by Kate Stewart
The unapologetic possession in his eyes as he watches me unraveling, my knees weakening so badly I have to hang on to his shoulders, tells me he knows it. I can’t even care. If he does this to me when no other man has been able to, he gets to be smug about it. He’s earned that shit.
The orgasm propels harsh breaths from my mouth. I come hard and with a crash, landing limply against his chest. The pleasure so overwhelms me that tears christen the corners of my eyes.
“That’s right. That’s my girl.” He licks at the tears as if they’re an offering, like they’re his due. He palms the small of my back, and the possessive weight of his hand alone has my most hidden, private muscles clenching again. He holds complete sway over my body.
“You’re right, Bristol,” he whispers into my hair, humor rich in his voice. “You’re the boss.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Grip
GROWING UP, DRIVING a Range Rover like this one—overloaded, latest model, and just over two hundred thousand dollars—seemed about as likely as scoring a ride in Cinderella’s pumpkin. But here I am.
Or rather here we are.
“This car’s gorgeous.” Bristol caresses the stitch pattern perforated leather seats. “I didn’t even know you were in the market for one. You’ve never cared much about cars before.”
“True.” I merge onto the 5, shrug and shoot her a quick grin. “I’m good with my Harley and my six four.”
“And what’s so great about the six four?” Bristol laughs when I look at her like this should be self-evident.
“They don’t make ’em like the ’64 Impala anymore,” I say. “That’s when American cars were the bomb. It takes more than money to appreciate them. You gotta maintain and know your way around that beautiful body. She won’t purr for just any dude.”
“Why am I not surprised this became a thinly veiled conversation about sex?” Bristol laughs, opening the bag in her lap and finishing her makeup since I rushed her out of the loft. "That’s why I was surprised to come down and see this Rover in the parking garage.”
“Amir rolled through to drop it off.”
“It’s yours?”
“I’m test driving it.”
“Hmmm.” She flips down the visor mirror and applies lipstick. “I’d never picture you with this car, I guess.”
“Maybe I’m full of surprises.”
She’ll soon see that for herself. I know she’s gonna kill me for what I’m doing today, but she loves me. They say love covers a multitude of sins. We’ll see. In the words of that great comedic philosopher Kevin Hart, “We gon’ learn today!”
“And what is this surprise?” Bristol follows up predictably.
I only give her a shrug and grin in response. If she weren't distracted, she'd probably pay closer attention to the route we're taking.
“You’ll have to wait and see.”
She rolls her eyes and takes off her seatbelt to reach her purse on the floor, putting the makeup bag away.
The loud “whoop” from behind freezes my blood, and for a second, my heart isn’t sure it’s safe to beat. The flashing blue lights in the rearview mirror confirm what my body has already warned me of. Growing up in Compton, guys like me have an almost Pavlovian response to cops. Instead of salivating, we auto-perspire and run through the mantra our mothers drilled in our heads before we could even drive.
Keep your hands where they can see them.
Never make sudden movements.
Have license and registration already out so you don’t have to reach into
any pockets or compartments.
Always answer with respect.
And most important.
Do whatever it takes to make it home.
“Put your seatbelt back on.” I slap my license on the dashboard. “Now, babe."
I feel her eyes boring into me, but I’m too focused on getting through these next few minutes to address her questions. It feels like the gun I carry for my own safety just turned its barrel on me, adding a complication to a situation I always hate finding myself in.
I resent the sheen of sweat covering my skin. Adrenaline pours through my system, spiking my blood, crashing my heart behind my ribs. No matter how much I remind myself that I’ve done nothing wrong, that I have the number one album in the country, and that I could afford to buy this car several times over and not even dent my bank account, I can’t undo years of conditioning that tell me I have reason to fear. To be cautious. Even before that summer day with Jade on the playground, I had an uneasy relationship with law enforcement. We all did in my neighborhood. After that, it only worsened. After that, it was never the same. Since Greg joined LAPD, I’ve met so many good cops, and things have changed a lot in my neighborhood. But it only takes one bad apple, and when the cop taps the window, I don’t know what kind of apple he is.
“Is there a problem, officer?” I ask through the half-open window.
His assessing eyes flick past me and over my shoulder, roaming over Bristol. I don’t have to look at her to know what he sees. I’ve memorized her. The burnished hair is wild and loose around her shoulders. Her lips, pink and soft. Her dress reaches mid-thigh, but sitting, the hem rises even higher. His glance, though impersonal, lingers on her long, toned legs. The longer his eyes rest on her, the less I feel like dealing with this shit. I’m relieved when he looks back to my face.
“There’s been suspicious activity in the area, so we’re doing some routine stops.” He steps back. “License and registration, please.
Suspicious activity my ass. I am the suspicious activity. My driving a two-hundred-thousand dollar Rover in this neighborhood is grounds enough. My driving this car here with a white woman in the passenger seat? An imperfect shit storm.
“Any weapons in the vehicle?” he asks.
Here we go.
“A nine millimeter in the middle console.” My eyes don’t stray from his. “I have a permit for it.”
“What?” Bristol gasps beside me. “You have a gun?”
I swing a look around meant to silence her. She goes quiet, but there are a hundred questions and a thousand seditions in her eyes.
“I’d like to inspect the firearm and conduct a search,” the officer says. “Could you step out of the vehicle?”
I could refuse, but the last thing I need is for him to feel like I’m being “uncooperative” and that he needs to call for back up. I pass the license and my permit through the open window.
“What’s this about?” Bristol leans over to demand of the police officer. “He isn’t getting out until you tell us what this is about.”
“Bris,” I say through clenched teeth and fraying patience. “I’ve got this.”
“But he hasn’t even really told us why we—”
“Be quiet.” The words come out sharp and short. The hurt in her eyes twists my heart around, softening the shell that started forming as soon I saw that blue light. “Please. Just let me handle it.”
She sits back, rebellion in the tight line of her mouth. She studies her nails as if she couldn’t care less what happens next, but I know her better than that.
I open the door and step out.
“Sorry about that, officer, she just—”
“I’m putting these cuffs on as a precaution,” he cuts in. “Just while I search the vehicle.”
Cuffs? Shit.
He turns me roughly, rocking my chest into the car, pulling my arms behind my back, and clamping the cuffs on my wrists.
Bristol isn’t pretending to be fascinated by her nails anymore. I feel her eyes latched onto me. I asked her to be quiet, but her shock and dismay at how quickly the situation has changed create a choking silence. He pats down my shoulders and arms, at my waist, inside my thighs and all the way down to my ankles. Rage boils up from a long-stirring cauldron in my belly, but I hear my mother’s voice.
Do whatever it takes to make it home, Marlon.
When he’s done, I turn and stand toe to toe with him for a few se
conds, towering over him, dwarfing him. I have every advantage except the one the badge affords him
“The car isn’t mine yet,” I say calmly, ignoring the chafe of the cuffs. “I’m test driving it.”
“All right.” He tilts his head toward the curb. “Why don't you test drive that curb while I check the vehicle?”
A battle cry shreds the inside of my throat, desperate to escape. But it isn’t time for fighting. I have to maintain control in what could, with one wrong word or move, become a volatile situation. I can’t afford to lose control, not with me in cuffs and Bristol vulnerable, even if she doesn’t realize she is.
How many times did I sit on some damn curb, me and my boys? Pulled off basketball courts, out of cars, laid on our stomachs, stretched in the middle of streets like animals? Humiliation and rage linking us like some urban chain gang. If I think about it too long, I’ll do something stupid. I just want this over so we can be on our way. I keep telling myself that, but the longer this goes on, the harder it is to remember.
“Ma’am, you can join him on the curb while I conduct the search,” the officer offers.
Bristol scrambles out of the car, walking swiftly to sit on the curb beside me, the pink dress falling back to show another inch of her tanned thighs.
“Why do you have a gun in—”
“Pull your damn dress down,” I say around the gravel in my mouth.
“What?” She glances from the expanse of legs back to my face. She drops her knees and tugs at the hem of her short dress. “I think you’re being a little paranoid.”
“And you’re being naïve.”
“We didn’t do anything wrong.”
“This isn’t about we, Bris.” I look at her meaningfully, keeping my voice low even as bitterness rises in me. “This is about me. Driving that car in this neighborhood with you in the passenger seat.”
“You think he stopped you because I was in the car?”
“No, I’ve been stopped in this neighborhood all my life for nothing, but you beside might be a citation in and of itself, depending on who stops us. This is classic DWB.”
She looks at me blankly, brows lifted and waiting for me to elaborate.
“Driving While Black,” I clarify.
“Really?” She snorts disbelievingly. “No.”
“Remember you asked me to let you know when your privilege makes you clueless?” I lift a disdainful brow. “Well, that just happened.”
Contrition pinches her brows together, and she lowers her eyes to the road before going on.
“I’m sorry.” She shakes her head and then searches my eyes for answers. “I want to . . . I’m trying to understand. Can you just tell me why you have that gun in the car? I hate guns.”
“I carry it all the time. You just never knew, I guess.”
“Why? You have Amir.”
“Yeah?” I ostensibly look around the surprisingly calm street. It’s a Sunday afternoon, and I would expect at least a few kids popping wheelies. “And where’s Amir now?”
“If you need him to—”
“That’s my point. I don’t need him to. I can protect myself.” I shift until my forehead rests against hers. “I can protect you.”
“I don’t need protection.” She presses a gentle kiss on my mouth, her soft lips opening briefly under mine. She rests her cool, soft palm against my face, and I lean into her, needing the contact. “I’m sorry if I was insensitive calling you paranoid. I know this makes you think about what happened with Jade, but it isn’t the same thing.”
Ancient guilt cuts off my air for a moment, gagging me.
“I know that.” But the helplessness feels familiar. It feels the same. “But I’m never gonna be caught in a position where I can’t take care of us.”
Confusion clouds her eyes. This never occurs to her. Yeah, she’s seen it on the news. Somewhere out there, black men get pulled over for no reason, and there’s all these tensions with the cops. It happens to other people, but she doesn’t realize it happens to me. It’s happened to me all my life. It’s happening right now.
“I’m done,” the officer says, walking toward us. “Well, almost. I’ve searched you. I’ve searched the car.”
His eyes light on Bristol.
“Ma’am, would you stand against the car for me?”
“No.” My voice is an abrasion in the pleasant Sunday afternoon quiet. I’m cuffed, but I lean my torso in front of Bristol’s chest so she can’t stand. “She’s clean.”
The officer’s brows lift at my challenge.
“I’ll be the judge of that.” He nods to Bristol. “Ma’am, may I search you?”
“I said she’s clean.” I swallow the helpless frustration bubbling in my throat, scorching the lining of my stomach. “Don’t touch her.”
Those are the words I said in my mirror for weeks after that officer crossed the line with Jade.
Don’t touch her.
Words I never said to him that summer day.
Bristol glances from me to the officer, concern knitting her eyebrows. She understands my fear, as irrational as it may seem.
“Hey.” She waits for me to look at her, and the look she gives me is meant to reassure. “It’s okay. I’ll be okay.”
She tries her best not to flash the officer when she stands from the curb. I surge to my feet and step between them, ready to beat him if I have to, literally with my hands tied behind my back.
“No, it’s not okay.” My fists clenched behind me belie the calm forced into my voice and onto my face. “I’ve cooperated fully with you, though you still haven’t even given me a reason for the stop. You and I both know you don’t need to search her. And you won’t.”
Am I imagining the touch of satisfaction in the look he gives me? That I may have the expensive whip and the beautiful girlfriend he could never pull in a million years, but today he gets to feel like the bigger man? In this neighborhood, just a block away from that playground where Jade lost a measure of her innocence, it’s hard for me to tell where my preconceived notions end and reality begins. Is it as hard for him to look at me and not see what he expects instead of who I really am? Maybe we suffer from the same affliction.
That moment of clarity doesn’t change our circumstances. That he wants to search Bristol, and whether I’m right or wrong, he isn’t touching her if I can help it. I need to calm down. I know the rules, I hear the mantra.
Do whatever it takes to make it home.
Always answer with respect.
But there is no respect, not for me from him. Not for him from me. There is an unspoken feud pitting us against one another, and every cell in my body rebels against following the rules.
I try the old trick from my childhood, reaching for poetry—for Neruda, Poe, Cummings, anyone whose eloquence will calm the clamor of my heart and ease the riot in my chest. But all I find is the revolt of NWA’s “Fuck Tha Police,” chanting that a young nigga got it bad because he’s brown. The lyrics gather in my brain like an unruly mob. Every word uproarious and disorderly. They swell in my head and crack my skull like a Billy club. My wrists strain against the cuffs, and the outrage of a million men who’ve sat on curbs and laid in the streets on their bellies strikes a match in my heart.
If I’m not careful, it could burn me to the ground.
The officer and I face off, an unbridgeable distance between us, when another cop car pulls up. Relief flashes over the officer’s face to see one of his own arriving at the scene just in time. My anxiety doubles seeing another set of blue lights. Another cop to compound my trouble. But when the car door opens, it isn’t just one of the officer’s own. It’s one of mine.
My cousin Greg gets out of the car like a guardian angel, and my shoulders sag. I didn’t realize how painfully tight I held my muscles until he stepped out with his badge and all the tension drained from me.
“We got a problem, Dunne?” Greg triangulates a look between the officer, me, and Bristol.
“Routine stop, sarge,”
Dunne says. “I was just about to search the other passenger, but was getting resistance from the driver.”
“That right?” His mouth kicks up at one corner. “You causing trouble, cuz?”
“Cuz?” Officer Dunne looks from me to Greg and back again. “You know this one?”
“So do you.” Greg laughs and shakes his head. “You told me you liked his song when I was playing it in the locker room this morning.”
“What song?” He searches my face and then looks at my license he’s still holding. “Marlon James. You’re—”
“Grip,” my cousin finishes for him. “Get the cuffs off, Dunne.”
Officer Dunne reaches for my wrists.
I jerk back, trapping his eyes with mine, silently showing him my resentment
“Don’t,” I tell him with deadly calm, my brown eyes locked onto the cop’s blue. “You’ve touched me enough.”
An awful quiet follows my words. I don’t look away from Dunne even while Greg removes the cuffs himself.
“I’m a huge fan,” Dunne says awkwardly. “I wouldn’t have . . . well, I didn’t recognize you with your hair different.”
Like that should make any damn difference. I don’t respond. I can barely breathe, suffocated by my own vulnerability. Living in my luxurious loft, driving my expensive motorcycle, performing for sold-out crowds. This lifestyle insulates me from just how vulnerable I am when it comes down to it. Just breaths away from helpless. Herded and branded like cattle, emasculated, unable to even properly shield the woman I love. Fully clothed but naked on the side of the road, stripped of all dignity. No matter how many albums I sell, no matter how much money I make, I will never forget this feeling.
Officer Dunne mumbles another apology for any inconvenience. When I keep stone facing him, he wisely gets in his car and drives away. I watch his taillights until he turns the corner and they disappear.