I don’t have to guess. I remember.
“Your hair,” I gasp. Gone are the dreadlocks he’s been growing the last few years. There’s barely any hair at all it’s cut so short, just a subtle dark wave shadowing his scalp.
He runs a hand over his head, a wry grin tipping one corner of his mouth.
“Just something different.” He exchanges a look with the girl holding the gun at her side. “Jade cut the locs out for me.”
“Jade?” I drag my eyes from his face to hers. “As in your cousin Jade?”
Her eyes shift to mine, adding another question about me to her gaze.
“Yeah.” Grip slips the T-shirt over his head and starts down the steps. “Good memory.”
Jade and I watch each other warily. Grip told me they grew up together in Compton. He also told me about a dark day on a playground when an officer went too far while searching her, crossed a line of innocence. Knowing that, my heart softens some, even though she’s still giving me the same hard look.
Eyeing Jade, focused on her, I took my eyes off Grip. Now he stands right in front of me, looms over me. I’m usually braced for the raw sexuality that clings to him, so strong my knees have been known to go weak. But him being so near and looking so much like the guy I met eight years ago, before the dreadlocks. Before the underground mix tapes and concerts and record deals. Before his fame. The start of a beautiful friendship. Anything else we could have been ended almost before it started.
Almost.
“So, Bris, to what do I owe this pleasure?”
Grip grabs a remote from the table and silences Tupac. In the abrupt quiet, his eyes make a slow voyage down my body, his perusal pouring over me like hot oil. The silk romper I wore to the office today suddenly feels too short as he takes in my legs. Even though the sleeves reach the elbow, my forearms prickle with goose bumps under his stare. By the time his eyes reach my breasts, my nipples are tight and beaded in the silky cage of my bra. His eyes linger there before lifting and roving over my face.
He knows.
Even though I ignore this awareness that always seethes between us, no matter how much I pretend it isn’t there, he knows. Even with Jade standing just two feet away, his proximity, his nearness and heat, cloister us in false intimacy.
“Um, Sarah was sick so I’m just bringing . . .” I don’t bother finishing the sentence. My voice is unnaturally husky. My breath, abridged. I just hold up his backpack as explanation.
“Oh, yeah,” he says. “Thank you.”
He takes the bag by the strap, his fingers deliberately touching mine. I glance from where our fingers mingle to the face that looks even more handsome with barely any hair framing it. He looks so much like the guy who picked me up from LAX when I visited for spring break years ago. Nothing has changed, and everything is different now. He looked at me that day the way he’s looking at me now, as if I were some new mystery he wanted to lose himself in solving. Conversely, he looks at me like he knows my every secret.
Jade clears her throat before speaking, snapping the moment between Grip and me.
“Man, I hope you ain’t trying to bring her home to your mama.” Jade’s eyes follow the same head-to-toe journey Grip’s took over me, but derision weights her look at every stop. “You know Aunt Mittie would have a fit if you start shit with some white bitch.”
“Bitch?” I have a low give-a-fuck threshold, and she just crossed it. “You’ve called me bitch twice, and you don’t even know me. Or did we meet and I forgot you already? I see how that could happen.”
“Bristol.” Grip chuckles down at me, the warmth that probably made Jade suspicious in the first place evident in his eyes. “She does still have a gun.”
I glance from the firearm to the smirk on Jade’s face, feeling bold now that I know who she is and bolder still now that Grip is close enough to hide behind if necessary. He’d never let anyone hurt me. Except himself. I’m pretty sure Grip could crush me without noticing.
“Jade, ease up,” he says. “She’s Rhyson’s sister.”
“And Grip’s manager,” I add. “You and your Aunt Mittie can rest easy. There’s nothing going on between us.”
I feel Grip’s eyes on me when I say there’s nothing between us. I won’t give him the satisfaction of looking, of letting him mock the defenses I wrap around myself to guard against anything that could develop. They’ve held this long, and I have no plans of yielding any time soon.
“Your manager, huh?” Jade studies me again, as unimpressed as the first time. “I see.”
“You need to be thinking less about me and more about you. About what I said.” Grip hooks an elbow around her neck and kisses her forehead. “Come to the studio next week. Lay some tracks.”
Jade stiffens under his arm, observing him with narrowed eyes. Grip also told me their relationship wasn’t as close after that day at the playground.
“Hmmm. We’ll see.” She pulls away and walks over to grab an LA Raiders cap from the countertop. “I’m out. Some of us still gotta actually work to make them ends meet.”
Grip is one of the hardest working artists I know. He’s what they call a studio rat. He’s behind the board and in the booth every chance he gets. Not to mention the appearances, writing for other artists, photo shoots. Indignation rises up in me on his behalf. Before I can mount my defense, he’s diffused it with a grin aimed at his cousin.
“Whatever, J.” He tweaks her nose, his affection for her obvious and, from my perspective, inexplicable. “Just come to the studio. Maybe it’ll keep you out of trouble.”
“I am trouble,” she bounces back with a sassy grin.
I already knew that.
“I’ll think about it.” She looks to me, raising her eyebrows like she’s waiting for me to say something.
“Nice meeting you,” I offer in her expectant silence. Even in the face of rude bullshit, the manners instilled in me are flawless, not that Jade appreciates them. She ignores my comment and brushes past me and out the door.
Rude ass.
“I’m gonna walk J out.” Grip takes my wrist gently between his fingers. “Could you wait a second? I have questions about the email you sent last night.”
I see right through this ploy. He knows that without a good reason to stay, I’d be right behind him and on that elevator. Except I’ve been in hell all week. Working myself to the bone for longer than I can remember. There’s tightness across my shoulders, noosed around my neck, trapped in the fists balled at my side. I just want to unfurl, and as much as he makes me tense, there’s no one else I can relax with the way I can with Grip. So, against the better judgment I’ve exercised for years, I stay.
When he comes back, the two take-out bags he’s holding release tantalizing scents into the air. I’m settled onto the huge comfortable sectional taking up so much of the living room. I could fall asleep right here if I weren’t so hungry. Starvation has eroded my sense of self-preservation, and as much as I dreaded coming here to see him, I dread going home to my empty cottage even more.
“Ran into the delivery guy.” He raises the bags and gives me a measured look, like he knows I could bolt at any moment. “You hungry?”
“I could eat,” I understate while the lining of my stomach feasts on itself.
“Empanadas?” He smiles because he knows they’re my weakness. One of my many weaknesses.
“Baked or fried?” I ask, as if I’m particular.
“Which do you want it to be?” he parries.
“Fried.”
“Then they’re fried.” He hooks the bag handles over one wrist and grabs plates from the cabinet with his free hand. “Come on.”
In utter laziness, I watch him cross the large space to a door in the far corner.
“Make yourself useful and grab me a beer from the fridge and whatever you want to drink.” He looks over his shoulder at me expectantly. “I can’t carry you and the food up to the roof, Bristol.”
“The roof?” I groan my exhaustion and settle deeper into the cushions.
“Oh, sorry.” He pauses, concern sketching a frown on his face. “Is it too