I’m carefully, quietly opening the driver side door when she stirs.
“Hey.” She sits up and stretches her arms over her head, straining the tank top against her breasts. “Where are you going?’
My mouth goes dry when her nipples pucker through the thin material. I can resist her for my best friend. Bristol and Rhyson may not be close, but she is still his sister. A pretty face and a great set of tits aren’t worth any possible static with him. I may need to sticky note that over my mirror this week, though.
“Oh, you’re up.” I lean through the window. “I just need to run inside my apartment and grab something before we head to Grady’s.”
“Can I use your bathroom?”
Shit. I mentally run through the disaster area that is my tiny apartment. I’ll be lucky if a roach doesn’t greet us at the door.
“Um, sure. Come on.”
When we cross the landing, I remind myself I have nothing to be ashamed of. I pay my rent. I’m making my own way and not breaking any laws. I have the integrity of my art, not selling out for the quick buck, but holding out for the right opportunity. It all sounds hollow when Bristol, in her lambskin leather and designer distressed jeans, blows into my one-room apartment on a cloud of expensive perfume.
“Through there.” I point to the tiny bathroom off the one room that encompasses the kitchen, living room, and bedroom. The brochure called it “studio,” but hovel is probably a more accurate description.
Bristol’s sharp eyes wander over the threadbare thrift store couch and the Dollar Store dishes in the drying rack. The disarray of my narrow, unmade bed, which is flush against a wall, mocks me.
“Could you hurry up?” I ask curtly. “We need to get going.”
Her startled eyes stare back at me for a moment before she moves quickly to the bathroom. I grab my laptop and am already standing by the door when she comes out.
“There wasn’t a towel.” She holds up her dripping hands.
“Oh, sorry.” I take the few strides to the kitchen and grab a roll of paper towels on the counter for her.
She dries her hands and tosses the used paper towels in the trash. Instead of following me back to the door, she leans against the counter.
“I thought you were tired.” I shift from one foot to the other, back propping the door open. “Let’s go.”
“I have that same print.” She nods to the poster of Nina Simone hanging on the wall over my bed. “She was an excellent pianist, and my mother loves her.”
My shoulders, which have been tight since we pulled up in front of my dump apartment, relax an inch.
“Yeah?” is my only response.
Bristol nods and walks over to my turntable against the far wall, running her fingers over the dust cover.
“You use this to deejay?”
I’m standing here holding the door open for her to leave, and she’s conducting an inspection.
“Uh, yeah. “
“You’re still deejaying tomorrow at that place Jimmi was talking about?” She looks up from the turntable, apparently in no hurry to leave. “Brew?”
“Yeah, that’s what I’ll use for some of the set. I prefer vinyl, but most set ups nowadays are completely digital.” I sigh and nod my head out to the hall. “Look, we better get going.”
“What’s the hurry? Rhyson’s at the studio and Grady’s at his retreat all week. Just an empty house waiting for us.”
“I’m ready to go. I have better things to do than give a perfect stranger a grand tour of my place when I need to be working.”
Hurt strikes through her eyes so quickly, I almost miss it. She lowers her lashes and walks toward me without addressing my rudeness. She’s squeezing past me in the doorway when my conscience reprimands me. I grab her elbow to stop her from leaving, tucking her into the doorway, too.
“Hey.” My hand slides down her arm to take her hand. “I’m sorry. I’m an asshole. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I don’t know why I did that.”
She looks up at me, her back against one side of the doorframe, mine against the other. With her coming where she’s from, and me coming from where I’m from, there should be a vast ocean separating us, filled with our differences and all the reasons we should never meet on shore. But there’s only this wedge of charged space between our bodies that seems to be shrinking by the second. What should be foreign feels familiar. When I assume I know something, she surprises me.
“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” she says softly. “I’m sorry I made that crack at the airport about my suitcase being bigger than your apartment. “
“I actually said that,” I remind her, pulling up a smile from somewhere.
“Whatever.” She waves a dismissive hand, grinning just the smallest bit in return. “My point is that I’m a spoiled bitch sometimes. I can’t blame you for assuming I would judge your place. I just want you to know that I don’t. Hearing all the things you do on the side so you can pursue your craft, I admire that kind of commitment.”
“Thank you.” I look at her, cataloging her features one by one and realizing the most fascinating thing about this girl isn’t visible to the naked eye.
“When you’re rich and famous, you’ll look back on this time—this apartment—and laugh. And appreciate how far you’ve gone.”
“You haven’t even heard my stuff.” I scoff and smile. “How do you know I’ll be successful?”
“My brother’s a genius. You must be talented or he wouldn’t make time for you.” Her lips twist just the slightest bit. “Believe me I know from personal experience how little time Rhyson has for the mediocre.”
“So you don’t sing or play?”
Her face lights up with genuine humor.
“Much to the dismay of all my music instructors. Everyone thought they’d get a female version of Rhyson.”
“And you . . .” I lift my brows, waiting for her to tell me what they got.
“Can’t carry a tune in a bucket or a note in my pocket to save my life,” she says. “I tried the clarinet, and was only . . . I think the word my instructor used to describe me was ‘adequate.’”
“It can’t be that bad. I mean, Grady and Rhyson are both obviously incredible musicians. Your parents played themselves, didn’t they, before they started managing?”
“Yes, they all play, which makes me the ugly duckling.”
I don’t even realize that my hand has lifted to brush my knuckle across the slant of her cheekbone until it’s done. Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t pull away. Her skin is like warm silk to touch.
“Ugly? I doubt that.” My voice comes out all deep and husky. If I keep this up, I’ll be excusing myself to jerk off in the tiny bathroom. “We better go.”
I drop my hand from her face and clear my throat. I need to stay focused, not on her face and body and that clever brain, but on getting out of here without spreading her out on my unmade bed.
Bristol
I’VE READ THE same line several times. My laptop could be upside down and I probably wouldn’t notice. I’m sitting here on the couch with my computer propped on my knees, not making any headway on the essay for my internship application. I could blame fatigue considering I haven’t really stopped since I left New York this morning. And my body clock may still be on East Coast. And I am getting hungry again. I could use those excuses for my lack of focus, but there’s only one real reason if I’m honest.
Grip.
He’s an unexpected fascination, a tantalizing riddle I keep turning over in my head. I keep hoping he’ll make sense eventually, but then I’m somehow glad he doesn’t add up or behave the way I think he should.
If he were in the same room, I’d still be surreptitiously gawking, stealing glances at one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen, but he’s in Grady’s music room working on his own stuff. He went there almost immediately after we arrived, and I haven’t heard a peep from him since. I guess he is as obsessed with music as my brother. Yet another reason not to venture too deeply into the attraction I feel for him.