by Kate Stewart
“Well, I noticed you wearing this thing.” She gestures to the non-descript black watch I always wear. “And I knew I needed to light that wrist up.”
I bite back an objection when she undoes my old watch, which is made of nothing but cheap rubber and vivid memories. That day at the carnival, I won Bristol a whistle and she won me this no-name watch. We joked that they were the worst carnival prizes we’d ever seen, but I can count on one hand the times I’ve taken that watch off since that carnival. And now this mammoth, glittering hip-hop cliché is strapped to my wrist, and I already can’t wait to get home so I can shove it to the back of a drawer.
“I don’t know what to say.” I turn my arm back and forth, the overhead lights bouncing off the watch and making me squint. “It’s . . . I’ve never had anything like it.”
“Lemme see,” my mother says. She comes over, grabbing my arm and admiring the watch. “Ooooh, Erica. So nice.”
“Erica?” My eyes flick between my mother and Qwest.
“She told me to call her by her real name,” Ma crows. “Ain’t that sweet?”
“That’s great.” I look around on the floor and the couch, unreasonable panic ripping through me. “Where’s my watch?”
“What do you mean?” Qwest frowns, looking down at my wrist. “You’re wearing—”
“No, the other one.” I move her off my lap and bend to search the darkened floor. “The black one. It was just here. Where . . .”
It doesn’t take the strange looks from Qwest and Ma to know I sound like an idiot. I’ve barely glanced at the expensive new watch, but I’m on the verge of losing my shit because I can’t find some cheap watch no one would even want.
But I want it.
“Do you see it?” I ask my mother. “Check down by your feet.”
“Baby, I don’t see it,” Ma says with a laugh. “But I doubt you’ll miss it.”
I don’t answer as I continue to scan the floor and couch around me.
“Got it!” Amir says from the floor on his hands and knees. “I guess it fell.”
He hands it back to me, and my heart slows. I almost had a stroke when I thought I’d lost the thing. Losing Bristol has left me in even more of a panic, only it isn’t evident on the surface. It’s like pins under my skin. Needles under my scalp.
Of all things, my stomach growls loudly. I frown and realize I’m starving.
“Do they have actual food here?” I ask no one and everyone. “Or is it all libation?”
“See he always had a way with words,” Ma brags, touching Qwest’s hand. “You know he started with poetry. Won a poetry contest in the sixth grade and has been writing ever since.”
“Ma, don’t,” I groan. I know she’s going to embarrass me. That’s a given. It’s just a matter of how much.
“I actually think I have a picture here.” She digs around in her purse and pulls out a falling-apart wallet. “Here we go.”
“I wanna see!” Qwest laughs and settles down beside my mother.
“So do I.” Kai shoots me a wicked grin. She knows I hate this stuff. “Are there any naked baby pictures in there?”
“Food?” I repeat. “Is there any?”
“Why don’t we go back to the house?” Ma doesn’t look up from the stack of pictures ranging from toddlerhood to adolescence she must carry in her purse. “I could make chicken and waffles.”
“I vote for that,” Amir says, smacking his lips. “I haven’t had chicken and waffles in a long time.”
“Boy, you came by the house last week and had chicken and waffles,” Ma says.
“I know.” Amir rubs his stomach. “A week is a long time in waffle years.”
“Did that actually just come out of your mouth?” I raise both brows. “For real, bruh? Waffle years?”
He doubles up, flipping me off with both middle fingers.
“Okay.” I stand up. “I’m gonna go grab my stuff from the dressing room before we head out.”
Amir stands with me, but I wave him back to his seat.
“Please don’t try to ‘guard’ me,” I say. “I hate it when you do that.”
“It is my job.”
“Well, right now you’re getting paid to sit your ass back down and leave me alone for a few minutes.”
“Give a man a little money.” Amir grumbles, grins, and takes his seat. “And he gets all new on you.”
I’m still smiling about that when I enter the dressing room to collect my bag and the clothes I wore to the venue. I almost run right over Bristol leaving as I enter.
“Sorry.” I grab her to keep her standing upright. I intend to let her go, but my palms linger on the warm, silky skin of her shoulders.
“No problem.” She steps back, looking up the few inches to my face, her eyes guarded. “I was just, um, leaving. Straightening up and then leaving.”
I notice her hands behind her back, and the shifty look on her face.
“What you got there?” I reach behind her, but she steps back, deeper into the room and out of my reach.
“Nothing.” She shakes her head, a self-conscious smile tugging at the fullness of her lips. “It’s just . . . nothing.”
“If it’s nothing, why are you hiding it?”
I slide my hands down her arms until I encounter her death grip on the handles of the bag. I don’t bother actually reaching for the bag, but give myself a few seconds with her pressed against my chest. She swipes her tongue over her bottom lip. I’m riveted by the motion of her tongue and how her breasts lift against my chest as her breath shallows. Her lashes flutter closed, and her sigh lands heavily in the quiet dressing room. She steps out of my hold and offers the bag to me, breaking the moment fusing our bodies together.
“For me?” I glance from the brightly wrapped box in the bag to find her gnawing on her lip, a tiny frown sketched above her eyes.
“Just a little something for, you know.” She gestures vaguely in the air. “Congrats or whatever.”
“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” I murmur, setting the bag on a side table so I can open the box.
She starts toward the door.
“Well, I’ll just—”
“Hold up.” I gently shackle her wrist, pulling her up short and stopping her from leaving. Our eyes collide over her shoulder. “Don’t you want to stay while I open it?”
“Obviously not.” She tugs on her wrist uselessly. “Grip, come on. Let me go.”
“I’ve been trying to,” I say softly. “It’s harder than you think.”
She stops struggling, going still in front of me and pulling a breath in through her nose, huffing it past those cherry red lips. A fiery chord bridges the distance between our bodies, and I want to pull her close enough to burn me, to hurt me, to destroy me. Sometimes I don’t think I care as long as she’s close. I just want to feel her, even if it burns me alive.
But she pulls away.
“Like I said, it isn’t much.” She shrugs, clasping her hands in front of her while I rip the paper away. “Just something I kind of picked up on a whim.”
When I open the box and see what’s inside, I’m like a kid at Christmas. The limited edition silver Jordans with the black sole and laces are like polka dot unicorns for a collector.
“You say you got these on a whim, huh?” I take them out and resist the temptation to remove my boots and put them on right now.
“Yeah.” She shrugs, but I don’t miss the anxiousness in her eyes or the way she twists her hands. “Just thought you might like them. I know they’re not—”
Her words fall off a cliff when I hook an arm around her neck and pull her against me. I drop the shoes and bring my other hand to her waist.
“That’s some whim.” My voice dips to a husky whisper that disturbs wisps of hair escaping by her ear. “Considering there’s only maybe ten pairs of these ever made.”
“Really?” The word comes out high and breathy, and the controlled line of her mouth melts and softens. “I had no idea.”
I drop my head until my forehead presses against hers.
“Thank you, Bris.” I sneak a kiss into the hair pulled back at her temple. “I meant what I said tonight. I know how much you’ve done for this project. How much you’ve done for me.”
She only answers with a nod, but her lashes fall to cover her eyes, and her hand holds me at my hip as if she might fall if she lets go. I’d love for us to fall together.
But we can’t. Or she won’t. Whatever it is, I refuse to let this feel like something it’s not. Or something she won’t allow it to be because I’ll go to my grave believing Bristol cares about me. That doesn’t do me any good when she chooses to be with someone else. And at least for now, so am I.
“I better get going.” I pull back, but somehow, my hand finds her neck, and my thumb caresses the warm skin over her hammering pulse. Somehow, her hand is still at my waist. “My mom’s making chicken and waffles.”
“Sounds good.” She looks at me, and though we both keep asserting that we need to go, we can’t seem to separate.
“You wanna come?” I know she won’t, but the question is out before I can stop myself.
“Um, I doubt your mother would appreciate that.” Bristol looks at the ground, a wry grin teasing one corner of her mouth. “She and Qwest seem to be getting along well, which is great. I’m glad. I’m happy for them . . . for you.”
She nods, like she’s convincing herself as much as she’s convincing me.
“I’m . . . yeah. Okay.” She raises her glance from the floor. “Maybe I’ll come another time. I’ve never had chicken and waffles together.”
The smiles we trade carry traces of sadness. I don’t know what we will become. I’m not looking forward to telling her she won’t be my manager anymore. Obviously, any hope that we’ll be lovers is fading fast. And I can’t stand by and watch her with that asshole, so even friendship feels like torture. Whatever we will be, for a few minutes, we’re . . . us. All I’ve ever wanted was for Bristol and me to be an us. I don’t know what that looks like anymore, but I’ll fight to keep her in my life.
Later.
But not while I can still taste her wild kisses in the fun house from years ago, where even distorted in mirrors, our bodies looked right together. So letting go of the us I always thought we would be . . . it’s too soon for that.
“I better get going,” I say. “They’re waiting for me.”
My hand falls from her neck, and the fluorescent lights glint off the watch on my wrist. Bristol’s eyes follow my arm down to my side.
“Nice watch,” she says, her eyes set on the gaudy thing that feels like an albatross tied around my wrist.
“Yeah.” I lift it for my own inspection.
Her lips concede a smile before leveling out.
“Grip, Ms. Mittie said come on!” Amir’s voice reaches us just before the door opens and he appears, flicking a surprised glance between Bristol and me. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know you were in here, Bristol.”
“It’s okay.” She smooths her hair. “I was just going. I assume you’re in for chicken and waffles?”
“Best believe it.” He grins a little uneasily, still not sure what he walked in on. “You coming?”
“No, I need to go,” she says, glancing at her watch.
“Parker waiting for you?” I ask grimly. The thought of him at her house, in her bed, or her in some penthouse with him, erases the goodwill of the last few moments.
“No.” She looks back over her shoulder, one brow lifted at the return of my censure. “He’s still in India.”
She makes her way to the door, stopping to give Amir a hug. He’s one of those few she loves. They couldn’t be more different, but they get each other. In the beginning, I was their common denominator, but they’ve formed their own friendship over the years.
“Your passport is current, right?” She pulls out of the hug and pats the side of his face affectionately. “You ready for Dubai?”
“More than ready.” Amir rubs his hands together. “I hear they got some of the most beautiful scenery in the world.”
“I have a feeling you’re not talking about the landscape.” She laughs and heads for the door. “Sarah will get you all the details.”
“Hey, Bris,” I say.
She turns to me, the ease she shared with Amir evaporating as she waits for me to finish. “Speaking of Sarah, why don’t you let her reach out to Hector?”
“Sarah?” She frowns, but nods. “Okay. Why?”
I could tell her that soon Sarah will be handling all of my day-to-day. Or I could tell Bristol that Hector has a thing for her, and I don’t like guys who have a thing for her.
“Why not?” I counter, since we don’t already have enough to argue about.
“Because it’s my job.” She rests a fist on either hip. “Because I’m usually the first point of contact, and—”
“How did Rhyson put it earlier?” I touch my chin and glance up at the ceiling like I’m trying to remember. “Oh, yeah. If this is your job then I’m your boss, and because I said so.”
That goes over about as well as it did when Rhyson said it, but the irritation clouding her expression when she leaves is better than what we were feeling before Amir came in. A bristly Bristol is safer than the vulnerable one who makes me want to kiss her and make her scream my name.
“So?” I grab my box of one-of-ten kind Jordans and head for the door, checking to see if Amir is following. “Chicken and waffles?”
Chapter Eighteen
Bristol
ARE YOU THERE, God? It’s Bristol.
Please make it stop.
For the love of all that’s holy, if Qwest kisses him one more time, I’m breaking out my Dramamine. And the woman has a perfectly good, overstuffed leather seat. Must she perch on Grip’s knee the whole time? The poor man’s leg must be asleep by now. I mean, sure she’s small, but still . . . all that ass . . .
Whomever said traveling by private jet was “flying in style” was never trapped in close quarters with the hip-hop love birds, also known as Grip and Qwest, for sixteen hours.
They look great together. Perfect together. I get why their fans still have #GripzQueen trending and want more of them as a couple. It’s great. He’s moved on. He looks happy. She’s happy. Hell, even his mother is happy. In a small way, I helped orchestrate this. The least I can do is watch my handiwork unfold.
Only I can’t.
I pull my sleep mask over my eyes and lie back. I’ll just drift off into the darkness, take advantage of the quiet.
“Excuse me, Bristol.” A low whisper comes from beside me.
So much for quiet.
I lift one corner of the mask to peer at Meryl in the seat beside me.
“Sorry.” She nudges her glasses up the bridge of her nose with an index finger. “I had a few questions.”
Of course you do.
“Yes?” I draw on my dwindling reservoir of patience to respond with some civility. The girl has been our freaking shadow, and I’m regretting bringing her with us to Dubai, but I don’t see where we had much choice. The price you pay for publicity.
“When do I get my sit-down with Grip and Qwest together?”
“It will be the middle of the night when we arrive in Dubai,” I reply. “So we’ll go to sleep, acclimate our bodies some. I thought you guys could do the interview over brunch tomorrow?”
“Oh, that works.” Meryl jots something down in the notebook I’ve never seen her without. “And the desert shoot with Grip? Can that still happen?”
“Yes. I just need to confirm details with my liaison there. I think it can happen tomorrow afternoon, if your photographer will be ready?”
“Yeah, should be fine.” Meryl looks down the aisle to where the photographer she brought along snores faintly. “I think he wants to keep it simple.”
“Simple we can do.” I lower the sleep mask and cross my fingers that she’ll leave me alone.
“I’ve never flown on a private jet,”
she says.
“Hmmm.” I refuse to encourage her.
“I guess you have, huh? I mean you’re dating Charles Parker, so of course you’ve been on a private jet. We saw the pictures.”
“Hmmm.”
My monosyllable won’t give this little newshound anything she doesn’t already have. Parker said he would “take care of” the media’s impression that we’re dating. He needs to deal with it soon.
I’ve never been sure I believed in God.
My family wasn’t religious in the least. In a clan of prodigies and pianists, a concert hall was our cathedral. But here in a vast desert of Dubai, I’m positive that only the deft hand of a higher power could have crafted beauty like this. Not the rolling landscape of sand and sun, but the right angle of jaw lightly dusted with shadow, the bold slant of cheekbones, the heavy sweep of brow and lashes, the lavish spread of soft lips and white teeth.
“Grip, could you turn a little to your left for me?” the photographer asks from behind his rapidly clicking camera. “That’s it, and just prop your foot up?”
Grip bends his knee, setting his foot against the quad bike he’s leaning on. Wide rips in his dark wash jeans flash the sculpture of muscles in his thighs. The slashes in his Straight Outta Compton T-shirt give glimpses of the bronzed skin wrapped around his ridged torso. Even in the hour we’ve been out here on the glorious Red Dune, the sun has bronzed him, heated the rich, caramel-colored skin to a deeper hue.
“We almost done?” Grip asks for maybe the tenth time. “It’s hot as hell out here.”
“Sorry.” Meryl scrunches her expression into an apology. “Paul, how close are we to getting what we need?”
“Just a little bit longer,” Paul says distractedly, still snapping photos. “I want to get a few more before the light changes.”
“If by light you mean that sun beating down on my head for the last hour,” Grip says, a grin tipping one side of his mouth. “I’m ready for it to change.”
“Sorry.” I say. “Almost there.”