“Maybe you are, but you never called me a bitch.”
“At least not to your face.” He doesn’t even crack a smile.
Our eyes catch and hold. At the corners, my lips fight a smile. He stops holding his back around the same time I give in. Our laughter clears the air.
“And I didn’t doubt Jade was better than you because she’s hood or stupid.” Eyes down, I circle the lip of the wine glass with one finger. “I doubt it because I’ve never met a better writer than you.”
I inwardly slap myself. Why the ever-living hell
do I keep saying things like this? As soon as things lighten, I say something stupid to let him know just how much he means to me. Must be the weed.
“You wanna know the real reason Jade didn’t like you?”
Grip leans into me, pushing back my hair and rolling his still-icy beer bottle over my neck. I swallow, but don’t dare look at him, hoping he’ll drop it, but he doesn’t.
“When you grow up on the streets, you don’t just develop a sixth sense.” He captures a lock of my hair and tests it between his fingers. “You have six, seven, eight, nine of ’em, because those instincts could be the difference between death or life. My mom and Jade have so many senses they almost know what you’re thinking before you think it. And even though I’ve never told her, Jade only had to be in the room with us for a hot minute to know I want you.”
I clench my eyes closed and pull in a stuttering breath, trapping my bottom lip between my teeth.
“Don’t do this, Grip.”
“Jade’s right,” he continues as if I hadn’t spoken, hadn’t asked him to stop. “My mom would flip if I brought a white girl home. If I brought you home. She knows I don’t consider color when I date, but she’d love to see me with a woman who looks like her. You know better than most that we don’t get to choose our family, but we still gotta love them.”
I don’t respond to that. He knows how contentious things have been between my brother and my parents. Beyond the headlines everyone else has seen, he knows how hard I’ve worked to reconcile them. I moved to LA to help Rhyson with his career, yes, but also to bridge the countrywide chasm between the two factions of my family.
“Like you, I’d do anything for my family.” He comes in an inch closer, caressing under my chin and tilting it up with his index finger. “But if you’d ever give me a shot, I wouldn’t give a fuck what anyone thought. I’d take you home to my mama.”
I’m a little too high and a lot too horny for this conversation, for the stone-hard thigh pressing against me, for the heat coming off his body and smothering my resistance. I try to sit up, hoping it will clear my head so I can make my escape, but his hand presses gently into my chest, just above the swell of my breasts, compelling me back into the cushion. His lips hover over mine, and I will him to kiss me because I’ll make the first move if he doesn’t. After years of not moving, I have no idea how I’ll explain that once the smoke clears.
Sometimes at night after the chaos dies, I think about our first kiss at the top of a Ferris wheel. Just like then, his lips start soft, brushing mine like wings in sweet sweeps, coaxing me open and delving into me. Sampling me, he groans into my mouth and chases my tongue. The rough palm of his hand cups my face, angling me so he can dive deeper. He doesn’t come up for air, but keeps kissing me so deeply I can’t breathe. He tastes so good, I’ll choose him over air as long as I can. Why is it never like this with anyone else? I want it to be so bad, but it never is.
He releases my lips to scatter kisses down my neck. My back arches, and my nipples go tight. He knows that’s my spot. After all this time, he still knows. My neck is so incredibly sensitive, a gateway to the rest of my body.
“You taste exactly the same.” His words come on a labored breath in my ear. “Do you know how long it’s been since I kissed you?”
Eight years.
“Eight years.” He shakes his head, eyes riveting mine in light lent by candles and the moon. “And you taste exactly the same.”
His words shiver through me, searching out my nerve endings and invading my bones. If I don’t get out of here, we’ll be fucking on the rooftop before I can draw another breath.
“I should go.” I slide from under him, scooting down the couch as far as I can without falling off. “This is why I don’t smoke weed.”
I force a laugh, hoping he’ll let me get away with it. I scoop my hair behind my ears and drop my chin to my chest. When I glance over at him, displeasure clumps his brows and tightens his mouth.
“It’s not the weed, Bristol.” His glance slices through the haze hanging in the air. “It’s us. Don’t pretend it isn’t us.”
“There is no us.” My feet explore the floor, searching in the dark for my shoes. “You know that.”
He puts a staying hand on my knee until I look at him.
“What I know is that neither of us has been in a serious relationship in years.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.” I stand and slide my feet into the Jimmy Choos. “You haven’t exactly been waiting around, have you?”
“Damn right I haven’t been waiting around.” He doesn’t get up, but his firm hold on my wrist stops me from walking away. “I’m not Rhyson.”
I look down at him, frowning my confusion. “What do you mean?”