Grip Trilogy Box Set

She starts toward the door. “Well, I’ll just—”

“Hold up.” I gently shackle her wrist, pulling her up short and stopping her from leaving. Our eyes collide over her shoulder. “Don’t you want to stay while I open it?”

“Obviously not.” She tugs on her wrist uselessly. “Grip, come on. Let me go.”

“I’ve been trying to,” I say softly. “It’s harder than you think.”

She stops struggling, going still in front of me and pulling a breath in through her nose, huffing it past those cherry red lips. A fiery chord bridges the distance between our bodies, and I want to pull her close enough to burn me, to hurt me, to destroy me. Some- times I don’t think I care as long as she’s close. I just want to feel her, even if it burns me alive.

But she pulls away.

“Like I said, it isn’t much.” She shrugs, clasping her hands in front of her while I rip the paper away. “Just something I kind of picked up on a whim.”

When I open the box and see what’s inside, I’m like a kid at Christmas. The limited edition silver Jordans with the black sole and laces are like polka dot unicorns for a collector.

“You say you got these on a whim, huh?” I take them out and resist the temptation to remove my boots and put them on right now.

“Yeah.” She shrugs, but I don’t miss the anxiousness in her eyes or the way she twists her hands. “Just thought you might like them. I know they’re not—”

Her words fall off a cliff when I hook an arm around her neck and pull her against me. I drop the shoes and bring my other hand to her waist.

“That’s some whim.” My voice dips to a husky whisper that disturbs wisps of hair escaping by her ear. “Considering there’s only maybe ten pairs of these ever made.”

“Really?” The word comes out high and breathy, and the controlled line of her mouth melts and softens. “I had no idea.”

I drop my head until my forehead presses against hers.

“Thank you, Bris.” I sneak a kiss into the hair pulled back at her temple. “I meant what I said tonight. I know how much you’ve done for this project. How much you’ve done for me.”

She only answers with a nod, but her lashes fall to cover her eyes, and her hand holds me at my hip as if she might fall if she lets go. I’d love for us to fall together.

But we can’t. Or she won’t. Whatever it is, I refuse to let this feel like something it’s not. Or something she won’t allow it to be because I’ll go to my grave believing Bristol cares about me. That doesn’t do me any good when she chooses to be with someone else. And at least for now, so am I.

“I better get going.” I pull back, but somehow, my hand finds her neck, and my thumb caresses the warm skin over her hammering pulse. Somehow, her hand is still at my waist. “My mom’s making chicken and waffles.”

“Sounds good.” She looks at me, and though we both keep asserting that we need to go, we can’t seem to separate.

“You wanna come?” I know she won’t, but the question is out before I can stop myself.

“Um, I doubt your mother would appreciate that.” Bristol looks at the ground, a wry grin teasing one corner of her mouth. “She and Qwest seem to be getting along well, which is great. I’m glad. I’m happy for them . . . for you.”

She nods, like she’s convincing herself as much as she’s convincing me.

“I’m . . . yeah. Okay.” She raises her glance from the floor. “Maybe I’ll come another time. I’ve never had chicken and waffles together.”

The smiles we trade carry traces of sadness. I don’t know what we will become. I’m not looking forward to telling her she won’t be my manager anymore. Obviously, any hope that we’ll be lovers is fading fast. And I can’t stand by and watch her with that asshole, so even friendship feels like torture. Whatever we will be, for a few minutes, we’re . . . us. All I’ve ever wanted was for Bristol and me to be an us. I don’t know what that looks like anymore, but I’ll fight to keep her in my life.

Later.

But not while I can still taste her wild kisses in the fun house from years ago, where even distorted in mirrors, our bodies looked right together. So letting go of the us I always thought we would be . . . it’s too soon for that.

“I better get going,” I say. “They’re waiting for me.”

My hand falls from her neck, and the fluorescent lights glint off the watch on my wrist. Bristol’s eyes follow my arm down to my side.

“Nice watch,” she says, her eyes set on the gaudy thing that feels like an albatross tied around my wrist.

“Yeah.” I lift it for my own inspection.