Bristol

“HMMMMM.”

I moan as soon as the warm bite of syrup-soaked waffle hits my tongue. “Don’t tell me you’re a short-order cook, too, when you’re not deejaying or sweeping floors or writing songs.”

Grip laughs, not looking up from the waffle maker on the kitchen counter. Powder sprinkles his face, right above the corner of his mouth, sugary white against the caramel of his skin. I want to lick it away. That realization has me choking on my waffle.

“You okay?” Rhyson pounds my back like I’m a little girl.

“Yeah.” Eyes still watering, I sip my orange juice. “Just went down the wrong way.”

Grip brings another stack of waffles to the table.

“Send these down the right way,” he says.

Our eyes catch and hold across the table. Sunlight floods Grady’s well-appointed kitchen, and you’d never know Grip slept on the couch and hasn’t showered. Damn, the man looks good in this light. He’d probably look good in no light. A thin layer of stubble coats his chiseled jaw, and I wouldn’t mind rubbing up against it, feeling the scrape as he leaves a mark on me.

My vagina needs a serious pep talk.

“So what’s the plan for today?” Grip slices into his stack of waffles.

“Well, I’m in the studio pretty much all day again.” He glances at me while he chews. “Sorry about that. It’s bad timing but unavoidable.”

“It’s fine.” I pause with my orange juice halfway to my mouth. “You did say I could tag along, right?”

“Won’t you be bored?” Rhyson spears a waffle square. “I mean, if you want to come, you can.”

“And the alternative would be … what?” I ask. “Sitting here in Grady’s empty house all day?”

I could make the uncomfortable expression on his face go away, but I won’t. I want him to feel the discomfort. I’m spending my spring freaking break here so we can reconnect, and that’s what I want us to do.

“You have to be in the studio tonight?” Grip asks.

“Yeah. The singer’s coming in to lay some new vocals.” Rhyson scowls. “I hope we can knock everything out tonight. Maybe go to Santa Monica Pier tomorrow. But there may be another short session or two.”

“If you want, I can swing by the studio to get Bristol tonight on my way to Brew.” Grip directs the comment to Rhyson, not looking at me. “Take her with me.”

He’s barely spoken to me all morning. We talked last night for hours, and if I hadn’t conked out, we probably would have talked for hours more. Maybe he has this kind of connection all the time, authentic and easy. He probably stays up all night talking to girls all the time. To me, though, it feels exceptional to be able to talk with someone so openly in such a short time.

“That cool with you, Bris?” Rhyson asks.

“Sure.” I check Grip’s face for any sign that this is a pain in his ass. “If you don’t mind. Aren’t you working?”

“Just deejaying.” He taps his fork against his lips. “Jimmi will be there, too. You guys can hang.”

I chuckle and drag my fork through the sticky syrup on my plate.

“She seems cool,” I say. “And really talented. She blew the roof off Mick’s yesterday.”

“They finally let her on stage?” Rhyson rubs his eyes and yawns. “Good for her.”

I read between the lines of fatigue on my brother’s handsome face.

“You still seem sleepy, Rhys. Why don’t you go catch some z’s until you have to be at the studio?”

“You sure?” Rhyson’s eyes already seem to be drooping at the prospect of crawling back into bed. “I only need like another hour or two, then we can roll out.”

“No problem.” I walk my plate over to the sink and rinse it off. “I can clean up in here.”

“You don’t have to clean up after me.” A small frown lands between Grip’s eyebrows.

“You didn’t have to cook for us,” I come back, loading my plate and utensils into the dishwasher. “But you did. It was delicious, by the way.”

“Glad you enjoyed it,” he says politely before looking away. I’m struck again by the contrast from last night when he was warm and open. This morning, he isn’t so much cold as he is indifferent. I just met him yesterday and refuse to allow myself a sense of loss. I mean, come on. We had a few intelligent conversations and a couple meals. No big deal.

Keep telling yourself that.

“Take a change of clothes with you to the studio,” Grip says. “You can get dressed there before we go to the club.”

He comes to the sink, handing me his empty plate. When I tug, he doesn’t let go, and we have a childish tug-of-war for a second between our hands and between our eyes. He finally relents, grinning and walking back to the table. Rhyson watches the byplay between Grip and me with eyes that are suddenly alert and speculative.

“I better get going.” Grip grabs his backpack from the floor near his seat. “Stuff to do and people to see.”

“Thanks again for everything,” Rhyson says.

“It’s nothing.” Grip gives me a smile before waving at us both and disappearing through the kitchen door.

“You know not to get all giddy over Marlon, right?” Rhyson watches me with big brother eyes. “I mean, he’s a great guy. My best friend, in fact, but he goes through girls like toilet paper.”

“You mean he wipes his ass with them?” I ask with false innocence.

“Good one.” Rhyson doesn’t grin as he comes to stand beside me at the sink. “Seriously, Bris, all the girls fall for Marlon, and he isn’t ready to be good to any one girl.”

“And are you?” I challenge him with a smirk, disguising the pinch in my chest hearing him describe Grip. I should be glad he’s telling me, though I don’t need him warning me about his best friend. “Ready to be good to one girl?”

“Hell, no.” Rhyson laughs, crossing his arms over his wide chest. “I want to be as good to as many girls as I can.”

We laugh, but once the joke is over, I realize we’re alone for the first time since I arrived in LA. Alone for the first time in years. This is nothing like the comfortable silences Grip and I shared yesterday. This is awkward, filled with the memories of the last time we saw each other. We were in a courtroom, and he’d just been awarded his “freedom” from our family. And, boy, did he take flight. He never looked back from that day forward. If I hadn’t reached out, there’s no telling when we would have reconnected. Maybe never. Maybe he would have been fine with that.

“So how are the folks?” There’s a studied relaxation to Rhyson. I may not have seen him in years, but I still recognize the tension in his shoulders. The stiffness of his back belying his false ease. He isn’t just waiting for news of our parents. He’s braced for it.

“They’re good.” I load the last plate in the dishwasher. “They talk about you a lot. I know they miss you.”

“Miss me? Or the money?” he asks bitterly. “Are they not getting their monthly royalty checks?”

“That isn’t fair, Rhyson. I know they didn’t handle everything the right way all the time when they managed your career.”

“Is that what you call enabling my addiction to prescription drugs so I could get through shows? So they could build their fortune at my expense?” Anger flares in Rhyson’s eyes and colors his face. “Spare me the song and dance about them missing me. They have fifty percent of every dime I’ve ever earned. That was the price they named to let me leave. They aren’t getting anything else from me.”

I’m quiet for a moment, wondering how much I can press on this wound before he lashes out at me even more.

“And me?” I blink at the tears blurring the vision of my brother in front of me. “Do I get anything else?”

“I didn’t know you wanted anything in the settlement, Bristol.” Rhyson frowns. “But we can arrange—”

“How dare you?” Indignation tremors through me and makes my voice shake. “I call you. I write you. I text you. I fly to freaking Los Angeles and am hauled around the city all day while you Liberace in the studio, and you have the nerve to think I want your money? I don’t need your money, Rhyson. I have a trust fund that will take care of me for the rest of my life if I don’t want to work, which I do.”

His eyes lay so heavily on me I feel them like a weight. He never looks away from my face when he asks his next question, as if he might catch me in a lie.

“Then why are you here, Bristol? What do you want?”

God, I come here with my heart bleeding on my sleeve, and it’s still not enough for him. He needs me to cut it out and hand it to him in chunks of flesh and blood.

“I thought it would be obvious what I want.” I tip my chin up defiantly and meet the skepticism and mistrust in his eyes. “I want my brother.”