He leans forward with a wide smile, his eyes alive and dark and bright all at once. And I wonder if this is the most stimulating conversation he’s had in a long time. It is for me.
“Is there anything that you don’t completely know how it works or why it works, but you know the rules that govern it?”
“Um, Twitter?” I laugh, glad when he responds with a smile.
“Then the N-word is your Twitter.”
He sits back in his seat, long legs stretched under the table, arms spread on the back of the booth and a smile in his eyes for me.
“You may have me halfway to understanding that,” I say. “But you will not get me to be okay with the misogyny that is such a part of hip-hop culture.”
“I don’t disrespect women in my lyrics,” he says immediately. “My mom would kill me.”
“Well, maybe I’ll listen to some of your stuff.”
“I feel honored that you would deign to listen to my music.”
I toss a napkin across the table at him, and it bounces harmlessly off his face. He throws it back at me and laughs.
“I mean, for real,” he says. “What kind of self-respecting, white millennial doesn’t listen to hip-hop?”
He laughs when I roll my eyes at him.
“Are you one of those people who thinks hip-hop belongs to black people?” I ask.
“Of course it does.” He smooths the humor from his expression. “We made it. It’s ours in the same way jazz and the blues and R&B are ours. We innovated, making sound where there was no sound before. The very roots of hip-hop are in West Africa from centuries ago. But we share our shit all the time, so you’re welcome.”
I lift a brow at his ethno-arrogance, but he throws his head back laughing at me, maybe at himself.
“Art, specifically music, is a living thing,” he says. “It isn’t just absorbed by the people who hear it, but it absorbs them. So, we shared hip-hop with the world, and it isn’t just ours anymore. The Beastie Boys heard it. Eminem heard it. Whoever heard it fell in love with it, added to it, and became a part of it.”
“And that’s a good thing?”
“Mostly. If that hadn’t happened, if we hadn’t shared it and someone other than us loved it, it’d still be niche. Underground. Now it’s global, but that wouldn’t have happened if it hadn’t gone mainstream. Mainstream means more opportunities, so I’m all for white, Asian, Hispanic. We need everybody buying hip-hop, because ultimately, it’s about that green.”
He rubs imaginary dollars between his fingers before going on.
“I think some fear that when hip-hop goes mainstream, it’s mixed with other influences. It’s diluted, and I get that, but we have to evolve. That isn’t selling out. That’s survival.”
The way he talks about music and art fascinates me. Rhyson’s talent, his genius, always isolated him from me. I’ve been around musicians all my life, but with no talent of my own, I was always on the outside and couldn’t figure out how to get in. Grip just shared that with me. He let me in.
Before I can dig anymore, Jimmi takes the stage for her performance. And when I say she takes the stage, she takes it. She owns it. She overpowers the small space, and you know she’s something special.
“Wow.” I spoon into the fudge brownie and ice cream I ordered during Jimmi’s set. “She can back those tits up, huh?”
“She definitely can,” Grip says. “And speaking of double standards, I think you have one criticizing hip-hop for its misogyny and then hating on another woman just because she has a great rack. Is it any worse when men judge women’s worth by their looks than when women do it?”
He’s serious. At first, I think he’s joking, but then I realize his eyes hold a subtle rebuke. He’s protective of Jimmi. Maybe they’re together? The thought sours the ice cream in my mouth, and it shouldn’t. I’ve known this guy for all of a couple hours. And he isn’t my type. And I’m leaving in a week.
“I wasn’t judging her.”
His look and the twist of his lips say otherwise.
“Okay, maybe I was judging her a little bit.” I laugh and am glad when he laughs, too. “She’s a pretty girl, and sometimes they get a bad rap.”
“They?” Grip lifts his thick brows. “Do you not realize how beautiful you are?”
I have no idea how to respond. I’m attractive. I know that. Guys have been hitting on me since middle school.
“Whatever.” I shrug. “I just don’t define myself by my looks. There’s a lot more to me than that.”
“I believe you,” Grip says. “I’m just saying there’s a lot more to Jimmi, too, so maybe you guys have a lot in common. And maybe you should withhold judgment until you know her better. If not altogether.”
I’m quiet while I finish my brownie and think about what he said. He has a point. One I hadn’t considered. I had to leave my Ivy League college to get the most thought-provoking, stimulating conversation I’ve had in ages. Maybe ever. And with a rapper. Jimmi isn’t the only one there’s more to than meets the eye.
Grip
I FIGURED RHYSON’S sister would be attractive. I mean, they’re twins, and he’s one of those guys girls trip all over themselves for. And I knew she went to an Ivy League college, so of course she’s smart. But Bristol is all kinds of things I could not have anticipated or prepared for. Her curiosity, her authenticity, and her honesty hook something in me and draw me closer. I didn’t expect the conversation we had at Mick’s to go where it did. I loved that she wasn’t afraid to wade through the difficult questions of race, and that she gave measured, thoughtful responses and expected the same from me. Those are tough conversations to have with someone you know, much less with someone you just met, but it felt like nothing was off-limits. As if I could give her room to be naïve and she could give me room to be obnoxious. We both gave each other space to be misunderstood, because we really wanted to understand.
I admit only to myself that I’m drawn to her in a way that is dangerous because she’s Rhyson’s sister. Starting something that can’t go anywhere could be awkward down the road. I’m not that guy. Usually I fuck them and then I leave them. That’s it. That’s all. And I can’t do that to Rhyson’s sister.
The string of text messages reminds me there’s a girl I’m trying to leave even now. I’ve been dating Tessa for two months, but we haven’t really talked in the last couple of weeks. She blew my mind the first time we had sex, and her pussy put some kind of hex on me and made me agree to “dating.” Well, that hex has worn off. I told her we probably need to take a break, but she either wasn’t hearing me or was ignoring me. When I tell a girl we need to take a break, that’s code for there’s this other chick I’m feeling so we should cut this off before I do something we’ll both regret. I wish I could just let it fade, but I’m going to have to actually break it off. She keeps hitting me up, so it seems like that conversation will have to happen soon.
I steal a glance across at Bristol, who’s slumped in the passenger seat with her head dropped to an awkward angle while she sleeps. She probably wouldn’t give me the time of day anyway. Rhyson’s so unassuming that you’d never know he comes from deep pockets. Old money and new. He turned his back on that life to emancipate from his parents, but Bristol still occupies that world. A guy like me, driving this piece of shit Jeep, sweeping floors, and doing odd jobs to make ends meet—no way would she check for me. She doesn’t even listen to hip-hop. She probably hasn’t ever dated a black guy, and I wouldn’t be the exception.
Now me? I like to think of myself as an equal opportunity connoisseur. My dick is not so much color blind, as it loves every color. And I have a rainbow coalition fuck record to prove it. If it’s wet and tight, I don’t really care what color it is.
Crude, I know.
Maybe that’s an issue of race I won’t explore with Bristol. I’m sure she has her limits.
I pull up in front of my apartment complex. I’m kind of glad Bristol’s asleep. Maybe I can sneak inside and get back out to the car before she wakes up. I need to grab my laptop for the tracks I’ll work on while I’m at Grady’s. I wouldn’t have stopped otherwise. We joked at the airport about her suitcase being bigger than my apartment. She isn’t far off.