“If I can’t get them out of the interview without potentially damaging this piece,” I say, stiffening my words just enough. “Then I’ll expect your artist to be where I need her to be when I need her to be and to conduct herself professionally. If you can’t control Qwest, don’t make me do it.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Will’s tone stiffens a little, too. “It shouldn’t be that big a deal. Promise the reporter something else. Something bigger.”
“Like what?”
“Like what if she goes with us next month? She’d get Qwest and Grip performing in Dubai. The optics alone will be a great add to her story.”
Damn. Wish I’d thought of that, too. Grip and Qwest are giving a sweet sixteen concert for the daughter of one of Dubai's ruling families.
“That’s a great idea.” My tone still makes no promises. “I’ll pitch it to Meryl and get back to you.”
“Sounds good. See you at sound check.”
With a million things clamoring for my attention, demanding action, I stand still at my desk for a full minute, staring unseeingly at the work waiting for me.
Qwest and Grip.
They’re perfect for each other. Not only that, but it would be good for business. Their fans would eat up a romance between them. They’d be the king and queen of hip-hop. All the ideas spin through my head of how to maximize on a relationship between my artist and Will’s. I could spin a street fairy tale of it. It’s what Qwest wants. It’s what everyone would want.
But I’m the one thing I know without a shadow of a doubt Grip wants. Over the years, we’ve managed to become friends. Really good friends actually, and I was thrilled when he finally agreed to let me manage his career. But that’s all. Grip has made it clear he wants more, but that’s all I can give, and that’s all we’ll be.
So if you won’t have him, Qwest can.
That little voice of conscience and reason whispers to me every once in a while. Depending on the circumstance, sometimes I listen. Sometimes I ignore. I know this time I should listen.
Sarah’s groan from the outer office pulls me from minutes of
contemplation I can’t afford. Despite all the work I’ve already done, I still have so much to do.
“You’re still here?” I call out, walking to the door.
I fight back an ill-timed smile when I see a Hershey’s bar, a Costco-sized bottle of Midol, and a legion of tampons spilled on the floor from Sarah’s purse. It’s like a Menstrual Survival Kit.
“Yes.” Sarah sighs, pressing two fingers to her temple. “I forgot about an errand I’m supposed to run. Ugh. I just wanna crawl between the sheets and die for a little while.”
“Let me handle it.” Another thing I can’t afford. Doing other
people’s jobs, but it feels like I’ve been doing that all day. All week. “You sure?” Doubt pinches Sarah’s pained expression even more.
“I know you have a ton to do.”
“As you can see by the state of my desk,” I say, pointing a thumb over my shoulder toward my office. “Work isn’t going anywhere. Anything I don’t finish today, will still be there tomorrow.”
“Oh, good.” She blows out a relieved breath. “Let me get Grip’s bag.”
“Let you get what?” Tiny thrills of panic and anticipation alternate through me. “Grip’s bag? What do you mean?”
“He left his bag here earlier today when he met with Rhyson.” She bends to gather the spilled items from the floor, shoveling them into her purse. “He needs it tonight, and I told him I’d drop it off on my way home.”
Apparently, I’m back at the lowest level of hell. After a week like I’ve had, the last thing I need is Grip being all . . . Grip. He’ll ask me out. I’ll refuse. He’ll try to kiss me. I’ll evade. I’ll leave, and he’ll go screw some random girl, thereby proving I was right not to give him a chance.
It’s what we do.
We’ve been playing this game that isn’t a game for years. One day, he’ll realize I mean it when I say there isn’t a chance in . . . well, hell, that it’ll ever happen between us.
“I need to give you the code for his loft. He texted it to me.” Sarah pulls out her phone, scrolling through messages. “He says he misses the bell all the time. So just use the code and go right in because he’ll probably have the music up or be in the shower.”
Grip in the shower. My mind paints vivid pictures that involve Grip’s powerful body, rivulets of water, and not much else. I may not want a relationship, but I’m not blind or dead south of the waist. My heart, though, last time I checked, was north of my belt. I don’t let anyone near that thing. If I let Grip in, the compass goes out the window. North or south wouldn’t matter. No territory would be off-limits with him. I see Grip all the time. Here at the label offices. In the studio. At shows and appearances. But alone. At his house. Freshly showered. And me vulnerable, and let’s face it—horny, is a disaster waiting to happen. A disaster I’ve managed to avoid for a long time.