“Not that he’s here,” I mumble. “He isn’t much company.”
I’m the one who said he doesn’t have to keep me company, and now I’m complaining because he isn’t. Maybe I imagined the charged moment at his apartment in the doorway. He touched my cheek. It was barely a brush of his fingers over my face, but it ignited . . . something. Emotion? Desire? I’m not sure, but I haven’t felt it before. Based on what I’ve seen of the player and his “chocolate charm,” I shouldn’t be feeling anything at all if I know what’s good for me.
I learned early on that people aren’t careful with your emotions. They’re too self-involved to consider how their actions affect others. I saw it when my parents forced Rhyson to tour, even though it was ripping our family apart. I’ve seen it in Rhyson’s own disregard for our relationship and how easy it was for him to walk away, forgetting he had a twin sister on the other side of the country. I’ve seen it in my parents’ sham of a marriage. They’re partners, but I’m not sure they genuinely care for one another at all. Certainly there isn’t any love. I protect my heart because no one else will.
Sometimes I wish I didn’t have a heart at all because, despite knowing what I know, I keep putting it out there to my family. Here I am, visiting Rhyson and willing to move after graduation if he’ll have me. I used to be afraid I’d be like my parents, careless. Now, I fear that I care too much about people who don’t give a damn.
“Machiavelli?” Grip’s voice, as deep and rich as espresso, caresses the nape of my neck from behind, making me jump. “Interesting choice.”
I look from the sharply hewn lines of his face to the flashing cursor behind Machiavelli’s name on my screen.
“Sorry.” He walks around to sit beside me on the couch. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
I set my laptop on the coffee table and scoot a few inches away, tucking myself into the corner of the couch. I wasn’t doing a good job focusing when he was in the other room. With the breadth of his shoulders, the stretch of his muscular legs, and the towering energy he brought with him, I give up. I’ll work on it tomorrow. A thrill passes through me at the prospect of another conversation with him. I’m not one of those giddy girls who gets all breathless when a guy comes around. And yet, with those caramel-colored eyes resting on my face, I’m short of breath.
“Isn’t this spring break?” Grip crooks a grin at me and leans into the opposite corner of the couch. “Seems like even Ivy League should get some time off.”
“Oh, I’m taking some time off for sure.” I tuck my legs under me. Since I exchanged my jeans for some old cut offs, I have to pretend not to notice him looking a little too long at my bare legs. The last thing I need is to get the idea that he likes me.
“So, you write essays about Machiavelli to relax?”
“Not exactly.” I laugh and scoop my hair up into a topknot. “I’m applying for an internship. The application is due next week, and I need to finish the essay.”
“What’s the essay on?”
“I have to write about an icon of power from history.”
“And you chose Machiavelli?” He chuckles, considering me from beneath the long curl of his lashes. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”
“You know much about him?”
He pulls his T-shirt up from the hem, and my heart pops an artery or something because it shouldn’t be working this hard while at rest. I swallow hard at the layer of muscle wrapped around his ribs. One pectoral muscle peeks from under the shirt, tipped with the dark disc of his nipple. My mouth literally waters, and I can’t think beyond pulling it between my lips and suckling him. Hard.
“Do you see it?” he asks.
“Huh?” I reluctantly drag my eyes from the ladder of velvet-covered muscle and sinew to the expectant look on his face. “See what?”
“The tattoo.” He runs a finger over the ink scrawled across his ribs.
Makavelli.
“I hate to break it to you,” I say with a smirk. “But someone stuck you with a permanent typo.”
He laughs, dropping the shirt, which is really a shame because I was just learning to breathe with all that masculine beauty on display.
“Bristol, stop playing. You know it’s on purpose, right?”
“Oh, sure, it is, Grip.” I roll my eyes. “Nice try.”
“Are you serious?” He looks at me like I’m from outer space. “You know that’s how Tupac referred to himself on his posthumous album, right? That he misspelled it on purpose?”
I clear my throat and scratch at an imaginary itch on the back of my neck.
“Um . . . yes?”
His warm laughter at my expense washes over me, and it’s worth being the butt of the joke, because I get to see his face animated. He’s even more handsome when he laughs.
“You’re funny.” He laughs again, more softly this time. “I didn’t expect that.”
“Why not?” I frown. “Did Rhyson make me sound like I wasn’t any fun?”
“He hasn’t said much at all actually.”
I figured I wasn’t paramount in his mind, but it hurts to hear how little Rhyson has told his friends about me. Even when I resented my parents lavishing all their attention and love on my brother, I was proud of him. I told anyone who would listen about how talented he was. How he traveled all over the world. I wanted everyone to know. Again, my heart is a scale out of balance, with my end taking all the weight.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” Grip says after a moment of my silence. “I can tell you and Rhyson have a lot to work out.”
“If he ever comes home, I’m sure we will.” I search for something to shift the attention again. “So, you’re a Tupac fan?”
“That would be an understatement. Fanatic is more like it.”
“Even I know the Biggie–Tupac debate,” I say with a slight smile. “I guess I don’t have to ask where you fall.”
“Oh, Pac, all day, every day.” Grip’s passion for the subject lights his eyes. “I mean, I give Biggie his props, but Pac was a poet, and truly had something to say. He was unflinchingly honest in his commentary on social justice and the state of his community. He was brilliant.”
“You don’t talk like most rappers I know.” I smile because I hear how bad it sounds, but I somehow feel like I can say it to him even ineloquently.
“And we’ve already established that you know so many rappers.” He crosses his arms over his chest, the cut of his muscles flexing with the movement. “Some of your best friends are rappers. You’re so down.”
His dark eyes glint with humor.
“Don’t make fun of me.” I fake pout.
“But it’s so much fun.” He fake pouts back.
“I meant it as a compliment.”
“Yes, but by comparison it would be an insult to other rappers, right?” He’s half teasing, half challenging.
“I don’t enjoy this logic thing you’re doing. It’s making me seem narrow-minded.”
“If the mind fits,” he comes back with a smirk.
“I should be irritated with you for calling me out.” I try to keep my face stern.
“And I should be disgusted by your preconceived notions.” He glances up from under his long lashes, his mouth relaxed, not quite smiling. “But I’m not.”
“And why is that?” I ask softly, my breath held hostage by the look in his eyes under hooded lids. I want to look away. I should, but he should first, and he doesn’t. So we’re both trapped in a moment, unsure of how to do the thing we should do. When I feel like my nerves will snap from the heated tension, he clears his throat.
“Um, I thought you might be getting hungry again.” He stands without answering my question, running both hands over the closely cut wave of his hair. “Wanna order something? Pizza? Thai?”
“Anybody do good empanadas around here?”
“You kidding me?” He pulls out his phone and smiles. “This is LA. If there’s anything we have, it’s good Mexican.”