“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.”
We order and are eating in Grady’s kitchen within the hour. I sip the beer he grabbed from Grady’s refrigerator.
“This is good.”
“So you like Mexican,” he says.
“Empanadas especially.” I eye the last one in the Styrofoam tray on the marble island centered in Grady’s kitchen.
“The way you’re looking at that empanada is very Lord of the Flies. Like I might have to fight you for it. Like it’s the conch.”
“So are you Piggy in this analogy?” I pour false indignation into my voice and prop my fists on my hips.
“I ain’t Jack.”
I snatch the last empanada before he has a chance to, and he throws his head back laughing, shoulders shaking.
“To be so skinny, you put it away,” he says once he’s finished laughing at me.
“Skinny?” I glance at my legs in the cut offs. “I’m not skinny.”
“Okay, do you prefer slim?”
“I guess you’re all ‘I like big butts and I cannot lie.’”
“You know, that’s the only hip-hop reference you’ve gotten right all day, and it’s from like ninety-two.”