Bristol

I’M NOT SURE I like this club.

Another scantily dressed woman walks over to the booth and passes Grip a slip of paper, presumably with her number on it.

That might have something to do with why I don’t like this club.

And it’s ridiculous. I met the man yesterday. But in my defense, we’ve squeezed weeks of conversation into the last two days. Still, that doesn’t excuse the jealousy gnawing my insides. When I add that to the lingering hurt from my argument with Rhyson, it makes it impossible for me to enjoy myself.

“Are we gonna dance or just hold up the bar all night?” Jimmi moves her shoulders and ass to the Drake song in Grip’s rotation.

“Sorry. I’m not a very good dancer.” I shrug, not really sorry. “And I’m kind of tired.”

And horny.

My midterms took it out of me. The internship essay took it out of me. This trip has taken it out of me. I need a good drink and a good lay, in that order. I don’t know Jimmi well enough to confess it. She’d probably hook me up with some stranger, and that isn’t what I want.

That isn’t who I want.

I glance over at the booth where Grip has been all night, keeping the music going.

I’m not letting myself go there. I purposely look away, only to clash eyes with some frat looking guy a few feet away eye fucking me. He flashes me a too-white smile. That smile would glow in the dark. I don’t return it, but deliberately look away, hoping he gets the message.

The message being no.

“I love this song,” Jimmi says. “Grip has great mixes.”

“Yeah, he does.” I sip my Grey Goose, waiting for the buzz that will numb the hurt Rhyson inflicted. Something to take the edge off this sexy itch I haven’t scratched in months.

Months?

Well, damn. No wonder I’m horny.

“So what do you think of him?” Jimmi asks.

I obviously missed something.

“Huh? Sorry.” I set my hurt feelings and needy libido aside long enough to focus on Jimmi’s pretty face. “Who? What do I think of who?”

“Grip.” Jimmi sneaks me a curious glance. “All girls have thoughts about Grip when they first meet him.”

“Um … he’s nice?” I set my drink down and turn my stool to face the wall of bottles behind the bar. “He’s my brother’s best friend. That about sums it up.”

“Oh, the two of them together.” Jimmi fans herself. “They’ve been double trouble since high school.”

She touches my arm, her eyes contrite.

“I’m sorry. That’s your brother I’m talking about. Awkward.” She gives my hand a reassuring pat. “Rhyson’s nowhere near as bad as Grip, though.”

“As bad?” I swirl the contents of my glass without looking at her. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, Grip goes through girls like it’s nothing.” Jimmi lets out a husky laugh. “They’re disposable.”

“I can imagine.” I answer weakly. She’s only echoing what Rhyson already told me. The guy I talked to for hours yesterday doesn’t match the one they’re describing, but they know him better than I do.

“But I heard he makes it worth their while.” Jimmi wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. “One of my girls got with him. She says he’s hung like you wouldn’t believe.”

Not what my vagina needs to hear right now. I cross my legs and squirm in my seat, seeking some friction, some release. The alcohol is kicking in, and it only fires the need in me. I imagine all those inches stretching me and … I need to rub up against something.

“Are you not into black guys?” Jimmi scrunches her nose. “I mean, I have some friends who aren’t. I don’t care. I’d screw a hole in the wall if it could make me come.”

“Wow. That’s a … colorful way to say it. No, I’ve never dated a black guy, but I guess I just never had the opportunity.” I shrug. “I don’t really care.”

Especially if he looked like Grip. I’d take green Grip. Pink Grip. Red Grip. If Grip were a bag of Skittles, I’d eat every one.

“Oh.” Jimmi claps excitedly. “Grip’s gonna perform.”

“He is?” I perk up, spinning around on my stool. Sure enough, he’s onstage with a mic. Under the lights, he seems even taller, even broader.

“What’s good?” Grip spreads his smile around the club. “I don’t get to do this as much as I’d like, but they’re gonna let me spit a few bars for you tonight.”

The cheering and whistles and catcalls explode from the audience.

“I see my reputation precedes me.” Grip chuckles and nods to the drummer in the corner. “Lil’ somethin’ for you.”

I wasn’t lying when I told Grip I don’t listen to rap much. I don’t hate it. I’ve just always been indifferent. I can’t make out half of what they’re saying, and once I know, it’s all bitches and hoes and slurs. I wince through half of it and roll my eyes through the rest. It’s just not music to me. But Grip is a different breed. I understand every word he says, and I’m hanging on every one. Literally waiting for the next syllable. The images he paints are so vivid that, if I closed my eyes, they’d be spray painted on the back of my eyelids. I’d be drowning in color, floating in sound. The richness of his voice floods the room, and I realize he has us all rapt. We’re eating his words, a feeding frenzy of imagination. He’s a storyteller and a poet.

I feel the same as I did listening to Rhyson growing up. Like the sun and the moon were in my house. Like I was a part of Rhyson’s great galaxy, and he was the star. Grip is a star. Sweeping floors and doing all the things he does to survive are all just dues he’s paying. He’s lightning in a beautiful bottle, just waiting to strike. A pending storm. He’s hypnotizing. Intoxicating. I’m as buzzed off him as I am off my Grey Goose.

“He’s good, right?” Jimmi grins at me knowingly. “I felt the same way the first time I heard him. It’s his writing. His stuff is so much deeper than most of what’s out there. He’s really saying something.”

“Yeah.” I clear my throat and try to appear less mesmerized. “He’s really good. Wow.”

“Don’t look now, but we aren’t the only ones who think so.” She nudges me with her elbow and inclines her head toward a group of girls clustering around Grip. “Did you ride with Grip?”

“Uh, yeah.” I can’t force my eyes away from where he sits on the edge of the stage, girls buzzing around him. He did say you catch more bees with honey.

Or, in his case, chocolate.

“I may be taking you home,” she says with a slight smile. “Those are what I like to call ‘ground floor groupies’. They see his potential same as we do, and some of them want in on the action before the rest of the world gets a taste of him.”

My muscles lock up as I watch several girls stroke his arms and press against his side. That he doesn’t see through it makes me sick, souring my high after his performance.

“I think I do want to dance.” I knock back my drink and turn to find frat guy, who’s still a few feet away. “With him.”

I point him out, and before Jimmi can ask me any questions or try to stop me, I’m gone. I walk up to glow-bright smile, and enjoy seeing his eyes get wider the closer I get. Yep. He’s one of those. All bold and staring with no idea what to do with it.

“Hey.” I step so close I smell the whiskey on his breath. “You’ve been staring at me all night.”

“Uh, you’re hot,” he stammers, his eyes rolling over my body and sticking to my breasts.

Has it come to this?

“So … you want to dance?” I prompt. I’m not a great dancer, but the alcohol humming through my blood convinces me that I am.

“Sure.”

I walk onto the dance floor, assuming he’s following. Assuming he’s staring at my ass as I pop my hips in a loose-limbed sway. His hands clamp my waist, his fingers drifting down to spread over the curves of my butt. I press my back to his chest and start moving, start reaching for a feeling, any feeling to block the emotions that have ravaged me over the last few hours. The hurt and jealousy. The disappointment and resentment. He gets stiffer and harder with every measure of the song, with every roll of my hips. He pulls my hair aside, and his breath lands heavy and hot on my neck. Whatever my body is reaching for, I’m not finding it with him. I’m about to pull away and go order another Grey Goose, when I hear a deep voice behind me.

“Dude, step off.”

Gravel studs Grip’s voice. Whether he’s irritated with me or glow-bright, I don’t know. I whirl around to face them. My partner, apparently more a lover than a fighter, has obliged Grip’s request and is already halfway back to his frat boy friends.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I demand.

“I was just about to ask you the same thing.” The club lights stripe his handsome face, painting him in shades of pink and blue and green. “You were working that guy up for nothing.”

“For nothing?” I raise both brows, hands on my hips. “It wouldn’t have been for nothing. Have you forgotten? This is my spring break. Girls get drunk and they get laid. I’m already halfway to one, and you just ruined the other.”

His face goes hard as cement.

“You’re still hurt from your fight with Rhyson.” He shakes his head. “I’m not letting you go home with anyone half drunk and emotional.”

“I wasn’t going home with him. I would have fucked him in a bathroom stall. In the alley. We would have figured it out.”

The light strobes the emotions on his face, flashing anger then frustration.

“I’m gonna excuse that because I know you’re upset.”

“I’m not upset,” I snap. “I’m horny.”

“Shit, Bristol.” He glances at the people dancing within earshot. “That is not what you say in a club full of frat boys trolling for ass. I’m trying to protect you from all these dicks.”

“I like dick!” I say a little too loudly, drawing a few more stares. Boy, that Grey Goose has kicked in after all. “And you’re cock blocking.”

“Cock block …” Grip’s mouth drops open then snaps shut. “Let’s go. You’re exhausted and irrational, so Imma give you a pass.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

I slip past him and stomp off the floor as much as my Louboutins will allow. I have no idea how we got into the club, and I make several turns and detours. I’m sure I’m headed toward the entrance, but I end up behind the building instead of in front. I step out anyway, hauling in a cleansing breath and leaning against the brick wall to calm the tremors shivering through my body. Grinding into glow-bright did nothing for me, but catching a whiff of Grip’s clean masculine scent, feeling the warmth of his body as he stood so close—that has me trembling.

“I told Jimmi we’ll see her later.” Grip walks toward me in the alleyway. “Let’s get you home.”

My anger has died off, and so has his, apparently. His voice is gentle, his eyes compassionate. He sees too clearly, too much. He detects all the hurt festering under my clingy bandage dress. I hate that he’s so sweet and still a player. I won’t forget about the bees. And the honey. And the chocolate.

“God, just leave me alone.” Pressing into the brick wall at my back, I hold my head in my hands. “I’ve already told you I’m horny, and you just keep …”

I growl and fist my hair and my frustration in my fingers.

“You’re right.” I stand straight. “Let’s just go.”

I push off the wall at my back only to collide with a wall of muscles and heat at my front. Neither of us makes a move to put any distance between us. My breath stutters over my lips as I fight the magnetic pull of him. We stand there in the alley, trapped in a sensual stasis, unmoving except for our chests heaving against each other’s with each labored breath. His hands find the curve of my waist, the dip of my back. He doesn’t press me to him, but his touch scorches through the thin material of my dress. He drops his head, pressing his temple to mine, and draws in a breath behind my ear.

“Did you just …” I search for the right word, “whiff me?”

His husky laugh leaves warm breath at my neck, skittering a shiver down my spine.

“It’s better than the alternative,” he says.

“Which is what?” I pull back to peer up at his face.

“Kissing you.” His eyes boil from caramel to hot chocolate. Sweet, hot, steamy need spikes in the look he pours over me.

“I’m not doing this with you, Grip.” I close my eyes, my hands covering his on my hips. I mean to push them away, but my fingers won’t move. They trap his touch against me.

“We just met yesterday,” I remind him and myself.

“I know.” He shakes his head. “You’re my best friend’s sister.”

“I live in New York.”

“I’m here in LA.”

“I don’t even know you.” I laugh a little. “And what I do know is not good. You’re a player.”

“Who told you that?” Irritation crinkles his expression.

“Um, you basically did.” I roll my eyes. “And Jimmi. And Rhyson.”

“They shouldn’t …” He sighs, releasing his frustration into the stale alley air. “I understand why they would say that, but this isn’t … you’re not …”

He bites his bottom lip, a gesture that seems so uncertain when he’s been anything but.

“Don’t be upset with them for telling me the obvious,” I say. “I saw all those girls tonight for myself. I know what it’s like for musicians.”

“I don’t even know those girls.”

“You barely know me, either.”

He doesn’t reply, but the way he looks at me—the pull between us—defies my statement. We know each other. Not in terms of hours or days, but something deeper. Something more elemental. I can’t deny it, but I have no idea what to do with it.

“Look, I can admit I’m attracted to you.” Grip surveys my body one more time before clenching his eyes closed and giving his head a quick shake. “Damn, that dress, Bristol. All fucking night.”

An involuntary smile tugs at my lips, but I pinch it into a tiny quirk of the lips instead of the wide, satisfied thing sprawling inside me.

“Not all night.” I firm my lips. “You had quite the fan base. Women lined up after your performance.”

“Thirsty chicks.” Grip grimaces. “Banking on the off chance that one day I’ll be something they can eat off of. Maybe get themselves a baby daddy. Get some bills paid every month.”

“It isn’t an off chance,” I say softly. “It’s a certainty.”

“What’s a certainty?” A frown conveys his confusion.

“That you’ll be something one day.” I point toward the door leading back into the club. “When you grabbed that mic, when you took that stage, it was obvious you’re as talented as Rhyson. It looks and sounds different, but you both have that special quality that makes people watch and listen. You can’t teach that or train it. You either have it or you don’t.”

I offer a smile.

“And you have it.”

Surprise and then something else, maybe self-consciousness, cross his face. For one so bold and sure, it’s funny to see.

“Yeah, well, thanks.” He shrugs and goes on. “Anyway, I know the deal. My mama schooled me on girls like that.”

“Your mother sounds very wise.”

“Very. She made sure I knew their game.”

He waves a hand between our chests.

“This, what we’re feeling,” he says, his eyes going sober. “It isn’t a game.”

I hold my breath, waiting for him to tell me we should jump off this cliff. That as crazy as it seems, we’ll hold on tight and break each other’s fall.

“It’s complicated.” He lowers his eyes before lifting them to meet mine. “It’s just an attraction, and we should probably resist it. I mean, you’re only here a few days. If things didn’t work out for us, it could make shit awkward with Rhyson, and I know you want to repair things with him. There’s a million reasons we shouldn’t act on this attraction. Right?”

“Right.” I offer a decisive nod. “A million reasons.”

As we ride back to Grady’s bungalow in our first strained silence since we met at the airport, I realize he was wise to stop whatever could have happened in the alley. It would probably have been a half drunken regret. There are a million reasons we should stop. But right now, I can only think of the one reason not to stop.

Because I don’t want to.