Grip Trilogy Box Set

“You roofied your damn self with that bottle of vodka you poured down your throat.” If anything my attempt at a joke makes things worse. A scowl forms on his face. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t thinking.” I shield my eyes from the light intruding through my wide windows, curtains undrawn. “I was drunk, in case you didn’t notice.”

“Yeah, what the hell were you thinking getting drunk?” He shakes his head as he lifts a knee under the duvet and props his arm on it. “In a strip club. Do you have any idea how vulnerable you were in a place like that drunk off your ass?”

“I don’t need a lecture.” I swing my legs over my side of the bed, pausing for my head to spin. “What I need is . . .”

The words trail off when I see the water and aspirin on my bedside table.

“Thanks,” I mumble around the two pills before gulping down water. I lift a hand to touch what feels like involuntary pageant hair. “My hair situation seems dire.”

I try to run my fingers through the nest tangled around my head, but they stall at one knot after another.

“Yeah, your hair looks like shit. Your lipstick is smeared all around your mouth, and you have mascara running down your face like some emotionally unstable clown. You look like a circus refugee. Also, you reek.”

I swing him an affronted look over my shoulder.

“Why are you being so mean to me?”

“Because I’m pissed, Bristol.” He flings the covers back and stands, facing me with my unmade bed between us.

Even at this time of morning and under these circumstances, he looks highly fuckable in his jeans and undershirt, with a shadow coating the chiseled jawline. There isn’t enough alcohol in my system to wash the horny away. I need to have actual sex with an actual person and actually remember it. Being this close to the sexiest man I know isn’t helping.

“If I hadn’t been there,” Grip continues, blissfully unaware that I’m mentally dry humping him. “It could have been much worse.”

Worse than what? I try to reconstruct the events from last night. I remember still being angry at Grip for firing me. I remember drinking lots of vodka with Jimmi. We asked that nice stripper Champagne to show us how to make our asses clap. And then . . .

“Oh, God,” I gasp. “Did I take my bra off? Like in front of people? Did I make it rain?”

He sucks his teeth, exasperation in every chiseled line of his handsome face.

“You were damn close,” Grip snaps. “If I hadn’t pulled you off the stage, you and Jimmi both would have been butt naked in there."

“Where’s Jimmi?” I ask, my voice constrained by embarrassment.

“Amir took her home.” Grip walks to the bench at the foot of my bed to grab his backpack. “You owe him an apology, by the way. You hit him in the eye.”

“What?” I slap my forehead and close my eyes, mortified. “Oh my God, no.”

“Oh my God, yes, and you owe me an apology.” He gestures to his shirt covering my almost-naked body. “I want that dry cleaned, by the way.”

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” I load the words with a double helping of sarcasm and stumble toward the bathroom. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to figure out what died in my mouth.”

I’m practically brushing my teeth with eyes closed to avoid the road kill of my reflection in the mirror.

“You just keep getting better and better, don’t you, Bristol?” I mutter around my electric toothbrush. I splash my face, but don’t even bother with my hair and the rest of my bodily disaster. I’ll shower once Grip’s gone. I walk back into my bedroom to find Grip on his knees, ass up, looking under my bed.

And what an ass it is.

He glances over his shoulder from the floor, one brow lifted when he sees my head bent at just the right angle to peruse his butt.

“Um, can I help you?” he asks.

“Oh . . . no.” Embarrassment at getting caught checking him out fires up my cheeks. “Were you looking for something?”

“My shoes.” He stands and glances around the room. “Did I mention that you threw up on a pair of thousand dollar vintage Jordans?”

“I’m sorry.” I walk around to the side of the bed, joining the search for his shoes. I spot the worn leather book of Neruda poems and the tarnished whistle on the floor. My heart, my thoughts, my whole body goes still.