Promise Me Forever (Top Shelf Romance)

by Kate Stewart

  The first few comments, like Sarah said, focus on the stop itself. But slowly, comments about me, about Qwest start trickling in. The comments become accusations about the white bitch with Grip. Dozens of commenters post about Grip cheating on Qwest. About him caught “creeping”. With every comment, the vitriol, the outrage on her behalf increases. The hash tags stack up.

  #GripzQueen. #BlackLove. #CheatingAss. #SellOut.

  The room tilts. The floor beneath my feet becomes Jell-O. I stumble to my desk, perching on the edge.

  “How long has this been up?” I ask between hyperventilating breaths.

  “Um, maybe fifteen minutes,” Sarah answers cautiously. “It’s getting a lot of traffic, though.”

  “I can see that.”

  I scroll and scroll and scroll, but still haven’t reached the end of the comments. Every once in a while, one commenter will mention the stop itself and how this is exactly what “Bruise” talks about, but it’s drowned in the sea of speculation about Grip and me.

  “What’s a thot?” I look up from the phone, eyebrows bunched. “They keep calling me a thot.”

  “Um . . .” Hesitation is all over Sarah’s face and in her answer. “That Ho Over There.”

  My mouth drops open. I was a damn debutante in the most exclusive circles of Upper Manhattan, and I’m a thot?

  “Qwest.” I look at Sarah with horrified eyes. “Oh, God. What must she be thinking?”

  “Yeah, that’s kind of its own thing, so to speak,” Sarah says carefully. “I think that’s why some of the comments are so vicious.”

  “Oh, my God.” I pull up Qwest’s Twitter account.

  @YesItzQwest "When he get on, he’ll leave your ass for a white girl." Kanye ain't never lied. Bruhs, don't forget the sisters who put u on. #QueenWithNoKing

  The humiliation, the hurt and dismay I experienced at Ms. James’s dinner table Sunday has magnified, globalized. It isn’t one, two, three women side eyeing me because I’m with Grip. It’s an entire socialsphere. I don’t want to be pitted against them. Grip and I aren’t what these comments suggest we are. I’m not some trophy to him. And he didn’t choose me because I’m a symbol of unattainable success. I want to chase down every comment, recall every retweet, share and like. To tell them he quotes poetry to me. I know his favorite foods. I know he’d rather have Classic Jordans than a gaudy watch. We talk about real things, and even when I don’t understand everything, he’s patient with me because he loves me. I know him. I knew him first. I had him first. I loved him first. He’s mine.

  I want them all to know.

  Sarah and I both jump when the office door swings open. Rhyson’s hair stands all over his head like he’s been plowing his fingers through it.

  “Bris, have you seen—”

  “Yeah.” I collapse into the chair behind my desk. “Sarah just showed me.”

  “How are we dealing with the calls?” He sits on the edge of the desk, eyeing me with a mixture of caution and sympathy.

  “Calls?” I split attention between my brother and my assistant. “Already?”

  “I hadn’t gotten to that quite yet.” Sarah winces. “The front desk is flooded. Press, bloggers, news outlets asking for comments on the incident and the . . . status of you and Grip.”

  “It’s all a misunderstanding,” I tell them.

  In synch, both of them stretch their eyebrows as high as they’ll go. I get it. There’s no mistaking that Grip and I are more than friends in that footage.

  “By misunderstanding I mean that Grip had ended things with Qwest by the time that footage was taken.”

  “But they performed at Pirouette together Friday night, and were by all accounts, still together at that point, right?” Rhyson asks.

  “They broke up right after the show.” I look at them helplessly. “We didn’t want to hurt her. We wanted to give her some time to process everything and release a statement later. We were being careful.”

  “You call this careful?” Rhyson’s sigh is powered by frustration. “How do we handle it? Where’s Grip?”

  “Oh his way back from Chicago,” Sarah says. “He caught an earlier flight.”

  That’s welcome news to me. Maybe my heart will stop hurting once he walks through that door.

  “He needs to address this,” Rhyson says. “‘Queen’ is such a huge part of his brand now, and like it or not, black women took that as theirs. As an affirmation, and him cheating on Qwest with you—”

  “He did not cheat on her.” My voice cracks like a whip. “Are you not hearing me? He broke it off with her before we started . . . seeing each other.”

  “I get it. I know your history,” Rhyson sighs. “But from the outside it looks like he cheated.”

  “Qwest certainly seems to think so,” Sarah offers, her voice weak. “This is just one tweet. There’s a series of them and Instagram posts. And there are a few FaceTime Live posts from fans calling Grip a sellout and expressing their disappointment.”

  “This will start affecting sales, Bris.” Rhyson shakes his head.

  “Sales?” A humorless laugh comes out with my gasp. “You’re thinking about sales?”

  “Okay. Let’s just start with you knowing me well enough to assume you and Grip are the most important parts of this for me, okay?” Rhyson’s brow pleats and his mouth flatlines. “Now that we have that established, of course not just sales, but it is our job to protect the interests of the people who’ve invested in this label. The people who make their living from this label. They rise and fall with us, and right now we have one album out. Grip's. So yeah. I have to think about sales.”

  “I know, I just . . .” I’ve lost my bearings. There are so many important things competing in my head. I want to strategize about sales. I want to figure out how to correct this PR fiasco. I want to figure out who the hell did this to us. I want to protect Grip. He’s worked too hard and for too long for this to derail his success.

  “Yes. You’re right, of course.” I press my head into the supple leather of my seat. “Let me think about this for a second.”

  But any strategizing I would do goes right out of my head when Grip walks into my office. The worry in his eyes wrenches my heart. I’m jeopardizing his success. He has to be questioning whether or not this is worth the trouble. Whether I’m worth the trouble.

  “Grip, I’ve been calling you, dude,” Rhyson says.

  “I literally just turned my phone back on after the flight from Chicago.” Grip answers Rhyson, but his eyes never stray from me. “Could you guys give me a minute with Bristol?”

  “We need to talk about how we’ll handle this,” Rhyson says, but his voice has lost some of its heat. “We need a plan because this has gone the worst kind of viral.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Grip sits on the couch against the far wall in my office, stretching his legs out in front of him like we’re not standing naked in a shit storm. “But I need to talk to my girl first.”

  Sarah immediately heads for the door, but turns just before leaving.

  “His girl!” A sudden bright smile illuminates her face. “I know things look bad right now, but I just want to say yay. Like it’s about time and yay for you guys!”

  She scampers into the outer office, and if I wasn’t feeling like the whole world is pointing out the stubborn cellulite on the backs of my thighs, I’d muster a smile.

  “I’m not trying to be the hard ass,” Rhyson says. “I hate having to think like this, but we do need to deal with it. It goes without saying that I’m happy for you guys.”

  “You could still say it.” Grip’s comment comes softly, but with a mild rebuke. “Your sister needs to know you support her and that she’s more important to you than how this affects my sales.”

  Grip’s so right. I hadn’t realized how fragile I was feeling or how anxious I am about Rhyson’s response.

  “Bristol.” Rhyson searches my eyes, his softening at whatever he sees there. “You’re more important to me than all of this. I’m
sorry if it didn’t feel like it when I came tearing in here. You know how intense we are. You, me, Mom, Dad.”

  “It’s okay.” I push the hair behind my ears. “I get it.”

  “It isn’t okay.” He leans down to take my hand. “I’ve screwed things up with you more than once. I lumped you in with our parents and didn’t stay in touch. I’ve been an awful brother most of the time, but I love you, Bris.”

  He flicks his head toward Grip without looking away from my face.

  “I’m happy for you, but I’m really just glad this guy can stop moaning like a little bitch about how much he’s into you. It’s so fucking awkward.”

  The three of us laugh, and the tension eases some.

  Rhyson pulls me to my feet and into a tight hug. He kisses my hair and dips to catch my eyes.

  “We all know you’re a badass and don’t need to hear this kind of thing,” he says, even though I do. “But I love you, and you’re so far beyond the best sister a guy could have it isn’t even funny. The investors, this place, so many things that have happened for me wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for you. I want you to know I realize that.”

  Tears sting my eyes. Hearing him voice the things I’ve needed to hear, to know for years, moves me deeply, even in the midst of this craziness.

  “I’ll give you guys a few minutes,” Rhyson says. “When you’re ready, come to my office and we’ll hammer out a plan to deal with all this.”

  Rhyson looks at Grip for a long moment, one brow lifted.

  “And you,” Rhyson says to Grip, his voice serious, but his eyes laughing. “Try to keep your hands to yourself.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Lock the door on your way out,” Grip replies. “Or you might see more than you want to see.”

  “Oh, I’ve already seen more than I wanted to see. Believe me.”

  Grip tosses up both middle fingers, and Rhyson’s laugh taunts us as he leaves the room. It’s quiet in here, incredibly quiet as we stare at one another. What’s felt so special, so intimate, so ours is being maligned and memed. Hash tagged and reposted and ridiculed. In here it’s just us, but it feels like everything and everyone beyond that door is against us.

  “Come here.” Grip extends his arms, concern evident in his eyes. .

  I drag my feet to get to him, not because I don’t want him, but because I feel awful. As soon as I’m within grabbing distance, his hands encircle my waist, and he pulls me to his lap.

  “Hey.” He nuzzles his nose into my neck, behind my ear. “It’s okay.”

  “I’m so sorry.” I turn into him, tucking my head in the warm sleek curve of his neck and shoulder.

  “This is on me.” He shakes his head, a self-directed frustration on his face. “You didn’t want to go to my mom’s. You said be careful. I should have listened.”

  “I guess we won’t know who leaked it, huh?”

  “Does it really matter? It could have been anyone with access to those tapes. Who knows.”

  “It feels like the worst thing that could have happened,” I whisper.

  “No.” Grip leaves a kiss in my hair. “The worst thing would be if you decided not to be with me. If you regretted us. That’s my worst case scenario. Not sales or any of that other shit.”

  “But you’ve worked so hard. I just hate being the reason it’s diminished in any way.”

  “Listen to me.” His hand splays across my hip and he brings me so close I feel his heart thumping into my ribcage. “Remember the release party? We were celebrating the album going number one?”

  “Of course I remember.” I cup his face and lay my head against his chin. “I was so proud of you. We all were.”

  “Yeah, well I was miserable.”

  I pull back to peer into his face.

  “I mean, yeah. I was happy, excited for the album, but you know what my mind kept going back to?”

  “What?” My voice is hushed, my heart waiting.

  “Our first kiss.” A smile crooks the corner of his full lips. “That night at the carnival, no one knew who I was. My bank account was sad. Not one of my dreams had come true yet, but I had you. That night I had you, and it was the best night of my life. And the night of the party, when I thought you might marry Parker, that we might not ever get back to what we started on that Ferris wheel, I could barely focus on the songs. That let me know what is the most important thing to me, and it ain’t sales.”

  I don’t know what to say. I thought I would. I’m rarely speechless, but him saying these things and hearing that I’m the most important thing in a life like his, when I haven’t been anyone’s most important thing ever before, something inside of me that has always been searching, settles. Something that has always been circling, lands.

  “You are just making things worse for yourself,” I finally whisper into his neck.

  “How so?” He feathers kisses around my hairline, down my neck.

  “You’ll never get rid of me now.”

  “Good. That was the goal.” He tips my face forward and kisses me lightly. “Now that we have that settled, let’s go tell Rhyson how you’re gonna make this all better. I know you have a plan.”

  Now that I’ve had a second. Now that the man I love has settled any lingering doubts . . .

  “I might have a few ideas.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Bristol

  “YOU’LL OWE ME big time for this, Bristol.” Ezra Cohen stares over his thick-rimmed glasses, the New York skyline sprawled behind him. “I’m also not entirely sure this is the best way to handle such a . . . shall we say, delicate matter.”

  “Will and Qwest haven’t left me much choice. I need to staunch the bleeding on this, and they won’t take my calls.” I hesitate before giving him my most grateful smile. “Thank you so much for your help.”

  “If I didn’t love you so much, kid, there’s no way I’d even entertain a scheme like this.” Ezra points a bony finger at me. “But in all my years knowing you, you’re right ninety-nine percent of the time. This better not be that one percent.”

  He’s right. This could backfire badly. If I miscalculate, I’ll only make things worse. Before I have time to reconsider, Ezra’s assistant opens his office door, showing in Qwest and Will. Qwest pulls up short as soon as she sees me, tilting her sunglasses down to look at me disdainfully over the cat eye frames.

  Will comes in right behind her, shock flickering across his face when our eyes catch. “Bristol, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “This bitch got some nerve.” Qwest adjusts the Louis Vuitton bag on her shoulder. “I’m outta here.”

  “No, you’re not.” Ezra stands to his full five foot seven. His towering authority has nothing to do with his physical stature, and everything to do with the reputation he’s carved out for himself and the business he’s built. “You’ve been very publicly critical of the man who has the number one album in the country. And the two of you have the number one single in the country. That feud is bad for business, and I want it put down.”

  “I’m sorry to handle things this way,” I interject. “But you wouldn’t return Grip’s calls, Qwest, and Will, you haven’t returned mine.”

  “That’s ‘cause I got nothing to say to cheating sellouts or their skinny white bitches.” Qwest’s voice rings hard and harsh in the understated luxury of Ezra’s office, but I see the hurt behind her eyes. Grip isn’t an easy man to lose, and for some reason, losing him to me seems to add insult to injury.

  “He didn’t cheat, Qwest,” I say softly. “We need to clear the air.”

  “So he sends you to do his dirty work,” Will scoffs. “This is highly unprofessional, Bristol.”

  “What’s unprofessional is you not responding to my calls or emails for the last two days while your client went on a Twitter tour denigrating my client’s character.” I tilt my chin and remind him with a glance that he does not want to mess with me. “And Grip doesn’t know I’m here.”

  He does know I’m in New York, but he
thinks it’s just to see Kilimanjaro on tour.

  “Oh, so you go behind his back, too, not just mine,” Qwest says sarcastically. “Good to know.”

  “I’m here to apologize,” I say softly. “Not for cheating, because we didn’t. We wouldn’t, but for how you found out about our . . . relationship. For how things happened. Please give me a chance to explain.”

  For a moment, it looks like she won’t yield. Her lips pull into a tight line, and her long nails dig into her palms.

  “Five minutes,” she finally says. “That’s all you get.”

  I look to Ezra, who takes my cue and walks to the door.

  “Will, let’s give the ladies a few moments alone,” he says.

  Irritation and indignation gather on Will’s face, and he’s torn between following his boss’s orders, and protecting his client.

  “Go on, Will. I’ll be fine.” Qwest looks me up and down. “I could take this thot if I had to.”

  The name calling shit is getting really old.

  Once we’re alone, Qwest settles onto a couch across from the Ezra’s desk and leans back, stretching her arms behind her.

  “Clock is ticking, bitch,” Qwest says.

  “Stop calling me a bitch.” I sit on the couch and cross my legs. “I know Grip told you from the beginning that there was someone he had feelings for. He had reservations about getting involved feeling that way for someone else. He was honest about that.”

  “Yeah, but he also told me he didn’t cheat on me.”

  “He didn’t. He ended things with you at Pirouette Friday night, right?”

  Pain breaks through the ice of Qwest’s eyes for a moment before she tucks it back under and nods.

  “You trying to tell me what I saw on that footage happened between Friday and Sunday?” she scoffs. “I wasn’t born yesterday at ten o’clock, honey.”

  At least honey’s better than bitch . . . or thot.

  “We talked Saturday, the next day, about things we should have discussed years ago and decided we would try.”

  I look down at my hands folded in my lap and then force myself to meet her eyes again.