Grip Trilogy Box Set

Rhyson has made a great deal of progress with our father but remains at odds with our mother.

“Why does your father get a pass and I don’t?”

That’s a complicated answer that Rhyson will have to give her because I can’t.

“You’ll have to ask him that.” I shrug. “Maybe bring it up in your next session.”

“By the way, Dr. Ramirez suggested we bring you in,” Mother says casually.

I nearly drop my fork. They were supposed to bring me in “soon.” That was over a year ago, and I still haven’t been to one session. I’ve been waiting so long for this, to be heard. To have my say about how all the decisions they made affected me years ago. How I’m still affected by the civil war that splintered our family.

“When??

?? I keep my voice free of eagerness.

“Hopefully in the next week or so. Rhyson’s been busy with that record label.” Mother says it with such distaste I almost laugh. “And your father and I have taken on several new clients in addition to Petra.”

“Just keep me posted. I’ll adjust my schedule however I need—”

A hand on my shoulder cuts the sentence short. I look up to find my mother’s best friend since college standing over me, her blue eyes and blonde hair a beautiful, older echo of her son’s.

“Mrs. Parker.” I cover her hand on my shoulder with mine, forcing a smile to my lips. “So good to see you.”

“So formal?” The gentle rebuke in her eyes coaxes my lips into a genuine smile.

“Sorry, Aunt Betsy.” I kiss the cheek she offers before she takes a seat at our table.

“Betsy, hello, darling.” Mother sips her third Bloody Mary. “When did you arrive in LA?”

“I left you a message that I was flying in from New York last night.” She smiles at our server. “Mimosa, dear. Thank you.”

They don’t fool me. Like mother like son. I have a feeling Aunt Betsy and my mother have done some orchestrating of their own to make sure even with Parker in India, speculation about us remains high. I cast a quick glance around the floating restaurant, my eyes peeled for cameras and paparazzi. Not giving a hint that I sniffed them out, I scoot aside to make more room for Aunt Betsy between my mother and me.

“Nothing to eat?” I ask.

“Trying to maintain my girlish figure.” Aunt Betsy winks. “Do what we have to do to keep our men, don’t we?”

If by “keep” she means watch helplessly as her husband screws half of the Upper East Side, then I guess she’s doing everything she can. She and my mother didn’t exactly hit the lottery in the fidelity department. At least my father is discreet. I would never have known about his indiscretions had I not come home early that day.

It doesn’t take long for the conversation to circle around to what she and my mother have been planning since they compared ultra- sounds almost thirty years ago: my “pending” nuptials to Parker.

“We need to have you up to the house in the Hamptons, Bris.” Aunt Betsy caresses the diamond at her neck. “Maybe next weekend?”

“I’m really busy right now.” I smile politely instead of telling her that I will never, ever, ever, ever, ever marry her son. She’ll soon see. “One of the artists I manage is about to drop his first album.”

“Oh, well isn’t that nice?” She sips her Mimosa.

Between Mother’s Bloody Mary, Aunt Betsy’s mimosas, and the pictures stacking up of Grip and his “queen”, I could use a drink. I’m caving and ordering a vodka tonic. Life’s too short and too tough not to.

“Bristol, over here!” someone yells from the hostess stand at the restaurant entrance.

Here we go. A camera flash makes me blink a few times. When I look back , the photographer is gone. Great. I could write the caption myself: “Bristol Gray, manager to the stars, brunches with future mother-in-law.”

I pretend not to see the smug looks of satisfaction the two conspirators exchange. On second thought, forget the drink. Vodka got me into this mess. More vodka won’t get me out.

Chapter 13

GRIP