“My mother moved here because her mother moved them here.” Grip considers me a few extra seconds before going on. “My grandmother was part of the Black Panther movement, which was huge in Southern Cali.”
“What? I never knew that.”
“It isn’t exactly what I lead with when I meet someone.” Grip laughs.
“Weren’t they violent?” I ask carefully. “Like ‘blowing up things’ violent?”
“They were . . . complicated. They weren’t perfect, by any means, but they were providing free lunch for kids in poor neighborhoods, tutoring students, teaching self-defense, doing a lot of good. That’s what drew my grandmother to the movement.”
“And your mother?”
“Ma definitely ain’t a Panther.” He chuckles. “But don’t cross her because I wouldn’t put it past her to blow shit up.”
I have no plans to cross her.
He pulls a lighter from the pocket of his jeans, and I notice the black plastic watch on his strong wrist. I’ve never seen him without it since I won it at that carnival. I don’t know what to think about that, so I don’t let myself think about it.
“So you in or what?” he asks.
I drag my eyes from the plastic watch to the expectant expression on his face.
“You know I don’t smoke weed.”
“Oh, I’m giving it up, too.” His sculpted lips stretch into a smart-ass smirk. “Next week. Come on. When was the last time you got high? Not high off contact, either.”
“Columbia. Senior year. Finals.” The memory of munching my way through my study sessions bubbles laughter from my chest. “I was lit through half my econ exam.”
He leans into my shoulder, his deep laughter rumbling through me.
“Come on, Bristol,” he cajoles, drawing on the joint, blowing a circle of smoke out, and then offering it to me. “It’s legal in half the country now, ya know?”
“Medicinally.”
“Well, it’s all the way legal in Cali.” White smoke halos his head, contrasting with the devilishly handsome face.
This is a bad idea. Even at my most vigilant, it’s sometimes hard to stave off the attraction between Grip and me. If I’m . . . impaired . . . there’s no telling what I’ll give in to. But the string of tough days, the months of non-stop work getting the label off the ground, this hellish week—it all bombards me, and in a moment of weakness, I take one draw. And then another. And then another.
An indeterminate amount of time later, I’m feeling nice.
Shoes off. Feet up. Hair down. High as a kite.
The wine conspires with the weed and my exhaustion to create a laid-back haze. My eyes keep closing, and my head keeps lolling onto Grip’s shoulder. When I manage to crack my eyes open, he’s watching me intently, alert. He’s a creature who hides his weapons, lulling his prey into thinking he poses no danger. Maybe it’s a survival mechanism he picked up from his childhood in a gang-infested war zone, camouflaging the threat, but he isn’t hiding how dangerous he is now. The jet brows slant over eyes with the color and heat of melted caramel. His desire is a cloak, heavy on my shoulders, tight around my arms, hot on every part of me it touches.
He’s such a beautiful man, his body a palette of precious metals—darkened gold, bronze, copper. I should remember that I’m not the only one who thinks so. If I took what that look offers, he would never be just mine. I’d have to share him. Not right away, maybe not the first time or the first year, but eventually. That’s the way it is with men like him and women like me. I get it, but I don’t have to choose it.
“I can’t believe you cut your locs.” Even to my ears it sounds like a diversion, nervous and chatty.
“Technically, I didn’t.” His steady eyes don’t waver. “Jade did.”
I follow the line of conversation like a lamp lighting my way out of a dark cave, hoping it will dispel the tension coiling around us.
“As many times as you’ve talked about Jade,” I say. “I never envisioned our first meeting would be at gunpoint.”
“She thought you broke in.” The corner of his mouth tips.
I give him my “you’re shitting” me look.
“Yeah, because I look like such a criminal.”
“Some of the worst criminals wear three-piece suits and have an Ivy League pedigree.”
“Oh, you don’t have to tell me. I grew up with half of them.” I grimace and lean back, closing my eyes. “Just make sure I’m somewhere else if she ever does come by the studio.”
“Bris, don’t be sadity.” His words and voice chide me.
“I don’t even know what ‘sadity’ means, so I seriously doubt I’m being it.”
“Sorry.” His laugh rolls over me. “It means uppity. Stuck up. Jade’s had it hard. Don’t judge her.”
“Me, judge her?” My eyes pop open, and I sit up, hand pressed to my chest and eyes stretched wide. “She’s the one who called me a bitch before she even knew my name.”
I lie back only to snap up into a sitting position again.
“Oh, and again after she knew my name.”
“She isn’t the most polite, I give you that.”
“And apparently, when I finally meet your mother it won’t go any better.”
That was the absolute wrong thing to say, and I don’t examine what prompted me to say it. I’ve never actually met Grip’s mother, but I know they’re incredibly close. I never plan to be “the one” he takes home to Mama, but to think she would disapprove simply because I’m white is galling.
“My mom would adjust. She isn’t narrow minded, just . . .” Grip trails off, his long lashes dropping over clouded eyes. “You have to cut them both some slack. You can’t imagine the things we experienced living where we grew up. I was lucky going to the School of the Arts. That was my exit. It could easily have been Jade. She just didn’t apply. She’s a better writer than I am.”
“I doubt that,” I mumble.
His gaze latches onto my face, narrowed and searching.
“Why, ‘cause she’s hood? I’m hood, Bris.”
“Maybe you are, but you never called me a bitch.”
“At least not to your face.” He doesn’t even crack a smile.
Our eyes catch and hold. At the corners, my lips fight a smile. He stops holding his back around the same time I give in. Our laughter clears the air.
“And I didn’t doubt Jade was better than you because she’s hood or stupid.” Eyes down, I circle the lip of the wine glass with one finger. “I doubt it because I’ve never met a better writer than you.”
I inwardly slap myself. Why the ever-living hell do I keep saying things like this? As soon as things lighten, I say something stupid to let him know just how much he means to me. Must be the weed.
“You wanna know the real reason Jade didn’t like you?”
Grip leans into me, pushing back my hair and rolling his still-icy beer bottle over my neck. I swallow, but don’t dare look at him, hoping he’ll drop it, but he doesn’t.
“When you grow up on the streets, you don’t just develop a sixth sense.” He captures a lock of my hair and tests it between his fingers. “You have six, seven, eight, nine of ’em, because those instincts could be the difference between death or life. My mom and Jade have so many senses they almost know what you’re thinking before you think it. And even though I’ve never told her, Jade only had to be in the room with us for a hot minute to know I want you.”
I clench my eyes closed and pull in a stuttering breath, trapping my bottom lip between my teeth.
“Don’t do this, Grip.”
“Jade’s right,” he continues as if I hadn’t spoken, hadn’t asked him to stop. “My mom would flip if I brought a white girl home. If I brought you home. Maybe it is bigoted and ancient, but that’s just her. You know better than most that we don’t get to choose our family, but we still gotta love them.”
I don’t respond to that. He knows how contentious things have been between my brother and my parents. Beyond the headlines everyone else has seen, he knows how hard I’ve worked to reconcile them. I moved to LA to help Rhyson with his career, yes, but also to bridge the country-wide chasm between the two factions of my family.