“Luke has a trailer of sorts.” I flick my chin toward it, across the parking lot that has been cleared for today’s shoot.
“That’ll do.” A thick fan of lashes hoods whatever is in his eyes. I hate not knowing what he’s thinking, other than that he’s not pleased with me.
I can’t blame him; I haven’t been pleased with me since that damn panel.
We’re halfway across the lot, and the silence is suffocating. The air hasn’t been this heavy between us since before we got together. I hate that I did this. He walks beside me, a gulf-sized space between us and his eyes set on the trailer like it
’s a finish line. Once we’re inside, I walk farther into the room, setting my back against the wall and watching him across the few feet separating us. Grip leans against the small bar stocked with Luke’s favorite drinks and stares back at me. Everything is heightened in the small, tight space. Tension coils between us, pushing against the flimsy trailer walls. While a thou- sand ways to apologize fill my head and rest on my tongue, the silence tautens and lengthens.
“I was coming to New York tonight,” I finally say. As apologies go, it’s pretty lame, and not quite actually one.
“I heard you saying that when I walked up.”
Grip looks good. He always does, but after more than a week apart, my eyes are as hungry for him as my heart is and I can’t look at anything else in the room. He’s wearing dark jeans and a Kelly green T-shirt that says JOBS NOT JAIL on the front.
God, did I mention he looks good?
I just want to skip to the part where he’s soothing this ache at my core, where he’s banging me like he’s a bull and I’m his china shop. His still somber eyes tell me we’re not there yet, but the compulsive clenching between my thighs reiterates that I’m ready to be.
“I’m sorry I pulled rank on you.” His quiet apology when I was wrong on so many levels—when by all accounts, I should be apologizing first instead of just eye-fucking him—squelches my raging hormones.
“No, you were right.” The words fight to get out of my mouth. “Not confronting Angie was the right call.”
“I know that.” He lifts one dark brow. “It would only make things worse, but I should have talked that through with you until we agreed on it, not tried to use the advantage our working relationship gives me to manipulate you.”
He pauses, hesitation evident in his expression.
“I want to be your partner, Bris,” he says softly. “In everything. There’s no rank between us—ever.”
I drop my eyes to the hands clasped in front of me.
“Thank you for that. I’m sorry, too. I should have said it first. It seems like whenever we fight, you’re always the one . . .”
I swallow my pride and set aside every insecurity that’s assaulting me to give him the truth.
“I’m just glad you’re here.” My voice wobbles. Dammit. “I’m just . . .I’m sorry.”
I don’t look up, but I hear him taking the first steps, feel him drawing closer. I anticipate his touch, shaking with the need of it. And then it comes. The perfect simplicity of our fingers twined together, of him holding my hand. It paradoxically brings me peace and incites my senses. Even as my soul seems to exhale in relief, want and need form a blazing knot in my belly. He tilts my chin until I have to meet his serious stare, his loving eyes.
“Bris, this is all we have.” His words are so low, if someone else were in this tiny room with us, they wouldn’t hear. They are only for me. “Until this semester is over, our time is split, and this is all we have.”
I press our palms together.
“If you legit had to stay here in LA this weekend for work, I get that,” he continues. “You know I’m not that dude who wants you compromising your career for me, but if you were avoiding me because of our fight—”
“I was.” The admission leaves my lips before I can dissemble. His closeness, the intimacy of our fingers clinging, of our hearts beating through our chests and straining toward each other, demands my unequivocal honesty. I don’t look away, refusing to let embarrassment over my childish behavior deprive me of these beautiful dark eyes for even another second. I don’t miss the flash of disappointment at my words.
“I know that.” Grip’s mouth tightens, and I want to lick at the seam of his lips until they open for me, until he lets me back in. “That’s why you should have had your ass in New York this weekend.”
With him standing here in front of me, solid evidence of his love, I’m ashamed of myself, ashamed that I let doubt and insecurity rule me. I let them keep me here when I should have been there with him.
“You’re right,” I state simply.
“I hate it when we fight.” He drags a hand across his face. “I can’t focus. I can’t sleep. I can’t . . .” His words straggle into a growl of frustration and his brows snap together. “Nothing feels right when we aren’t right. You let that shit Angie Black brought up get to you when you know it means nothing, and that stupid post on Instagram . . . I get how someone else would think something was up with Qwest when they saw that, but for you to . . .”
The questions build up in the look he gives me until I’m sure the moment will explode.
“Why, Bris? There’s gotta be more to this than just the shots Angie fired. We’re used to that shit. What’s up for real?”