“Here’s mine,” No-Game pipes up with a smug smile when he pulls his big square suitcase from the line.
Bristol creases a fake smile at him that disintegrates as soon as she looks back to the belt.
“Mine shouldn’t be far behind then,” she says.
“Unless it’s lost,” No-Game sneers but can’t seem to drag his beady eyes from her rack.
“You got your luggage,” I say, looking down at him. “How ’bout you step off?”
His blue eyes hiding behind the round glasses do a quick survey of me. I know what he sees and probably what he thinks. Big black dude, arms splashed with tats, “First Weed. Then Coffee” T-shirt. He’s probably ready to piss himself. He’s like the Diary of a Wimpy Kid all grown up but still wimpy. I could squash him with my eyelashes. It seems we’ve arrived at the same conclusion because No-Game Wimpy Diary guy turns without a word and pulls his suitcase behind him, docile as a lamb.
“Impressive.” Bristol smirks but still doesn’t flash teeth. “Been trying to shake that jerk since La Guardia. I felt like spritzing every time he looked at me.”
“Spritzing?”
She makes a spraying motion toward her face.
“Yeah, like to refresh your . . . never mind.” She rolls her eyes and sighs. “Anyway, he may look harmless, but I bet under all that geek he is a nasty piece of work. Unfortunately, it only takes money, not actual class, to fly first class.”
I’ve never flown first class, so I wouldn’t know. Come to think of it, I’ve only flown once. Ma sent me to Chicago to visit her cousins the summer my cousin Chaz died. That was a bad summer. I don’t know if it was the heat, but The Crips and The Bloods made our hood a jungle that year. They may have been hunting each other, but a lot of innocent blood ran down our streets. Not that they cared. Not that they ever cared. Ma took all the money she’d been saving from braiding hair to get me out of Compton that summer, and I think I flew Ghetto Air. Whatever shitty aircraft that little bit of extra money got me on, that’s what I flew. Not that Chi-Town was less violent, but at least it didn’t hold any memories for me. You don’t dream other people’s nightmares. And in my own bed, I’d wake up every night hearing the shot that killed Chaz just outside my window.
“Finally.” Bristol’s voice brings me back. “Here it is.”
An Eiffel-tower sized Louis Vuitton suitcase ambles down the conveyor belt.
“I thought you were just here for a week?” I lift one brow in her direction.
“I am.”
“You sure? ’Cause I could fit my whole apartment in that big ass suitcase coming at us like a meteor.”
“Very funny.” A teasing grin pulls at the corners of her bright eyes. “Maybe that says more about your apartment than it does about my suitcase.”
The one-room hovel I call home right now appears in my mental window.
“You might be right about that,” I admit with a laugh, grabbing the colossal suitcase when it reaches us and setting it on the floor. “Shit. You pack your whole sorority in here?”
“I’m not in a sorority, but thanks for the stereotype.” She reaches for the handle, and her hand rests on top of mine. Both our eyes drop to where her slim fingers contrast with my rougher, larger ones.
You know that electric tingle people talk about? That thing that zips up your spine like a tiny shock when your hands first touch? That isn’t this touch. It isn’t electric. It’s something that . . . simmers. A heat that kind of seethes under my skin for a second and then explodes into a solar flare. I watch her face to see if she’s feeling anything. If she does, she hides it well. If she’s anything like her brother, hiding things is a habit. Her expression doesn’t change when she tugs the handle until her hand slips from under mine.
“It’s got wheels.” She pulls the suitcase toward her and finally meets my eyes. “My feminist sensibilities tell me to carry it myself.”
“Maybe my manhood won’t let me walk idly by while a delicate lady carries her own suitcase.” I shrug. “I got a rep to protect.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt you have a rep.” Bristol’s brows arch high and her lips twist into a smirk. “Where to?”
I grab the suitcase by the handle, pulling it from her grasp, and start walking. When I look over my shoulder, her narrowed eyes rest on the mammoth suitcase I’ve commandeered. The defiant light in her eye makes me want to commandeer her like I just did this overpriced baggage. This is Rhyson’s sister. I need to keep reminding myself she should be squarely placed in the NO FUCK bin. But, damn, if all bets were off, she’d be feeling me every time she walked for a week.
If things were different.
But they’re not.
So I won’t.
I’m just gonna keep telling myself that.
Bristol
I’M MORE THAN capable of dragging my luggage around, but I appreciate the view as I watch Grip do it for me. My eyes inevitably stray to the tight curve of his ass in the sweatpants dripping from his hips. His back widens from a taut waist, the muscles flexing beneath the outrageous T-shirt hugging his torso and stretching at the cut of his bicep.
Ever since he called my name and I looked up into eyes the color of darkened caramel, I haven’t drawn nearly enough air. Soot-black eyebrows and lashes so long and thick they tangle at the edges frame those eyes. Lips, sculpted and full. Some concoction of cocoa and honey swirl to form the skin stretched tightly over the strong bones of his face. I’m almost distracted enough by all this masculine beauty to not be pissed at my twin brother.
Almost.
Five years. I haven’t seen Rhyson outside of a courtroom in five years, haven’t even spoken to him since Christmas. I finally initiate this visit to him in Los Angeles, and he sends some stranger for me?
I fall into step beside Grip so I can read his expression when I drill him. In profile, he’s almost even better, a tantalizing geometry of angles and slopes. He tosses a quick look to me from the side, a caramel-drenched gaze that melts down the length of my body before returning to my face, stealing more air from my lungs.
“So, why couldn’t Rhyson come get me?” I ask.
“Long story short,” Grip says as we reach the exit. “The album Rhyson’s been working on—”
“He’s working on an album?” A grin takes over my face. “I didn’t know he was working on new music. Piano, I assume? I can’t wait to hear—”
“It’s for someone else,” Grip corrects. “He’s producing an album for an artist, and her label wants all these changes before it drops. Some remastering, maybe some other stuff.”
“Oh, I was hoping he was back to performing. Doing his own music.” I narrow my eyes and nod decisively. “He should be.”
I’m actually here in part to convince him of it. I’m staking my entire college degree and career aspirations on him seeing things my way. People usually do see things my way if I play my cards right. My mother taught me to play my cards right. She may not be much of a mother, but she’s a helluva card shark.
“He will one day.” Grip offers me a small smile. “When he’s ready.”
“You think so?” I hope so.
“Yeah.”
He drags my suitcase toward an ancient Jeep with a mountain-sized airport security guard standing in front of it.
“Thanks, man.” Grip pounds fists and accepts keys from the guy. He glances up and down the busy sidewalk. “Anybody give you shit yet about the car being here?”
“Nah.” The guard gives a quick head shake. “You know I run this place.”
“Yeah right.” Grip sketches a quick grin. “Well, thanks.”
“No problem, bruh.” The guard’s eyes flick to and over me briefly before returning to Grip, brows lifted in a silent query.
“Oh, Amir, this is Bristol, Rhyson’s sister.” Grip waves a hand between us. “Bristol, Amir. We grew up together. He made sure my car wasn’t towed while I came to get you. It was all kind of last minute.”
At the last minute, Rhyson decided he would delegate me to strangers. I swallow my disappointment and spit out a smile.