Grip Trilogy Box Set

“Then why are you here, Bristol? What do you want?”

God, I come here with my heart bleeding on my sleeve, and it’s still not enough for him. He needs me to cut it out and hand it to him in chunks of flesh and blood.

“I thought it would be obvious what I want.” I tip my chin up defiantly and meet the skepticism and mistrust in his eyes. “I want my brother.”

8

BRISTOL

WHEN RHYSON SAID I could come and watch him in the studio, he wasn’t lying. That’s about all I’ve gotten to do. He certainly hasn’t talked to me much, and I can’t imagine the complete focus it takes to create music at this level. Rhyson hasn’t budged in eight hours. He’s obsessing over four or five notes that, to his ear at least, are not “falling right.” Whatever that means. He’s barely looked up except when I brought him a sandwich, which still sits half-eaten on the piano.

At least I’ve knocked out my internship application. Machiavelli is all done.

An irrepressible grin springs to my lips as I remember Grip’s reaction to my thinking his tattoo was misspelled. Mental images of the muscled terrain the tattoo adorns melt my grin. I’ve had plenty of time to remember how much I enjoyed hanging out with him yesterday. Rhyson’s warning wasn’t necessary, but it remains fresh in my mind.

He isn’t ready to be good to any one girl.

And I am but one girl.

I glance down at the cleavage on display in the dress I changed into. Definitely a girl and definitely ready to let off some steam. The painted-on black bandage dress shows off all my assets, especially the ones up top. It lovingly traces the curves of my waist, hips, and ass, leaving my legs bare from mid-thigh. I’ve left my hair hanging down my back in loose waves. My makeup is smoky eyes and red lips.

“I deserve a night out,” I tell the girl in the mirror. “Three thou- sand miles and I’m closeted in a studio all day?”

The girl in the mirror mocks me with her smoky eyes. She knows as well as I do that I wouldn’t have traded today for anything. It felt like old times. Rhyson may have forgotten, but I used to do my home- work outside his rehearsal room. I loved hearing my brother play, replaying a passage until it was perfect. That hasn’t changed. I may not make music, but I love it. My parents may manage musicians now, but they were both brilliant musicians when they were younger. Uncle Grady, too. I told Grip I was an ugly duckling in my family. Maybe I’m not ugly, but I’m certainly the odd man out.

My eyes drop to the shadowy cleft between my breasts. Correction. Odd woman out.

I slip back into the studio unnoticed, and my heart skips a stupid beat when I see Grip at the piano with Rhyson. Both of their faces, which are so different but so handsome, wear matching frowns of concentration.

“Did you try it here?” Grip points to a place on the pad Rhyson has been scribbling on all day.

“Yeah.” Rhyson chews on the end of his pencil. “But it’s a major third.”

“Ahhhh.” Grip nods since that apparently holds significance to him that I don’t grasp. “I see.”

Neither of them looks up when I step farther into the room, keeping their eyes trained on the pad.

“Oh!” Grip’s face lights up. He grabs Rhyson’s pencil and music pad, writing furiously, a wide smile spreading over his face. “What about that?”

Rhyson takes the pad, frowning for a few silent moments before laughing and slapping Grip on the back.

“That does it.” Rhyson’s shoulders slump with his relief. “Man, thanks. I’ve been looking at it too long. I didn’t even see what was right in front of me.”

“Glad I could help.” Grip’s expression shifts, amusement twitching his lips. “Hey, did that guy send you his demo or mixtape or whatever? The guy from Grady’s class?”

“That dude.” Rhyson grimaces and then shifts into an odd British accent. “I was gonna listen to that, but then I just carried on living my life.”

Huh?

“That’s one of your goofy ass movie quotes, isn’t it?” Grip shakes his head, his grin teasing Rhyson. “Which one?”

“Russel Brand in Forgetting Sarah Marshall. You’d like that one.” “That’s what you said about Little Nicky.”

“Okay.” Chagrin wrinkles Rhyson’s expression. “Upon further consideration, that was an Adam Sandler miss, I admit.”

“I’ve never known anyone as obsessed with movies as you. You got a quote for every day of the week.”

Really? I don’t remember Rhyson ever watching movies. He never had time. It strikes me—again—how little I know this version of my twin brother. Grady, Grip, and Jimmi seem to all know more about him than I do. Maybe because they’re his family now.