by Kate Stewart
“Hi,” Qwest says as close to shy as she can get.
There’s nothing shy or subtle about Qwest. Skin flawless and the color of nutmeg. Her trademark braids, which are usually pulled into a knot, flow down to her tiny waist. Her body is a series of highlights and exaggerations. The curve from her waist to her ass is positively hyperbolic. I used to wonder if that ass was real. Remembering how she invited me to touch it and find out for myself the first time we met crooks my lips into a grin. This girl makes me laugh. She’s talented and beautiful. Smart as a whip. I should feel so much more for her than friendship. And maybe I would if it weren’t for Bristol.
But there is Bristol.
“Hi, yourself,” I answer. “You ready for this?”
“Ready to get it over with.” She walks over until she stands directly in front of me. “So we can have a good time later.”
“A good time?” I shrug. “Sure. We could get a crew and go hit Greystone.”
“A club?” She shakes her head and reaches up and over my shoulders, pressing her body into me. “No, I had something much more private in mind for us.”
She is tight and warm and curvy against me, and if she keeps doing this, my dick will get hard. But that’s it.
“Okay.” I rest my hands lightly at her hips to move her so I can step away. I grab the button up I’m wearing for the show. “More private, huh? Just remember we have that interview with the Legit reporter after the show.”
“Didn’t Bristol tell you?” Qwest’s eyes heat up a few degrees. “She got it cancelled so we can hang out.”
“Hang out” is a euphemism for screw me into next week. I’m sure Bristol realizes this, and yet, she cancelled a long-standing interview to accommodate the desire branded in Qwest’s eyes.
“Bristol arranged it, huh?” My voice is plastered to the walls of my throat. “Well then it’s settled. You just tell me where we’re going.”
She runs one long nail down the center of my chest, her eyes never leaving mine.
“Oh I will.”
Chapter Eight
Bristol
THE FIRST TIME I saw Grip perform, I literally almost came.
Standing in the wings, watching him charm the audience with his charisma, challenge them with his lyrics, and feed them from the palm of his hand. I’ve almost nodded off waiting for guys to find the spot, to get me off, and this man does it hands-free from fifty feet away in front of a crowd without even trying. It’s embarrassing to be so aroused just by watching him onstage. A heat wave flushes my body. Tiny beads of sweat gather down the line of my back, across my lip, at the nape of my neck . . . from watching him. While the blood seems to slow to a languid creep through my veins, my heart hurtles in my chest. Fire-winged butterflies swarm in my belly. I’m wet.
Good God. When will this set be over?
Thank goodness it’s the last song or I’d need spare panties. I must not be the only one feeling hot. When Grip brings Qwest onstage for “Queen” to close the show, her eyes rake his tall frame possessively, like he’s already hers. Like she wants to jump him under the lights in front of everyone. When she sidles up to him before her verse begins and grinds her hips into his, the audience goes wild. They want this to be real. There’s already rampant speculation about a romance between Grip and Qwest. Some even mistakenly assume the song honoring women from all walks of life was written for her. Tonight’s sexually charged performance will only send it into overdrive.
She stuffs her mic into her tiny bra top, freeing up her hands. Grip’s denim button down shirt hangs open already, his chest and abs a map of muscles on display. Qwest slides her hands under the shirt at his shoulders and guides it down over his arms until it catches at his wrists. Squeals from the audience pierce the air. Grip laughs, his smile as bright as the stage lights overhead, and shakes the shirt free of his hands. Qwest ties his shirt around her waist before diving into her verse.
She’s a powerful figure, the cocky feminism and hard flow of her lyrics juxtaposed with the soft curves of her body. She turns her back to Grip, pressing and circling that is-it-really-real ass into his groin. His hands at her tiny waist look huge and commanding, and I know exactly what every woman in this place must be fantasizing about right now.
Because I would be, except I’m no longer aroused. Seeing how perfect they look together, feeling their chemistry like a tangible thing permeating the whole room, cools me right off and leaves a painful lump in my throat.
“They’re fire,” Will says from beside me with a grin. “And it’s burning up the charts. People want them to happen, and it’s driving sales. Their chemistry is a huge part of why ‘Queen’ is number one.”
“It would seem.” I try to relax my face so I can smile back.
“And their night out will only fuel it. Thanks for getting the interview delayed. Qwest was very happy.”
“Good. She can show her appreciation in Dubai. Meryl’s expecting a one-on-one with her, too.”
“She’ll be more than happy to,” Will says. “You should have seen her face when I told her about tonight. I haven’t seen her like this over a guy . . . well, ever really.”
“Grip has that effect.”
He had that effect on me.
Had? Who are you kidding, Bristol? He still does.
And it’s harder than I want to admit, seeing him have that effect on Qwest.
We both clap, adding our applause to everyone else’s when the set closes.
My shoulders drop with relief. Not only because I’m no longer held captive to the burlesque show Qwest made of the performance but also because I didn’t realize how much preparing for this show has stressed me out. It was televised, and every show, every shoot, every interview counts leading up to the release of Grip. In my gut, I know this album is special. I wake thinking about it, and it’s the last thing on my mind when I fall into an exhausted heap each night. Unfortunately, that means Grip owns the first and last of my day. I keep a pad by my bed so when promotion ideas or things to do hit me, I can capture them right away. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt this much anticipation and excitement for a project, for an artist. Whether it’s because it’s that great or whether it’s because it’s Grip, I don’t let myself consider.
I’m at the bar ordering my well-earned, much-deserved vodka martini, when a hand presses against the small of my back, caressing the bare skin. I stiffen and look over my shoulder.
“Parker.” I turn back to the bar and smile at the bartender as I accept my drink. “Well, that didn’t take long. I texted you, like what? Twenty minutes ago?”
“More like fifteen.” The hotel mogul I’ve known all my life grins and slides a steamy gaze down my body. “You have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for you to call?”
“Since Vegas?” I turn and prop my elbows on the bar. The action pushes my breasts forward in my cropped top, and his eyes predictably drop.
“A lot longer than that.” He captures a lock of hair that’s escaped from the knot at my neck, tucking it behind my ear. “And you know it.”
“I just wanted to thank you for upgrading the suite.” I force myself not to pull away from his hand and take a sip of my drink, closing my eyes in pure bliss. “God, I’ve needed this drink since I woke up this morning.”
“We make the best vodka martini at the Park.” He pauses, running a finger down my neck. “The Park-Vegas, I mean. Let’s go.”
“Now?” I take another glorious sip and cock an eyebrow at him. “Tonight?”
“Got a ‘copter waiting on my helipad.”
“I love that after all these years you still think your money impresses me.” This time, my sip becomes a gulp that bottoms the glass out. “It’s charming, really.”
The bartender passes me another without my having to ask.
“You, my man,” I tell him, accepting my second drink gratefully. “Are on your way to quite a tip.”
When I turn back to Parker, the humor gathering in his eyes dissipates as he
starts at my toes and takes me in, not stopping until he meets my eyes in the blue-green light of the club.
“I really miss fucking you, Bristol.”
The glass stops halfway to my mouth, my breath catching. Not because his words turn me on. It’s one thing to invite him here in hopes that Grip will see him and give Qwest a chance. It’s a whole other thing to get entangled with Parker again. Our mothers have been planning our wedding since they discovered they were pregnant within days of one another. For some reason, Parker has always been onboard.
Onboard . . . obsessed. Semantics.
“Parker, we’ve talked about this.” I set my drink down on the bar. “We tried and failed at a relationship. I think we’ve satisfied our parents’ misplaced intentions.”
“This isn’t about what our parents want.” Parker palms my hip and pulls me closer, dropping his head until his lips brush my ear. “It never has been for me. I’ve always wanted you, and having you for a few months wasn’t nearly enough. Give me another shot.”
Parker and I dated for a while from senior year in high school until I went to college. When I chose Columbia and he went to Stanford, I took advantage of the long distance to break things off. We had zero chemistry, but I think something in me recognized the promise of what he’s become—spoiled, entitled, and a bit of a bully. I could so easily have become those things. Hell, I may have even been those things at various points in my life, but I didn’t want to be that. I certainly didn’t want to be with that.
“Sorry to interrupt.”
I look just past Parker’s shoulder to see Grip standing there. To anyone else, he might look at ease, but I know him better than most. I know his face intimately, have every line of it memorized. I know how frustration thins his full lips. How his eyes narrow at the corners when he’s annoyed. How anger ticks the strong line of his jaw.
“No problem.” I gesture to Parker. “Parker, this is—”
“Gripe, right?” Parker extends his hand, which Grip leaves hanging in the air, his eyes fixed on Parker’s face.
“It’s Grip,” I correct, breathing a little easier when Grip finally shakes his hand. “Remember Grip is one of my artists, Parker. He performed at the show in Vegas.”
“I need a minute, Bristol,” Grip says, not acknowledging my introduction. He walks a few feet away without waiting for my response.
“Be right back,” I tell Parker.
Parker catches me by the elbow.
“I’ll have them ready the ‘copter.”
I pull free without answering and step over to where Grip waits.
“What’s up?” I ask him.
“Next time, before you pimp me out,” he snaps, eyes darkening to hot chocolate. “Give me a heads up, would you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You didn’t set me up on a date with Qwest?” His brows push up. “Did she misunderstand?”
“I didn’t ‘pimp you out.’ I thought it would be a nice surprise.” I shrug nonchalantly. “That you’d enjoy some time to relax. Sorry if I overstepped.”
“She wants to fuck me.” He dips his head so his eyes wrangle with mine under the moving lights. “You do realize that?”
“You’re consenting adults,” I say around the fist in my throat. “Whatever you decide to do is up to you.”
“This guy, Bristol?” He twists his lips derisively and switches gears without a clutch. “The guy with the irretrievable stick up his ass. This is the guy you give the time of day?”
“Don’t start.”
I turn to walk away, but he clamps his hand around my wrist. Just that contact sends a smoke signal up my arm. Parker can whisper in my ear that he wants to fuck me, and I’m dry as a bone. One touch from Grip, and I’m gushing in my panties.
Figures. My vagina, the contrarian.
He doesn’t get to say more because Qwest walks up to us, her smile wide with anticipation.
“Hey.” Her eyes drop to where Grip still holds my wrist. “Everything okay?”
“Just touching base before Grip leaves.” I tug my wrist free, looking up at the neutral expression shuttering Grip’s face. “You’ve got a couple of days off before everything goes even crazier. Enjoy them.”
Grip’s eyes cool to iced mocha and freeze when they shift over my shoulder. I turn to see Parker standing there, a sober-faced gentleman in a suit standing just a few paces behind him. The man with Parker is one of those people who carries just enough menace not to blend into the wallpaper but with a face you’d be hard-pressed to remember.
“Bris, we need to go if we want to make that flight.” Parker’s hands, usually possessive when in my vicinity, settle on my hips as he positions himself at my back.
“Um, okay,” I say, though I’m still not sure I’m going with him anywhere.
“Thanks again for the suite, Bristol,” Qwest says. “It’s incredible.”
“You actually have Parker here to thank for that.” I force myself to lean back into him, knowing I’ll pay later for encouraging him. “He’s the one who upgraded you.”
“Anything for Bristol’s friends,” Parker says smoothly.
“You two together?” A smile lights Qwest’s sharp eyes.
“On and off since high school,” Parker says.
Mostly off, but no need to split hairs right now.
“No way.” Qwest’s mouth hangs open a little. “I had no idea.”
Neither did I.
“I actually escorted Bristol to her debutante ball.” Parker tucks his chin into the crook of my neck. “That’s how it started.”
In my eighteen-year-old mind, sex in that coat check was such an adventure. Little did I know that would be the high point. I spent the next four months trying my damnedest to shake Parker and have been shaking ever since. That tick in Grip’s jaw tells me he remembers the story I told him about screwing my escort, but until now, he never knew the guy.
“You were a debutante?” Qwest laughs, looking at me through the lens of my family’s wealth and pedigree. “Wow.”
“In another life, and at my mother’s insistence.” I put a little distance between my ass and Parker’s dick, because apparently, trips down memory lane arouse him.
“We better go.” Grip grabs Qwest’s hand and turns to leave abruptly without saying goodbye.
Qwest waves over her shoulder and stutter steps to keep up with Grip’s swift, long-legged stride away from us.
I should feel good that this is working even better than I planned. Qwest is with Grip. Grip saw me with Parker. All is going according to plan, but it feels so wrong. I watch Grip and Qwest slip through a side exit, hand in hand, and wonder, too late, if maybe I’ve made a big mistake. Actually seeing him with another woman—someone he could really fall for—saws at my insides. He was right, up on that roof. It hurts me to see him with someone else, every time. I know I could have him, but not on my terms. Probably not forever. Probably not to myself. It’s ironic. People think I’m heartless. That I don’t care enough. That isn’t it. This ache, this wound bleeding on the inside of me, it tells the truth of how I really feel.
And I’m sick and damn tired of feeling. I want to forget that Grip is probably falling for Qwest tonight. Probably sleeping with her tonight. I want to be numb. I want the best vodka martini money can buy, even if I do have to fly to Vegas with Parker to get it.
“Hey.” I turn to Parker, determined to feel less by the end of this night. “What about that drink you promised me?”
Chapter Nine
Grip
“YOU DON’T LIKE stand-up comedy?”
Qwest’s question pulls me out of my own head, where thoughts of Bristol with that punk ass Parker have tortured me ever since we left the club. So Parker’s the coat check guy. And the man her mother has wanted her to marry since the cradle.
“What?” I frown and force myself to focus. “No, I love Chappelle. I can’t believe we caught a show.”
Dave Chappelle has been doing surprise
shows in the city, and we were lucky to catch one tonight.
“Do you not like steak?” Qwest points her fork at the medium rare meat on my plate, nearly untouched.
“Love it.” I take a bite. “This is delicious.”
I survey the private dining room of the restaurant still open solely to accommodate us at this late hour. We’re the only customers here. Qwest’s security guard stands just outside the door.
“So do you not like me?” Qwest injects humor, but her eyes beg the question.
I feel like shit. She went to a lot of trouble to make tonight fun, exactly what I would have chosen. I’ve been half here the whole time. The other half of me can’t stop wondering where Parker took Bristol on the “flight” he mentioned. I need to make more of an effort.
“You know I like you, Qwest.” I toss my linen napkin on the table. “I’m sorry I’ve been so . . .”
I search my tired mind for the right word.
“Preoccupied?” Qwest finds it for me.
“Yeah. It’s rude, and you’re great. It isn’t you.”
I lob a smile across the table before lifting my water for a sip.
“Would you like to fuck me, Grip?”
I almost spew my water. I grab the napkin to dab at the corners of my mouth.
“It’s a yes or no question,” she continues unfazed.
“Um, maybe it isn’t.” I would laugh if this wasn’t so awkward. “I’m attracted to you, yeah. Of course.”
“I know that.” She walks over, slides between the table and me, and straddles my hips. “But what do you want to do about it?”
Her wrists link at the back of my neck. I run my hands up and down her back. She’s slim and tight and supple beneath her silk dress. She’d let me take her right on this table where her guard could hear her scream when she comes.
“Is there someone else?” Voice dropped, she runs a hand over my closely cropped hair.
“Yeah.” I release a breath, my voice low and husky, too. I shake my head. “No.”