“It’s a big night for Grip,” Rhyson says. “I’m sure if it comes down to whether he needs his manager or his fiancée more, it would be his fiancée.”
“You mean the fiancée who’s running off to check the blue wash before the second verse?” I give him a well-meaning smirk.
Rhyson doesn’t allow himself much guilt, but I’m pretty sure that’s what flits across his face. He grabs his phone and stands.
“I’ll talk to the LD,” he says.
“No, you won’t.” I wave him back to his seat. “It’s a huge night for Grip and Kai—for Prodigy. Our little label is up for a grand total of six nominations. I can do my job and be fabulous for the red carpet.”
“You sure?” he asks, uncertainty mingling with the guilt in his expression.
“You doubt me?” I volley back with more confidence than I actually feel.
“Okay, if you say so. See you later, sis.”
I’m wrapping up my conversation with the lighting director backstage—who, at the very least, deserves a fruit basket once this is all over—when I hear a familiar voice behind me.
“No, that worked,” Qwest says. “They hit it on that last run- through. Just make sure we strike that spot onstage, or I won’t hit the mark for camera two.”
I stand perfectly still in the corner where the lighting director and I talked, hoping she’ll walk on by and I’ll go undetected.
“Bristol?”
There goes hope.
“Qwest, hey.” I step forward, a smile pasted on my lips that feels like it’s made of plastic. “Good to see you.”
“Hmmm.” Qwest waves her choreographer on her way. Her eyes roam over me as they usually do, like she sees several things lacking before reaching my face. “I guess I should have known you’d be here.”
As friendly greetings go, it’s not one.
“Well, congratulations on your nomination.” I give her another stiff smile and start to walk off.
“Did you lobby for Grip and me not to perform ‘Queen’?”
Her question startles me enough to turn around and face her again. Her one Grammy nomination is for collaborating with Grip on “Queen,” for best rap performance.
“No. I-I don’t remember it even coming up. The producers of the show were very clear that they wanted Grip to perform ‘Bruise.’” I meet her eyes with nothing to hide. “It’s up for song of the year, and it’s pretty standard to ask the artists nominated for that award to perform, well, the song they’re nominated for.”
Qwest looks unconvinced for a moment before resignation clears her pretty face.
“It’s fine.” She shrugs. “I’m performing one of my other songs anyway.”
“Good.” I hesitate before speaking again. “I would never meddle that way, Qwest—in Grip’s career, I mean.”
“Awwww,” she says sarcastically. “I guess that’s one of the many reasons he loves you—that and your pretty hair and golden tan.”
I don’t reply, but instead let her stew in her own petty silence. I don’t have the time or patience for this shit today.
“I’m sorry, too, about all the drama with Angie Black.” Qwest watches me closely. I know she wants a reaction I’m determined not to give her. “And that picture on Instagram. I can imagine how I’d feel if I saw my boyfriend’s ex with her hands all over him.”
“Then why did you have your hands all over him?”
So much for not giving her a reaction.
“There she is.” Her smile is immediate and knowing. “I figured your claws would come out soon enough.”
“I don’t want my claws out, Qwest. I wish you well. I know you don’t believe that, but I do.”