“How’s the Park?” Bristol asks. “Your suite is okay?”
“That suite is the bomb!” Qwest’s dark eyes glimmer with plea- sure between the fake lashes she wears for stage. “Maybe the nicest I’ve ever stayed in.”
“Good,” Bristol says. “I’ve got a friend there who went the extra mile for me.”
“You mean Parker, Bris?” Rhyson asks, a slight frown on his face. She looks over her shoulder to her brother. They aren’t your typical twins, but every once in a while I suspect they’re telepathically communicating things the rest of us are missing.
“Yeah, Parker,” she confirms. “I need to go.”
She’s gone before Rhyson can ask the questions I see lining up in his eyes. I hadn’t thought of Charles Parker since our artist showcase in Vegas. His family owns the Park Hotels all over the world, and when we held our showcase at the Park-Vegas, he was wrapped around Bristol like a damn vine. I haven’t seen or heard any sign of him since, so he hadn’t entered my mind. Now, I wonder if she has been seeing him and I was just that oblivious. If she hid it from me. Or worse, maybe she wasn’t hiding it from me at all. Maybe I didn’t occur to her and she was just living her life like she told me.
“Is Bristol dating Charles Parker?” Qwest asks Rhyson.
“Not that I know of.” Rhyson shifts Kai so he can stand. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he hooked her up, though. Our families have been close all our lives. Our mothers are best friends. Roomed together at Wellesley.”
How did I not know this? I’ll be following up with Rhyson later. But first . . . I need to deal with Qwest. Rhyson, Kai, and Gep tell us they’ll see us out there, and all drift out of the room, presumably to give us some time alone.
“Hi,” Qwest says as close to shy as she can get.
There’s nothing shy or subtle about Qwest. Skin flawless and the color of nutmeg. Her trademark braids, which are usually pulled into a knot, flow down to her tiny waist. Her body is a series of highlights and exaggerations. The curve from her waist to her ass is positively hyperbolic. I used to wonder if that ass was real. Remembering how she invited me to touch it and find out for myself the first time we met crooks my lips into a grin. This girl makes me laugh. She’s talented and beautiful. Smart as a whip. I should feel so much more for her than friendship. And maybe I would if it weren’t for Bristol.
But there is Bristol.
“Hi, yourself,” I answer. “You ready for this?”
“Ready to get it over with.” She walks over until she stands directly in front of me. “So we can have a good time later.”
“A good time?” I shrug. “Sure. We could get a crew and go hit Greystone.”
“A club?” She shakes her head and reaches up and over my shoulders, pressing her body into me. “No, I had something much more private in mind for us.”
She is tight and warm and curvy against me, and if she keeps doing this, my dick will get hard. But that’s it.
“Okay.” I rest my hands lightly at her hips to move her so I can step away. I grab the button up I’m wearing for the show. “More private, huh? Just remember we have that interview with the Legit reporter after the show.”
“Didn’t Bristol tell you?” Qwest’s eyes heat up a few degrees. “She got it cancelled so we can hang out.”
“Hang out” is a euphemism for screw me into next week. I’m sure Bristol realizes this, and yet, she cancelled a long-standing interview to accommodate the desire branded in Qwest’s eyes.
“Bristol arranged it, huh?” My voice is plastered to the walls of my throat. “Well then it’s settled. You just tell me where we’re going.”
She runs one long nail down the center of my chest, her eyes never leaving mine.
“Oh, I will.”
Chapter 8
BRISTOL
THE FIRST TIME I saw Grip perform, I literally almost came.
Standing in the wings, watching him charm the audience with his charisma, challenge them with his lyrics, and feed them from the palm of his hand. I’ve almost nodded off waiting for guys to find the spot, to get me off, and this man does it hands-free from fifty feet away in front of a crowd without even trying. It’s embarrassing to be so aroused just by watching him onstage. A heat wave flushes my body. Tiny beads of sweat gather down the line of my back, across my lip, at the nape of my neck . . . from watching him. While the blood seems to slow to a languid creep through my veins, my heart hurtles in my chest. Fire-winged butterflies swarm in my belly. I’m wet.
Good God. When will this set be over?
Thank goodness it’s the last song or I’d need spare panties. I must not be the only one feeling hot. When Grip brings Qwest onstage for “Queen” to close the show, her eyes rake his tall frame possessively, like he’s already hers. Like she wants to jump him under the lights in front of everyone. When she sidles up to him before her verse begins and grinds her hips into his, the audience goes wild. They want this to be real. There’s already rampant speculation about a romance between Grip and Qwest. Some even mistakenly assume the song honoring women from all walks of life was written for her. Tonight’s sexually charged performance will only send it into overdrive.
She stuffs her mic into her tiny bra top, freeing up her hands.