bought your cottage and invited us all over for dinner?”
I have no idea where he’s going with this, but I can’t pretend I’m not curious. I just stare at him, knowing he doesn’t need my permission to go on.
“Everyone was playing cards, and then I left the room and was gone for a long time.” He presses his forearm to the door behind me and over my head until our bodies are practically flush. “Remember?”
“You said my chili sent you to the bathroom,” I say breathlessly.
I'm not a great cook and was surprised the chili turned out halfway decent. Grip was the only one who complained.
“I’m sorry about that.” He grins at me, his eyes lighting with temporary mischief. “I lied. Your chili was pretty good. It really was. No, I wasn’t in the bathroom. I went to your bedroom. Ya know. To explore.”
“My bedroom?” I can’t believe him. “How dare you?”
“Desperate times call for desperate measures. I have no problem playing dirty. I welcome it actually. But I stumbled upon something in the drawer by your bed that was very telling.”
There’s two drawers in my bedside table. One holds journals and a few items that would tell him too much about my feelings. That drawer remains locked, so he wouldn’t have seen what was inside. But the other drawer . . .
“I’ve never seen so many vibrators in one place.” Grip’s grin is half teasing, half cruel. “Residential, of course. You’ve got your own black market sex store in there.”
My face heats, and I cannot even form words. Embarrassment chokes me.
“I figure anyone with that many vibrators can’t be coming on the regular. With a guy, I mean,” he clarifies unnecessarily.
“Stop it.” I fire the words at him, so angry, so humiliated I want to slap him.
“It’s okay.” With gentle fingers he brushes the heavy hair back from my forehead. “I think I understand the problem. It isn’t you. It’s them.”
I push away from the wall, only to be blocked and gently but firmly pressed back against the door.
“Guys, we can be so clumsy.” He shakes his head and sighs. “You know? Quick. Selfish.”
He trails fingers down my arm to link our fingers.
“See, I bet they start here,” he whispers, slipping his hand between us until his fingers lightly drift across the space just below my belly where my thighs juncture. My panties soak with the promise of his fingers. My breath catches at the brief contact where I crave him most.
“When they should start . . .” His hand glides up and over my belly and between my breasts. Over the curve of my shoulder and neck until he reaches his destination. He finally taps my temple three times. “Here. They should start here and work their way down because your mind is your most erogenous zone, Bris. I look forward to making you come with my words alone.”
I fumble with the knob behind my back until the door swings open. I take several steps into the apartment. I can think more clearly now that I’m away from that tower of muscle, bone, and heat standing pressed against me. The strong girl who has resisted him all these years is regaining her composure.
“Whatever you think you know about me,” I yell, not bothering to turn around. “About my sex life, about anything—you have no idea.”
I stride over to the couch and retrieve my bag, determined to get out of here with the hard shell still around my soft places. When I’m at the front door, I glance back, surprised to see Grip still in the stairwell where I left him, the door standing wide open. Our eyes clash one last time, a
nd there’s a coalition of sadness and frustration and want in his gaze. I can’t afford to look too long, so I make a dash for the door, hoping against hope that he won’t come after me.
I’m nearly at my car by the time I realize I’m perversely saddened he didn’t follow.
Chapter Three
Grip
I PROBABLY SHOULDN’T have kissed her.
Second thought, hell with that.
I’d do it again if given the opportunity. That’s just it. There hasn’t been an opportunity, no opening for years. And then all of a sudden last night, a crack. Something inside of Bristol opened just a fraction, but it was enough for me to explore and exploit. I would have explored and exploited all night if she had let me, but that space sealed shut almost immediately. Something shut her down. I don’t know what holds Bristol back from making us . . . an us. It has to be more than what happened with Tessa.
I saw that crack in the wall she’s used to keep me out. Maybe my Shawshank plan is working. Rhyson, Bristol’s brother and my best friend, would appreciate that, movie geek that he is. In Shawshank Redemption, Andy hangs a poster on the wall in his prison cell. At night for years, he secretly chips at that wall until one day, he’s made a hole big enough to crawl through and escape. That’s me. Chipping away at that wall for years, and last night may have been a breakthrough.
Or not.
Because as Bristol walks down the hall of the Prodigy offices, headed straight for me, there’s barely a flicker of recognition in her eyes, much less desire. She nods to me before carefully brushing past to enter the conference room for our meeting.
There’s already a few people here, including Bristol’s assistant Sarah. They chat as Bristol sets her iPad and phone on the table, her movements easy and graceful. She wears her hair in one of those complicated braid things it looks like you need a degree to do, the dark and coppery length tamed to rest on one shoulder. She’s paired dark skinny jeans with her trademark stilettos and a slouchy shirt hangs off one shoulder.
The seat beside her is occupied, so I take the one across from her. She glances up, catching my eyes on her. The tiny frown pulling between her brows is the only indication she gives that she even knows I’m here.
“Let the party begin,” Rhyson says from the door, wearing one of the ear-to-ear grins he seems to have all the time since he got married. The fact that Kai is also pregnant . . . well, let’s just say it must hurt to smile that hard.
“You think you could tone down that smile, Rhys?” Max, Prodigy’s head marketing guy and cynic-in-chief, asks. “It’s too early for such joy.”
Rhyson takes the seat at the head of the table, but his smile doesn’t budge. Max just came through a nasty divorce, so he and Rhys are in very different places. So are we, for that matter. I won’t lie. Seeing Rhyson settle down with someone who loves him the way Kai does and seeing them preparing for their first kid, it makes me wonder how close I am to any of that. I’m knocking on thirty years old. I’m in no hurry, though. My album drops in three weeks, and all my hard work is about to pay off. Is already paying off. Still, I’d like someone to share it with. Not just some groupie. A friend, a lover, a partner.
Bristol’s head is lowered over an open folder. As hard as she works, as single-minded as she is about her job, you’d never guess family is everything to her. I’ve never met anyone who works harder than Bristol. She’s ambitious, yes, but people don’t realize what fuels it. She works hard for the people she cares about. I’m not even sure that Rhyson’s career would have exploded the way it did without Bristol. She was the one who pushed him to get back to making his own music. When she and Rhyson were barely on speaking terms, she chose her degree based on his future and relocated from New York with no guarantees. She’s sacrificed a lot over the last year building this record label not just for success, but out of love for her brother.
I always refused when she asked to manage me, too, because I didn’t want to be just a job to her. I gave in a few months ago, hoping that working together so closely would force her to acknowledge the attraction, the connection between us. But she has somehow managed to keep me out, even as she propelled my career forward. I had success before she came onboard, but I know the unprecedented doors opening for me now are doors Bristol banged on and kicked in.
“Before we get started,” Rhyson says, his grin now aimed at me and growing. “Marlon, dude, what the hell happened to your hair? Kitchen fire?”
He and my mom. The only ones who still call me Marlon.
“Jokes.” I nod, suppressing my grin. We pretty much bust each other’s balls every chance we get, a fifteen-year habit. “Nah. Just wanted something different.”
When Jade came over last night, we started reminiscing about old times in the neighborhood where I grew up. Hard times. Thinking about how far I’ve come since then, how much has happened, made me even more excited for this next chapter. I feel something fresh happening inside of me, and I wanted the outside to reflect it.
“Well, you look about twelve.” Rhyson ignores the middle finger I slowly slip into the air in his honor. “Okay, Bris. Tell us what we’re doing.”
Bristol flicks a glance my way before diving in. I think she’s still adjusting to the new hair, or lack thereof. I am, too.
“Okay. Just to put us on the same page.” Bristol looks down the table at everyone. “We’re talking about the Target Exclusive.”
I still can’t believe it. Target approached us about an exclusive edition of Grip, my debut solo album. Usually reserved for the likes of Beyonce and Taylor Swift, an opportunity like this is something we can’t pass up. But we’ll have to work our asses off to get it done in time. Fortunately, working my ass off is one of my specialties.
“They want three bonus tracks that will be exclusive to their stores.” Bristol checks her notes before going on. “We need to choose the songs today. Rhys and Grip have several songs not included on the wide version of the album for us to consider. We have to move fast, though, because we’ll need to re-master the tracks and get that version of the project pressed and shipped out as quickly as possible.”
“And how exactly did this happen again?” Max frowns at the folder in front of him. “Are we rushing? Committing to something we can’t pull off well in time? I’m not sure about this.”
Before I can tell Max to go suck his own dick, Bristol beats me to it . . . if not more tactfully.
“Max, I don’t have time for you to punch holes in something because you didn’t come up with it.” She rests a fist on her hip and looks at him impatiently. “It’s a freaking Target Exclusive for a debut album. What’s there not to be sure about?”
“I do have legitimate concerns,” he replies firmly. “It isn’t that I didn’t come up with it.”
Bristol tilts her head and gives him a knowing look.
“Okay, maybe that’s part of it,” Max admits with a laugh. “But it’s a lot to turn around in a tight time frame. Can we do it with excellence?”
“Max, I get your concerns.” Bristol tosses her folder onto the conference room table. “But have you ever known me to commit to something we couldn’t get done? I’m not saying it will be easy. Between this, the shows we have with Qwest over the next few weeks, the reporter trailing Grip for the story, and let’s not forget a trip to Dubai thrown in the mix, I’ll probably have a bald spot by the time this is all said and done.”
There are smiles, snickers, various expressions of amusement from everyone at the conference table.
“But it’ll be worth it.” Bristol’s eyes land on me. “Grip will be one of the best albums of the year, and we’re damn well gonna treat it that way.”
I knew she believed in me, but the sincere passion resonating from her is deeper than I even thought. I wish she’d direct some of that passion to me, instead of my work.
“And that starts with positioning it for the best possible opportunities.” Bristol’s eyes shift from mine and touch on each person at the table. “This is
something we can’t let get away. I promise you we can do it.”
“I say let’s go for it,” Rhyson says.
And if he says it, we’re going for it. Rhyson and Bristol often disagree loudly and vehemently, but when they agree, it’s done.
“Well, that’s settled.” Bristol shares a brief smile with her brother but then snaps her fingers. “I almost forgot. Grip?”
She turns to me me, and we look straight at each other. I barely catch the flash of vulnerable uncertainty before she shutters it.
“Yeah?” It’s the first word I’ve spoken since the meeting officially started, even though it’s all about my album. It isn’t that I don’t care about this stuff, but I’m much more interested in actually getting the music to listeners, for them to connect with what I created.
“Target wants you to film a spot next week.” She taps the iPad, her eyes roaming over the screen. “They sent over a treatment for the commercial. I have it here somewhere.”
“Lemme guess,” I say. “There’s lots of red and big dots.”
“Smart ass.” She shoots me her first natural smile of the morning. “I’ll show you later. Let’s listen to these tracks. My contact is waiting. Grip and Rhys, you guys walk us through our options.”
Rhyson dips his head to defer to me. Right.
“So this first song,” I say, pulling up the file sharing where we’ve stored the bonus tracks. “It’s called ‘Bruise.’”
There’s so much I could say to set up this song. I tell them bits and pieces of it. How personal it is. How cathartic it was to write about the tension and fear that marked my relationship with cops growing up. Before black lives or blue were preceded by hash tags, the debate dividing our nation, divided my family. There’s so much more I could say to make them know what this song means to me, but I don’t say any of it. I just play the song and hope it speaks for me. And while it plays, I can’t help but remember the day that inspired it.