Grip Trilogy Box Set

“Don’t.” Her broken whisper is muffled into my neck. “Don’t push me away again, Grip.”

“I wouldn’t.” I palm the back of her head, rubbing the soft, wild hair. “I didn’t.”

“You did.” Her tears come faster, her erratic breaths hiccupping her words. “You don’t-don’t want me-want me-around. You f-fired me.”

“Bristol, you know—”

“You just want her.” She trembles against me, folding her arms between her chest and mine. “You just want Qwest.”

I know she probably won’t remember this tomorrow, but as much as it cuts me open to see her li

ke this, it’s this raw, vulnerable version of Bristol that will tell me the truth. And I’m not noble enough not to take advantage of it to finally hear her confession.

“Does it hurt you when I’m with her?” I peer down at Bristol’s face in the muted hallway light, hunting down the truth in her eyes.

“So much,” she whispers, fat tears squeezing from under her clenched-closed-tight eyelids and leaving trails of mascara. “It hurts so much.”

“Why does it hurt so much, Bris? Do you . . .” I swallow around the emotion clogging my throat at the sight of her tears, unsure if I really want to hear her say this knowing that tomorrow she’ll probably just deny it. “Do you have feelings for me? Do you care about me, Bristol?”

With eyes the silver of moonlight, illuminative, so clear and unprotected, not fogged by her fears, insecurities, or questions, she tells me.

“So much.” Another tear skids over the silk of one high cheek- bone. “I care so much.”

Something breaks free in my chest. Knowing I’m not crazy loosens a vise from around me. Knowing I haven’t imagined that the connection we had all those years ago never went away.

“Bris, then why do you—”

My question never makes it out. With green tingeing her tear- streaked face, Bristol doubles over, clutching her stomach and puking all over my Blackout Jordans.

Chapter 21

BRISTOL

I HAVE TO stop doing this.

Not that drinking myself into a coma is a regular occurrence, but when the pain and pressure are too much, I find myself reaching for the same bottled oblivion my mother favors. And there’s no doubt I’ve been drinking. Demons are line dancing in my skull. My furry tongue clings to the roof of my mouth. The morning chill creeps under my duvet, and I pull the chambray shirt I’m wearing closer around me. I tug the collar up to my nose, inhaling the clean, masculine scent. It’s familiar. It smells like . . .

“Grip,” I say into the quiet of my bedroom. “What?”

I literally jump and screech, flipping onto my back to find Grip staring at me unsmilingly, wearing a white tank undershirt. I have no idea how I came to be wearing his shirt from last night, or how he came to be sitting in my bed, broad shoulders overpowering my tufted headboard.

“You scared me half to death.” I clutch his shirt over my pounding heart and touch my bare legs. My dress is nowhere to be seen, and under Grip’s shirt I’m wearing only a strapless bra and a thong. I have to wonder if I did anything regrettable last night.

“Did we . . . um . . .” I lick my dry lips, not sure how to ask this question. The same one I had to ask Parker just a few weeks ago. Shame curdles in my belly that I’m repeating this destructive cycle. “Did we have sex?”

Grip cocks one dark brow, his lips not even twitching. “Do you feel like you could walk straight?”

I nod and move my legs experimentally to check for partial paralysis. “Um, yeah.”

“Then there’s your answer.” He shrugs. “We couldn’t have had sex.”

“Very funny.” I drag myself up to sit beside him against the headboard.

“Not being funny. Just stating fact.”

His eyes remain sober. There was a time when he would have made this easier for me, allayed some of my discomfort with a joke. But there’s no levity in his expression.

“Did you roofie me or something?” I try to lighten the heavy atmosphere since he won’t.