Grip Trilogy Box Set

Her long lashes flutter in a rapid blink before lowering over her eyes. I’ve caught her off guard. She steps back, her hand falling away. A deep breath fills her chest and whooshes past her lips. She looks at me, biting her lip, but doesn’t answer.

“Tell me.” My words are chipped with stone. “Did you fuck Parker last night?”

She looks up at me, a spark of defiance lifting her chin like it’s none of my business.

“Yes.”

Such a softly spoken word, but it slices me down the middle like I’m a cadaver. A humorless stretch of my lips is all I can manage.

“You must have laughed at me.”

“I didn’t.” She closes her eyes, shakes her head. “I never did.” “On the roof the other night when I went on and on about how neither of us has been in a relationship in years, when you were already in one.” A laugh hacks at my throat. “Can you believe I thought you were waiting for me? When all along you were waiting for him? Some medieval power couple alliance shit your parents drew up years ago.”

“It isn’t like that. You don’t understand what—”

“Was it good?” I straighten, stepping close, invading her space. My voice, a dark rumble in my chest, boils over between us. “Did Parker figure out how to make you come? Did he fuck you again this morning at your house? In your bed? Did he find the vibrators in your nightstand? Did you show him how you like it, Bristol?”

“Stop.” She tips her head back to watch me, bright eyes welling with hurt. “I hate the way you’re talking to me, the way you’re looking at me like you don’t know me. Please stop.”

I grab her hand and press it to my heart.

“Do you have any idea what we could be together? Hell, what we already are?” The hot words sear my lips. “It’s rare and real and you just keep spitting on it. You just keep ignoring it. Ignoring me. And I’m so fucking over it.”

She stands there in silence, eyes fixed on her hand over my heart, the muscles in her throat working as she swallows.

“You haven’t asked me because obviously you don’t care,” I go on, my heartbeat kicking into her palm. “But I didn’t sleep with Qwest last night.”

When she looks at me, surprise flickers through her eyes before she veils them with her lashes again.

“You don’t want to know why a guy like me would turn down top-shelf pussy?” I ask, deliberately crude.

“I don’t want to know.” She drops her hand from my chest and turns like she’s leaving, but I grab her arm and turn her back to face me.

“I thought something happened on the roof the other night,” I grit out. “I thought after all these years, it was happening. You were starting to realize we could do this. We could be an us. So, I turned Qwest down. I wanted to be able to look you in your face today and tell you that I didn’t sleep with her. That I would never fuck anyone else ever again if you wanted to be with me.”

The tears standing in her eyes must be for our friendship I’m going to ruin, for the hurtful words I keep making myself say. There was a time I’d fool myself that they were for something else, but that time is gone. I swallow a hot knot of hurt and pointless humiliation.

“But you don’t want to be with me.” I drop her arm and open the door. “So if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna get back to fucking who the hell ever I damn well please.”

Chapter 12

BRISTOL

OUTWARDLY, MY MOTHER and I couldn’t be more different. My cheekbones, wide mouth, dark hair—all my father. In contrast, my mother’s hair is flame-bright, unrelieved red without a hint of gray, thanks to the bottle. She’s like a cultivated pearl, breeding in every curve and class in every line. In the eyes, though, you find the resemblance. The silver-gray eyes I see in the mirror every morning, stare back at me from my mother’s face this beautiful morning over brunch.

“I’ll have eggs Benedict.” Mother glances from the brunch menu for Afloat, the restaurant located on a yacht in Marina del Rey, to the server’s conciliatory expression.

We’ve never eaten here before, and I was surprised when she suggested it. We typically eat at the home she and my father purchased when they relocated here from New York last year after his heart attack. From time to time, we’ll eat in town, but never here. It’s a nice change. I need the fresh air. My world has become claustrophobic since the Spotted piece outing my night with Parker. “And a Bloody Mary,” Mother adds, closing the menu and handing it to the server.

Of course. Because it wouldn’t be . . . a day . . . without my mother drinking. I’ve only seen her actually drunk once in my life. I learned more about my father, about my mother, and about myself that day than I wanted to know. I wish I could un-learn it, but I can’t.

The server clears his throat, shifting his eyes from my mother to me.

“And you, ma’am?”

“I’ll have poached eggs and smoked salmon,” I tell him.

“And to drink?” The young man’s eyes discretely tease me, bordering on flirtatious. “Bloody Mary for you, too?”