Apparently, I’m back at the lowest level of hell. After a week like I’ve had, the last thing I need is Grip being all . . . Grip. He’ll ask me out. I’ll refuse. He’ll try to kiss me. I’ll evade. I’ll leave, and he’ll go screw some random girl, thereby proving I was right not to give him a chance.
It’s what we do.
We’ve been playing this game that isn’t a game for years. One day, he’ll realize I mean it when I say there isn’t a chance in . . . well hell, that it’ll ever happen between us.
“I need to give you the code for his loft. He texted it to me.” Sarah pulls out her phone, scrolling through messages. “He says he misses the bell all the time. So just use the code and go right in because he’ll probably have the music up or be in the shower.”
Grip in the shower. My mind paints vivid pictures that involve Grip’s powerful body, rivulets of water, and not much else. I may not want a relationship, but I’m not blind or dead south of the waist. My heart, though, last time I checked, was north of my belt. I don’t let anyone near that thing. If I let Grip in, the compass goes out the window. North or south wouldn’t matter. No territory would be off limits with him. I see Grip all the time. Here at the label offices. In the studio. At shows and appearances. But alone. At his house. Freshly showered. And me vulnerable, and let’s face it—horny, is a disaster waiting to happen. A disaster I’ve managed to avoid for a long time.
“Maybe he’ll be fine without the bag tonight. I mean . . .” I falter, embarrassed at how husky my voice sounds, though Sarah would never guess it’s because of the shower scene playing in my head. “It can’t be that urgent.”
Disappointment and resignation flicker across Sarah’s face, but she covers it quickly.
“Don’t worry about it.” She pulls the purse on her shoulder and reaches under her desk to retrieve a black leather backpack I recognize as Grip’s. “He offered to come get it, but I said I’d bring it. I’ll do it.”
Guilt burns in my chest. Sarah lives around the corner. She’d really be going out of her way to take the bag to Grip. I, on the other hand, pass his exit on my way home. I really wish I was as much of a bitch as people think I am.
“Gimme.” I flick my fingers for her to hand the bag to me. “I got it. You go home, dope yourself up with Midol and chocolate, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“You sure?” Relief slumps her shoulders and brightens her eyes.
“Of course.” I take the bag and shoo her out the door. “Go.”
“You’re the best boss ever.” Sarah makes her way carefully toward the door like lady parts might fall out if she walks any faster.
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” I manage a grin. “Remember this when I have you working ’til midnight next week.”
Once she’s gone and the office is quiet and it’s just me and my never-ending pile of tasks, I get back to work. I can barely focus, though, with that bag sitting in the corner mocking me. Daring me. Taunting me.
I keep working until the angle of the sun through the window behind me shifts from shine to shadow, the only indication I have of how long I’ve been at it. Other than the growl of my stomach.
I touch the home button on my phone to check the time.
“Shit.” I drop my head into my hands and blow fatigue out through my nose. “Food, Bristol. Food should have happened hours ago.”
Sarah usually makes sure I eat. She’s becoming invaluable to me in ways I didn’t anticipate. Mostly personal ways. Slipping me food. Ordering my favorite coffee blend that I can only ever find online. Putting up with my bitching when things don’t go my way. Being a friend. Generally, I only allow myself so many of those. Her continued proximity has me bending that rule.
The problem of proximity. It’s exactly why, despite my working with Grip as closely as I do now as his manager, I still find ways to keep my distance. If anyone could make me bend and forget the rules, it’s Grip. He doesn’t know that, though, and I need to keep it that way.
It’s getting darker in the office now, not quite sunset. The dimming light camouflages the bag tucked into the corner, but I know it’s there, and it’s time for me to deal with it.
And the man who owns it.
Bristol
HE’S COME A long way.
When I first met Grip, he lived in a one-room hovel and subsisted on two-for-the-price-of-one street tacos. His pride wouldn’t allow him to ask my brother for much help financially, and Rhyson respected him too much to force the issue. So Grip was sweeping floors in exchange for studio time, deejaying in clubs all over LA, writing for other artists. He paid his dues pursuing his dreams. As I pull into the underground parking lot of the exclusive loft complex where he lives now, I can’t help but think he’s finally getting paid back.
Even though Sarah said I should use the code and go right in, I can’t make myself do it. In the lobby, I press the button to ring his place, waiting for a response over the intercom that never comes. With a heavy sigh, I shift his bag on my shoulder and punch in the code that opens the cage-like elevator that will take me to the top floor.
It’s all very industrial and modern, an old warehouse renovated into upscale loft apartments. A rolling garage door of sorts faces me as soon as I step off the elevator. The blare of nineties hip-hop bleeds through the concrete walls. I pull out my phone again to check the instructions Sarah sent. Once I punch in the code, the door rolls up, and high-decibel Tupac gushes out like water from a cracked dam. The first night Grip and I met, we talked about Tupac. I barely knew any of his music. I barely knew anything about hip-hop. Raised in a family of classical music aficionados, I’m still not a huge fan, though ironically, I’m managing one of its rising stars.
The loft consists of a large, open space with high ceilings, red brick walls, and exposed rafters. Pillows pepper an L-shaped sectional the color of molasses. The thick slab of wood serving as a coffee table is flanked on another side by a latte colored backless couch. Four barstools line up along the strip of matte steel converted into a countertop separating the living area from the kitchen. A set of rail-less steps float up to the second floor, where a length of walkway leads to a closed door. Grip’s bedroom, I presume. Vinyl albums fill decorative mahogany crates stacked and lining the wall housing the fireplace. A multi-shelved arch is built into another wall and holds dozens and dozens of books. Grip is nothing if not well-read.
A beautiful brown leather journal on the coffee table catches my eye. I gave him that three birthdays ago. I walk over to brush my fingers over the supple leather. He says some of the best lyrics he’s ever written were conceived between those sheets.
“Nosy bitches get shot.”
The words are followed by the click of a gun being cocked. My heart slams against my rib cage when I see the girl standing just a few feet away in the open door of a bathroom, eyes and hand steady over the gun aimed at me.
“Don’t shoot.” My hands fly up automatically. “I’m a friend of Grip’s.”
“Not one I ever met.”
She’s a pretty girl. Her unblemished skin glows, smooth and richly colored mocha. No makeup that I detect. Her hair is cropped close to her head and worn with its natural texture. A plaid shirt hangs large over baggy jeans and Chucks. Big brown eyes, almost doe-like and framed by long, curly lashes, never leave my face. They lend her an air of innocence belied by the nine millimeter aimed at my heart.
“Jade.” Grip’s voice drops from above. He stands at the walkway rail, looking down at us. “Put that damn gun up.”
For a moment, I forget about the gun trained on my torso. With the arresting picture Grip makes, T-shirt looped at his neck and hanging over his bare chest, he’s more dangerous than the armed girl in front of me. A stack of abdominal muscles trail down to the indentations carved into his hips. Drops of water bead the smooth slope of his shoulders and the arms splattered with vibrant ink. Beltless dark wash jeans hang low on the lean hips. I lift my eyes to his face, a dazzling arrangement of jet-colored brows and bold bones balanced with lips so sculpted you would never guess how soft they are.