She’s a pretty girl. Her unblemished skin glows, smooth and richly colored mocha. No makeup that I detect. Her hair is cropped close to her head and worn with its natural texture. A plaid shirt hangs large over baggy jeans and Chucks. Big brown eyes, almost doe-like and framed by long, curly lashes, never leave my face. They lend her an air of innocence belied by the 9mm aimed at my heart.
“Jade.” Grip’s voice drops from above. He stands at the walkway rail, looking down at us. “Put that damn gun up.”
“Some stranger rolling up in the house,” Jade says, lowering the weapon. “I didn’t know.”
For a moment, I forget about the gun trained on my torso. With the arresting picture Grip makes, T-shirt looped at his neck and hanging over his bare chest, he’s more dangerous than the armed girl in front of me. A stack of abdominal muscles trails down to the indentations carved into his hips. Drops of water bead the smooth slope of his shoulders and the arms splattered with vibrant ink. Beltless dark wash jeans hang low on the lean hips. I lift my eyes to his face, a dazzling arrangement of jet-colored brows and bold bones balanced with lips so sculpted you would never guess how soft they are.
I don’t have to guess. I remember.
“Your hair,” I gasp. Gone are the dreadlocks he’s been growing the last few years. There’s barely any hair at all it’s cut so short, just a subtle dark wave shadowing his scalp.
He runs a hand over his head, a wry grin tipping one corner of his mouth.
“Just something different.” He exchanges a look with the girl holding the gun at her side. “Jade cut the locs out for me.”
“Jade?” I drag my eyes from his face to hers. “As in your cousin Jade?”
Her eyes shift to mine, adding another question about me to her gaze.
“Yeah.” Grip slips the T-shirt over his head and starts down the steps. “Good memory.”
Jade and I watch each other warily. Grip told me they grew up together in Compton. He also told me about a dark day on a playground when an officer went too far while searching her, crossed a line of innocence. Knowing that, my heart softens some, even though she’s still giving me the same hard look.
Eyeing Jade, focused on her, I took my eyes off Grip. Now he stands right in front of me, looms over me. I’m usually braced for the raw sexuality that clings to him, so strong my knees have been known to go weak. But him being so near and looking so much like the guy I met eight years ago, before the dreadlocks. Before the underground mixtapes and concerts and record deals. Before his fame. The start of a beautiful friendship. Anything else we could have been ended almost before it started.
Almost.
“So, Bris, to what do I owe this pleasure?” Grip grabs a remote from the table and silences Tupac. In the abrupt quiet, his eyes make a slow voyage down my body, his perusal pouring over me like hot oil. The silk romper I wore to the office today suddenly feels too short as he takes in my legs. Even though the sleeves reach the elbow, my forearms prickle with goose bumps under his stare. By the time his eyes reach my breasts, my nipples are tight and beaded in the silky cage of my bra. His eyes linger there before lifting and roving over my face.
He knows.
Even though I ignore this awareness that always seethes between us, no matter how much I pretend it isn’t there, he knows. Even with Jade standing just two feet away, his proximity, his nearness and heat, cloister us in false intimacy.
“Um, Sarah was sick so I’m just bringing . . .” I don’t bother finishing the sentence. My voice is unnaturally husky. My breath, abridged. I just hold up his backpack as explanation.
“Oh, yeah,” he says. “Thank you.”
He takes the bag by the strap, his fingers deliberately touching mine. I glance from where our fingers mingle to the face that looks even more handsome with barely any hair framing it. He looks so much like the guy who picked me up from LAX when I visited for spring break years ago. Nothing has changed, and everything is different now. He looked at me that day the way he’s looking at me now, as if I were some new mystery he wanted to lose himself in solving. Conversely, he looks at me like he knows my every secret.
Jade clears her throat before speaking, snapping the moment between Grip and me.
“Man, I hope you ain’t trying to bring her home to your mama.” Jade’s eyes follow the same head-to-toe journey Grip’s took over me, but derision weights her look at every stop. “You know Aunt Mittie would have a fit if you start shit with some white bitch.”
“Bitch?” I have a low give-a-fuck threshold, and she just crossed it. “You’ve called me bitch twice, and you don’t even know me. Or did we meet and I forgot you already? I see how that could happen.”
“Bristol.” Grip chuckles down at me, the warmth that probably made Jade suspicious in the first place evident in his eyes. “She does still have a gun.”
I glance from the firearm at Jade’s side to the smirk on her pretty face, feeling bold now that I know who she is and bolder still now that Grip is close enough to hide behind if necessary. He’d never let anyone hurt me. Except himself. I’m pretty sure Grip could crush me without noticing.
“Jade, ease up,” he says. “She’s Rhyson’s sister.”
“And Grip’s manager,” I add. “You and your Aunt Mittie can rest easy. There’s nothing going on between us.”
I feel Grip’s eyes on me when I say there’s nothing between us. I won’t give him the satisfaction of looking, of letting him mock the defenses I wrap around myself to guard against anything that could develop. They’ve held this long, and I have no plans of yielding any time soon.
“Your manager, huh?” Jade studies me again, as unimpressed as the firs
t time. “I see.”