Grip Trilogy Box Set

“And what’s so great about the six four?” Bristol laughs when I look at her like this should be self-evident.

“They don’t make ’em like the ’64 Impala anymore,” I say. “That’s when American cars were the bomb. It takes more than money to appreciate them. You gotta maintain and know your way around that beautiful body. She won’t purr for just any dude.”

“Why am I not surprised this became a thinly veiled conversation about sex?” Bristol laughs, opening the bag in her lap and finishing her makeup since I rushed her out of the loft.

“What can I say?” I grin. “Amir rolled through to drop it off.”

“It’s yours?”

“I’m test driving it.”

“Hmmm.” She flips down the visor mirror and applies lipstick. “I’d never picture you with this car, I guess.”

“Maybe I’m full of surprises.”

She’ll soon see that for herself. I know she’s gonna kill me for what I’m doing today, but she loves me. They say love covers a multitude of sins. We’ll see. In the words of that great comedic philosopher Kevin Hart, “We gon’ learn today!”

“And what is this surprise?” Bristol follows up predictably.

I only give her a shrug and grin in response. If she weren't distracted, she'd probably pay closer attention to the route we're taking.

“You’ll have to wait and see.”

She rolls her eyes and takes off her seatbelt to reach her purse on the floor, putting the makeup bag away.

The loud “whoop” from behind freezes my blood, and for a second, my heart isn’t sure it’s safe to beat. The flashing blue lights in the rearview mirror confirm what my body has already warned me of. Growing up in Compton, guys like me have an almost Pavlovian response to cops. Instead of salivating, we auto-perspire and run through the mantra our mothers drilled in our heads before we could even drive.

Keep your hands where they can see them.

Never make sudden movements.

Have license and registration already out so you don’t have to reach into any pockets or compartments.

Always answer with respect. And most important.

Do whatever it takes to make it home.

“Put your seatbelt back on.” I slap my license on the dashboard. “Now, babe."

I feel her eyes boring into me, but I’m too focused on getting through these next few minutes to address her questions. It feels like the gun I stowed in the glove compartment, the one I carry for my own safety, just turned its barrel on me, adding a complication to a situation I always hate finding myself in.

I resent the sheen of sweat covering my skin. Adrenaline pours through my system, spiking my blood, crashing my heart behind my ribs. No matter how much I remind myself that I’ve done nothing wrong, that I have the number one album in the country, and that I could afford to buy this car several times over and not even dent my bank account, I can’t undo years of conditioning that tell me I have reason to fear. To be cautious. Even before that summer day with Jade on the playground, I had an uneasy relationship with law enforcement. We all did in my neighborhood. After that, it only worsened. After that, it was never the same. Since Greg joined LAPD, I’ve met many good cops, and things have changed a lot in my neighborhood, but it’s still a deeply rotten system. When the cop taps the window, that’s something I can’t forget.

“Is there a problem, officer?” I ask through the half-open window.

His assessing eyes flick past me and over my shoulder, roaming over Bristol. I don’t have to look at her to know what he sees. I’ve memorized her. The burnished hair is wild and loose around her shoulders. Her lips, pink and soft. Her dress reaches mid-thigh, but sitting, the hem rises even higher. His glance, though impersonal, lingers on her long, toned legs. The longer his eyes rest on her, the less I feel like dealing with this shit. I’m relieved when he looks back to my face.

“There’s been suspicious activity in the area, so we’re doing some routine stops.” He steps back. “License and registration, please.”

Suspicious activity my ass. I am the suspicious activity. My driving a two-hundred-thousand dollar Rover in this neighborhood is grounds enough. My driving this car here with a white woman in the passenger seat? An imperfect shit storm.

“Any weapons in the vehicle?” he asks.

Here we go.

“A 9mm in the middle console.” My eyes don’t stray from his. “I have a permit for it.”

“I’d like