“From me?” Grip quirks one brow, but otherwise shows no response. “Wasn’t my night.”
“Dr. Hammond is definitely a worthy opponent in a debate.” Ford slides his hands into his pockets and rears back. I don’t need to see his face to know he’s up to no good. “But you’re the man everyone’s talking about and listening to. You’re the voice for this new American Dream.”
Grip watches him, waiting for the point. Despite the languid posture, arms folded over his chest, he’s on high alert, ready to flare barbs like a porcupine at the first sign of threat.
“I know you don’t think we have much in common,” Ford says, “but you’re wrong. I can think of at least one thing we both seem to love.”
Grip’s eyes slit and he swallows, and I feel him bracing for Ford’s next words. I’m sure they’ll be handpicked to antagonize him, and I silently will him not to fall for it.
“And what’s that?” Grip asks.
Ford steps closer to whisper into Grip’s ear. I don’t hear whatever nastiness he feeds Grip, but in a flash of lightning and with a thud that sounds like thunder, Ford lands beside me on the wall, pinned there by the manacle of Grip’s hand.
“Say it now.” Grip’s voice razors through air viscous with animosity.
Even under the weight and pressure of Grip’s hand, Ford forces a strangled, taunting chuckle. The chatter in the room dies down as people turn their attention to the drama playing out between these two men.
I ignore Ford and step close to Grip, placing my hand on his arm.
“You need to let him go,” I say fierce and low. “Now.”
Frustration bunches the muscle along Grip’s jaw and his fingers tighten fractionally around Clem’s throat.
“Man, he’s not worth it,” Dr. Hammond says, materializing on the other side of Grip. “This is what he wants—for everyone to see some violent thug when they look at you. Whatever he said, it’s not worth it. Let him go before somebody turns the cameras back on or calls the cops. Or even worse, start a riot in here.”
He glances at the crowd, a few of Ford’s supporters making their way toward us, wearing outrage on their faces. Others inch closer, trying to catch the words flowing between us. A tall, suited man, apparently from Ford’s security detail, steps forward menacingly, but Ford holds up a staying hand, stopping him from intervening.
“Is this what you wanted to see?” Grip asks Clem, loosening his fingers but not letting go. “The violent thug?”
“I knew he was in there,” Ford rasps. “It’s just a matter of knowing which button to push. We all have our weaknesses.”
His eyes flick to the side and find me, a wretched grin sawed into his face.
“Don’t look at her.” The words fire from Grip’s mouth. “Look at me.”
Clem takes his time turning mocking eyes from my face back to Grip.
“You want to push my buttons?” Grip demands. “You’re using her to provoke a response? Try me and see.”
I gulp back a river of profanity. The thought of this man using me to provoke Grip unleashes a rage that I leave boiling in my belly. I can’t very well talk Grip down if I’m standing on the ledge beside him, ready to jump.
“Grip, please let him go,” I say, finding matching concern in Dr. Hammond’s eyes across Grip’s arm, a stiff bridge from his body to Ford’s neck.
As abruptly as he grabbed him, Grip releases Ford.
“Get him out of here,” Dr. Hammond tells me, watching as Ford coughs a little, adjusts his suit, and walks back to the group of admirers security is holding back. When I see the outrage on their faces, I realize just how ugly this could have gotten. Grip’s fans and Dr. Hammond’s students and followers study the smaller group of supporters who showed up to demonstrate solidarity with Ford. This has the potential of a bomb poised to blow, and I need to get Grip out of blast range.
I drag him through the door and down the sidewalk. My feet hurt in the high-heeled boots, but I ignore the discomfort, covering as much ground as possible at a bruising pace.
“Bris.” Grip tugs on my hand, trying to slow me down. “Babe, hold up.”
I ignore him and keep moving, as much to give myself something else to focus on as to actually get away from that scene.
“I said stop.”
Grip pulls us up short, stronger and able to stop me when he wants to. He lifts my chin, forcing me to look at him. We’ve been practically running in the freezing cold. Exerted, we watch each other through frosted-air breaths. He scans my face under the streetlights, impervious to the steady stream of people trickling past, a few of them wearing questions about Grip’s identity on their faces. It’s times like these I wish he was just mine, wish the whole world didn’t feel they had a right to be in our lives.
Actually, I pretty much feel like that all the time.