Promise Me Forever (Top Shelf Romance)

by Kate Stewart

  “Backward?” She drops her hands and lifts one brow. “No, that’s truth. You think I made all those sacrifices so you could be a cliché? Some black man who thinks a white woman is the ultimate symbol of success? Like a nice car or a big house, but with blonde hair?”

  “She isn’t blonde, and you know me better than that. You raised me better than that.” I’m losing the grasp on my patience the longer I have to defend my feelings for Bristol, since they won’t be doing me any good anyway. “I didn’t fall for her because she’s white. I fell for her because she’s . . . Bristol.”

  “You think it isn’t a factor, but it is.” Mama places her hand over her heart like I’m breaking it. “I was afraid of this. I wanted you to go to that fancy school, but I always knew this could happen, that it could influence you. And here we are.”

  “I’ve dated Asian girls, Hispanic girls, black girls, white girls. Why is this such a big deal to you?”

  “But marrying is a different story.”

  “Who said anything about marrying? And it’s a little late in the century to still be hating white people.”

  “Tell them that,” she replies with fire. “And I don’t hate all white people. Just like I don’t like all black people. All God’s children, red and yellow, black and white get on your mama’s nerves. Not hating them does not mean marrying them.”

  “Nobody’s talking about marrying anyone,” I reiterate. “She won’t even date me, much less marry me. You have nothing to worry about.”

  If anyone should worry, it’s me. Because after two days in New York in Qwest’s bed, my feelings for Bristol are just as strong. My anger and my frustration lie on top of them in a thick pile, but I’ve come nowhere near snuffing them out.

  Not for the first time I wonder if anything ever will.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Bristol

  I’M NOT SURE how much more my ovaries can endure today.

  As if Grip looking the way he does isn’t enough, seeing him inspire these kids from his old high school is like a stick of C4 planted in my ovaries.

  Boom.

  It seems I’m not the only one. Meryl “the huge fan” reporter hasn’t taken her eyes off him since we got here. So much for professional objectivity. She practically threw her panties at him.

  Okay. I’m being ridiculous. I know it. I’m taking my frustration out on poor Meryl because the person who really deserves it can’t take it. Not Grip for going to New York and sleeping with Qwest. Not Qwest for inviting him and being exactly the kind of girl he should be with. No, the person who deserves my scorn is me, but I think watching Grip fall for Qwest on every social media platform is punishment enough. So, Meryl it is.

  “I know it feels like there’s no way out sometimes,” Grip tells the assembled students from his spot on the gymnasium floor. “I grew up just a few streets over, so I know what happens in Bompton.”

  Grip told me once that here when a word starts with the letter “C”, you often substitute a “B” because this is Bloods, not Crips, territory. The possibility that wearing blue or saying “couch” instead of “bouch” could get you killed? I can’t imagine human life being treated so cavalierly.

  “Half the boys I knew when I was your age didn’t make it past twenty.” Grip drops his eyes to the wax-shiny basketball court before looking back to the students. “And too many others are locked up. I’m not gonna sugar coat it. The odds are stacked against us.”

  He steps closer, and the passion in his eyes and in his voice reverberates, reaching as high as the rafters. Reaching each student listening intently. Reaching me.

  “You have to make your own way out. You’re responsible for your future.” He runs his eyes methodically up and down the rows of students. “You can’t wait for somebody else to give you anything. My mom taught me that.”

  The warm smile Grip and his mother share telegraphs a closeness I envy. She’s exactly as I’d imagined she’d be. Proud. Confident. Fiercely protective.

  “She was the one who encouraged me to apply for a scholarship at the School of the Arts,” Grip says. “Even though it meant leaving this school where all my friends were and taking a bus across town everyday alone. Even though it meant going to a new school that felt like a foreign country, where I felt like an alien. If I hadn’t done that, you might not be hearing my music now. You probably wouldn’t even know my name.”

  “He’s amazing,” Meryl whispers, her eyes fixed on Grip’s expressive face. “I can’t wait to write this story.”

  “Good,” I whisper back with a forced smile.

  My phone buzzes in my lap, and I look down at the screen.

  Parker.

  I would ignore this call, but I’ve been leaving him messages for the last three days. He has to know I suspect he leaked that information to the media. I need to set him straight, and there’s no telling when he’ll stop avoiding me and call again.

  “I need to take this,” I tell Meryl quietly. “Be right back.”

  I bend at the waist and tiptoe, hoping I haven’t drawn much attention to myself, though Grip couldn’t miss me stepping out.

  “Parker,” I say as soon as I’m in the hall. “Why did it take you so long to return my calls?”

  “Bristol, I miss you, too.” His deep voice is part humor, part caution.

  “Your people confirmed to the media that we’re dating.” I lean against the brick wall and plow my fingers through my hair. “They wouldn’t have done that without your express permission.”

  “I’ve been in India. You know that. It’s just a misunderstanding. A miscommunication.”

  “One I am fully capable of correcting if you don’t do it.” I pause for emphasis. “Soon.”

  “Is it really so far from the truth?” he asks. “Come on, Bristol. We did spend the night together just days ago.”

  “You know damn well I was too drunk to even know my name that night, much less choose to sleep with you. Now, everyone thinks we’re practically engaged.”

  “I’ll handle it.”

  “You better, or I will.”

  Something sinister uncurls and hisses in the silence on the other end.

  “That wouldn’t be wise, Bristol,” Parker says quietly.

  “You don’t scare me.” I push myself away from the wall, standing perfectly straight as if he were right in front of me to see. “I hope you know that.”

  “I don’t want to scare you.” He infuses his words with artificial warmth. “I want to love you.”

  “Love?” A bitter laugh leaves an aftertaste on my lips. “The way my father loves my mother? The way your father loves yours? No, thank you. If I ever do marry, it won’t be to a man who needs other women like they do. A man who humiliates me with his infidelities.”

  “I’m sure you can persuade me not to stray,” he says, sounding pleased that it matters to me. “I had no idea you were so possessive.”

  “I’m not possessive of you, and any man I have to persuade not to stray is welcome to do so. If I have to convince him I’m worth his fidelity, then he isn’t the one for me.”

  “I love your spirit, Bristol.” He sounds a little like he’s . . . panting? “It turns me on.”

  “All right.” I wish he were here to see my eyes rolling. He’s like a hound dog after a rabbit. A swift rabbit he won’t get a hold of again. “On that note, I’m gonna go.”

  “But, baby—”

  “I’m working,” I say, cutting into whatever bullshit he planned to say. “And don’t call me baby.”

  I hang up before he has the chance to protest further and quietly ease back through the gym doors so I don’t disturb Grip’s talk.

  Only he isn’t talking. He’s at one end of the court, poised to shoot the basketball. He’s no longer wearing his black leather jacket and Kelly green hoodie, but just a plain white T-shirt and black jeans. One of the students, as tall as Grip and with an athletic build, guards him with a hand in his face.

  “What’s going on?” I as
k Meryl. “What’d I miss?”

  “It was great.” Meryl’s eyes glimmer with her eagerness. “One of the kids challenged Grip when he talked about the value of an education. He said Grip didn’t go to college, but he’s still, and I quote, ‘stacking dollars’. Then Grip said everyone doesn’t have to go to college, but an education is something that cannot be taken away.”

  “Wow. Sounds intense.” I watch the two guys run back up to our end of the court. “How did they end up playing basketball?”

  “Then Grip said he’s enrolled in online courses now.” Meryl gives me a curious look. “Did you know that?”

  “Uh, no.” I shake my head, watching the student make a difficult shot. “I had no idea.”

  He never told me. Why would he not tell me something that huge?

  “So then Grip calls him out about some writing contest he apparently won’t enter,” Meryl says. “Before I knew it, Grip said he’d play him for it, one on one. If Grip wins, the student—I think they called him Bop—has to enter the contest.”

  “And if Grip loses?”

  “If Grip loses, Bop wins his shoes.”

  “His shoes?”

  Grip has a massive tennis shoe collection, and the classic Jordans in his closet are his prized possessions. I recognize the pair he’s wearing now as especially expensive and rare.

  “We haven’t even sat down for the interview yet,” Meryl says gleefully. “And I’ve already gotten a lot.”

  I notice Grip’s leather jacket and hoodie on the floor. I pick them up so they won’t get stepped on or dirty. As soon as they’re within sniffing distance, his clean, masculine scent surrounds me. I hold the material to my chest and surreptitiously inhale, closing my eyes to absorb this small part of him. The items still have the warmth of his body, and holding them, even for a few seconds, warms my chilled places.

  When I open my eyes, I encounter Ms. James’s golden brown gaze locked on me. Even fully dressed with Grip’s jacket and hoodie hugged to my chest, I feel naked under her stare. She sees everything.

  I clear discomfort from my throat and turn back to the court. Grip takes one final shot, which apparently puts the game away, and the students go crazy, emptying the bleachers and rushing the basketball court. Even Amir, Shondra, Ms. James, and Meryl join the exuberant knot of students surrounding Grip on the court. I hang back, observing. He’s laughing, at ease, at home, the basketball pressed to his hip.

  I’ve never been in this position with him. On the outside, out of favor. It’s awkward, and it hurts. Maybe I could mitigate this by telling him that Parker and I aren’t dating. Parker should be telling everyone soon enough himself anyway. But do I have the right? Grip finally seems to be moving on and giving someone a real shot. I’m still not going to be with him, so what would telling him accomplish? I should give them a chance, him and Qwest.

  I skirt the edges of the crowd, waiting while he signs autographs, all the while encouraging Bop to keep writing, to enter the contest. I’ve never seen this side of him. Listening to the songs he writes about his childhood and his old neighborhood, I suspected it, but seeing it firsthand is an entirely different thing. An entirely better thing.

  Meryl steps out of the crowd until she’s standing with me.

  “I’m glad you invited me.” Her broad grin pushes the glasses up on her cheeks. “This is a great add for the piece.”

  “Speaking of which,” I say. “Grip has a session soon, making some last-minute adjustments for the album. We better get him into the courtyard for your interview before it gets too late.”

  I make my way through the crowd until I’m standing right behind Grip, waiting for him to finish the last few autographs.

  “You enjoy managing my son?” Ms. James asks at my shoulder.

  I turn my head, startled to find her so close, those eyes, so like Grip’s, trained on my face.

  “Yes, very much.” I clutch his leather jacket and hoodie a little closer. “I manage several artists, but Grip definitely has a special place. He’s like family, being so close to Rhyson.”

  “So he’s like a brother to you?” Ms. James asks.

  “Something like that.” I lick the lie away from my lips, turning to offer her a smile. “We’ve known each other a long time.”

  I see a good stopping point, and know I have to dive in and get him out before he starts with another group.

  “Excuse me, Ms. James.” I smile politely and press my way to Grip’s side.

  “Hey.” I touch his elbow, drawing a sharp glance from him. The smile on his face, the light in his eyes dies when he realizes it’s me. That look drags a serrated knife over an open nerve.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” I say softly. “But we need to get into your interview with Meryl. I think you have a session this afternoon, right?”

  For a moment, it seems he may not even acknowledge my question, but then he nods and turns back to the crowd.

  “Gotta go, guys.” He raises his voice to be heard by all who are around. “I’ll stay longer next time.”

  “Sorry to break things up.” I look up at him, searching the rigid lines of his face for any softening. He flicks a glance my way with a barely discernible nod.

  “Oh, here’s your stuff.” I extend the jacket and hoodie to him.

  “Thanks,” he mutters, slipping the hoodie over the plain white T-shirt he played basketball in.

  “Sure.” I look over at Shondra to give myself something to do while things feel so weird. “Hey, can we head to the courtyard for the interview now?”

  “Of course,” Shondra responds. “Follow me.”

  Meryl gets a call on our way to the courtyard. While she’s on the phone and Shondra is a few paces ahead of us, I search for something to break this awkward silence between Grip and me.

  “I didn’t know you were taking online courses.”

  “And I didn’t realize it had anything to do with managing me.” He looks straight ahead. “So, why would I tell you?”

  He quickens his steps to catch up to Shondra, to get away from me. I notice his shoulders relax, the handsome profile lit with a smile as they talk about old times in these halls.

  It’s like a slap across my face, his indifference. Or was it rejection? It all feels the same now. In giving him his chance with Qwest, I wasn’t prepared for what I would be giving up. Whatever existed between us, even the friendship I’ve grown to treasure over the years, will never be the same.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bristol

  HE’S GOING TO be number one.

  He’s going to be number one.

  He’s going to be number one.

  That thought buzzes around my head as I obsessively check the numbers on Grip. It’s Prodigy’s first release. It’s the thing I’ve poured everything into for months. With two number one singles already under its belt, topping the album charts would be a crowning achievement. It’s critically and commercially beyond anything we could have hoped for. Reviews are glowing. Sales are shockingly good. By the time Meryl’s story goes to press, Grip will be in another stratosphere.

  I rarely cry, but tears stand in my eyes because no one deserves this more than he does. He’s worked hard for years and is one of the most talented artists on the scene. So happy tears, but tears nonetheless.

  “Knock, knock.” Rhyson raps his knuckles against my open office door and pokes his head in. “Got a second?”

  “Sure.” I sniff and sneak a thumb under my eyes, hoping runny mascara doesn’t give away too much. “Come on in, brother dearest.”

  “Did you see the numbers?” The eagerness on Rhyson’s handsome face matches the unassailable joy leaping in me since I saw the first batch of sales figures.

  “What numbers?” I blank my face, but probably can’t suppress the happiness in my eyes.

  “What numbers, my ass.” Rhyson huffs his disbelief, collapsing into the leather chair across from my desk. “I bet you’ve been checking every five minutes.”

  Try ever
y two.

  “Grip is outpacing sales of my last album,” Rhyson says. “You’re telling me you don’t already know that?”

  “It’s pretty freaking awesome, right?” I burst out, unable to hold it back any longer.

  “Yeah, it is.” His smile softens with what looks like affection . . . for me. “We did it, Bris.”

  “Grip did it,” I reply immediately.

  “Of course, he did, but this is Prodigy’s first release. This is our baby, and we did good, kid.”

  It means everything to hear Rhyson talk about the label as ours and the work as our shared project. This feeling, this accomplishment, the possibility of it, is what compelled me to focus my college degree on business and entertainment. It spurred me to move here for Rhyson’s solo career, even when he wasn’t sure he wanted one after all the drama with our parents. Hell, he wasn’t even sure he wanted me in his life.

  “It’s pretty incredible.” I push the words past the pesky lump in my throat.

  “So where’s the man of the hour?” A grin curves Rhyson’s lips.

  “He’s your best friend.” I shuffle some papers on my desk, avoiding Rhyson’s eyes. “You don’t know?”

  “Are you kidding me?” He barks a laugh out. “You know where all your artists are at all times.”

  “True.” I twist my lips into a wry grin at how OCD I can be. “He’s got a full day. He started off super early this morning with a call into The Breakfast Club in New York, and he’s everywhere. Several in-store appearances. He’s even on Seacrest, in studio.”

  Rhyson gives a low whistle, sitting back to cross an ankle over his knee.

  “Wow.” He studies my face. “So why are you here and not with our biggest star?”

  “Sarah’s got it.” I stand and take a small stack of papers to the shredder I keep in the corner. “We do have other artists, and I’ve been giving so much to Grip, there’s lots to catch up on. Kilimanjaro is still out on the road. Luke is finishing his album. There’s a few movie scripts coming in for Kai, after the baby of course.”