I hesitate, biting my lip before going on. “She still has feelings for you, ya know.”
Grip runs his tongue over his teeth, a thoughtful frown disrupting the strong line of his eyebrows.
“Yeah, I know.”
I tip up on my toes and kiss his chin, slipping a hand to the back of his neck. He rubs my back and we appreciate the closeness of each other’s bodies for a minute, the silence swelling with a tenderness, an intimacy I can’t imagine sharing with anyone else.
“Your performance tonight . . .” My words evaporate because I can’t find the right ones to express how moved I was when he performed “Bruise.” It wasn’t just me, either—he ushered the entire crowd to another plane during that performance, and I still feel like I’m coming off a high. “I’ve seen you be amazing, but this was something else. It was on another level, from a different place.”
“It felt . . . I don’t know.” He shakes his head and shrugs, a helplessness limiting what he can say about it even now. “It was a once- in-a-lifetime moment. I couldn’t hold it together. Thinking about those guys who died and the cops who were ambushed, I just lost it.”
I don’t respond for a moment because I can’t. The same emotion that overcame me during his performance steals my words again. Seeing those names scrolling behind him, seeing the tears rolling down Grip’s cheeks, looking around and seeing that I was surrounded by wet faces and broken hearts, there was a oneness in that crowd I’ve never experienced before. What if we achieved that kind of unity without music? Without a stage? In our communities and in the streets? How would that feel?
“That was sweet, dedicating the Grammy for song of the year to your cousin Greg,” I say, clearing my throat and shifting to something I can actually articulate. “He’s a good cop.”
“And to Chaz.” Voice subdued, eyes somber, Grip wears the sadness that always accompanies thoughts of Jade’s fallen brother.
“Yeah, and to Chaz,” I slur the words as exhaustion takes its toll.
The last few days have been nonstop.
Grip links our fingers, allowing our hands to dangle between us. He caresses over my hip and down my thigh before cupping my ass possessively, warming me through the silk of my nightgown. His bare torso and long, muscled legs in just briefs stir my passion, but I’m too exhausted to do anything about it.
A first for me.
My head flops against his shoulder, and I can barely keep my eyes open. There was all this press after the show, and then we must have hit every after-party Hollywood had to offer.
“Come to bed,” he whispers in my ear, ghosting kisses down my neck. “To sleep. You’re obviously too tired for anything else.”
I almost trip over my feet, stumbling behind him as he leads me to the bed. I climb in, grateful when he pulls the comforter up over my shoulders.
“Do you miss your loft?” I ask with the last of my consciousness. My eyes droop drowsily and I consider him in the light of the lamp on his side of our bed.
“Not really.” He lies on his side, tucking his pillow in the crook of his neck and shoulder. “We don’t need the place in New York and two places here in LA. The guys from Kilimanjaro subleasing the loft makes sense. Besides, I got spoiled living with you last semester, waking up with you every morning.”
He pushes my hair back and runs his thumb over my cheekbone. “I can’t go back now.”
We share weary smiles and skim our lips in sleepy kisses until my eyelids drift closed.
“Bris.”
I start awake, barely. “Wha . . . Huh?”
“I need to ask you something.”
“Is this something I need to actually remember tomorrow?” I murmur, eyes closed and the cool pillow soothing under my face.
“Yeah, you need to remember this.”
“Okay,” I mumble through a yawn. “Shoot.”
“When can we get married?”
My eyes pop open to find him watching me, his expression a
s alert as if it’s the top of the morning, not the end of an extremely exhausting, emotionally draining day.
“What?” My heart buffets my ribs, fighting against the tired body caging it. “When . . . why . . . what?”