Bristol

THE RIDE HOME from Brew is mostly silent. Yet, it’s a silence filled with all the reasons Grip and I shouldn’t indulge the attraction plaguing us. Grip’s scent alone—more than clean, less than cologne, and somehow uniquely his—makes me close my eyes and take it in with sneaky sniffs. I wonder if he’s taking me in, too. I still tingle from that alleyway alchemy, the chemistry that snapped and sizzled between us behind the club. It’s all I can think of.

“We’re here.” His voice is deep and low in the confines of the car.

I glance at Grady’s house, which is dark except for the porch light, and wonder if Rhyson is home, awake, interested in finishing the argument we started earlier. Because who doesn’t want to scratch and claw with their sister at two o’clock in the morning?

“Thanks.” I turn a grateful smile on him, not meeting his eyes. I fumble with the handle until the door opens, the cool air raising goose bumps on my arms. Or maybe that’s his touch, the gentle hand at my elbow. I look back to him, waiting for whatever he has to say.

“Bristol, I …” He bunches his brow and gives a quick shake of his head before turning to face forward. Both hands on the wheel of the ancient Jeep. “Never mind.”

“Um, okay.” I get out, ready to slam the door when his words stop me again.

“I had fun tonight.” He leans across the middle console so I can see his face a little. His interior light doesn’t work, so he’s still basically in the dark. The shadows smudge the striking details of his face, but I feel the intensity of his eyes.

“You had fun wrangling a half drunk girl off the dance floor and arguing in a dirty alleyway?” I ask sarcastically. “Yeah, right.”

I hear the little huff of a laugh from the driver’s seat.

“I had fun hanging with you,” he responds softly, the smile tinting his voice.

I let his words settle over me for a moment before I pat the roof of the car twice and step back.

“Me, too,” I finally answer. “Have a good night and thanks for everything.”

Manners.

As Grip pulls away from the curb, I can’t help but wonder why I’m being painfully polite when what I’m starting to feel for him is anything but well mannered.

A little wild. A lot unexpected. Completely unlikely, but definitely not polite.

I use the key Rhyson gave me and hope there isn’t an alarm. I walk deeper into the house, still a little wired but unsure what to do. The door leading to the kitchen opens, and Rhyson steps into the living room.

“Hey,” I say softly, watching for signs of lingering anger.

“Hey.” His eyes fix on my face, and I’m guessing he’s gauging me, too. “You too tired to talk?”

I sit on the couch and gesture for him to join me. He sits, elbows to his knees and eyes on the floor.

“I’m sorry for how out of control things got at the studio,” he says, his voice quiet, subdued. “I … I don’t feel like we know each other anymore.”

A humorless laugh escapes my lips.

“And I’m not sure we ever did.” I smile a little sadly when our eyes connect around that truth in the lamplight.

“You’re probably right.”

He sighs, raking his long sensitive fingers through wild hair. He has an artist’s hands. Well kempt but competent and capable of creating.

“Do you remember when they insured your hands?” I ask.

“Yeah.” He doesn’t say anything more, but draws his brows draw into a frown.

“I overheard Mother discussing the policy. We were eleven.” I bite my lip and smile. “I remember asking her why they insured your hands. She said you insure things that are too valuable to lose forever. She said your gift was irreplaceable and that made you incredibly valuable. They had to protect you.”

“That sounds about right,” Rhyson says bitterly. “Protect their investment.”

I don’t acknowledge his interpretation of it because he never saw it from my side.

“I was so jealous of you that day.” I shake my head, feeling that helplessness and the frustration of having nothing to offer flood me again. “I had nothing to insure. I had nothing that valuable to our parents. They had shown me a million times, but that day she put it in words.”

“Jealous?” Rhyson’s incredulity twists his handsome face. “You were jealous of me? You had everything, Bristol. You had friends. You got to go to school with kids our age. You had a normal life. That was all I wanted.”

“You had them,” I counter. “The three of you would go off for weeks at a time, and I had nannies and therapists. You had our parents.”

“I had them?” Rhyson demands in rhetorical disbelief. “Yeah, I had them riding my ass to rehearse eight hours a day, reminding me that I might be a kid, but adults paid good money to come see me play. I had nothing.”

“You loved piano,” I insist, needing to know that things are as I remember them, because if they aren’t, what has been real?

“I loved piano, yes, but that just came to me. I don’t even remember not knowing how to play. Piano I was born with. The career? The road and the concerts and the tours? That they made me do.”

Condemnation colors his eyes.

“The addiction—I let that happen,” he says.

“You were too young,” I counter softly. “Too young to take the pills, and our parents should have stopped you, not enabled you. I see that now.”

He scoots closer, looking at me earnestly.

“Bris, I had to get away from them.” He shakes his head, and his eyes are bleak. “To survive. I needed to get better, and to do that, I had to put as much distance between them and myself as possible.”

“But that meant me, too.” Tears prick my eyes.

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that.” He drops his head into his hands. “But you stayed. You were there. I didn’t know whose side you were on.”

“There wasn’t a side, Rhyson.” My words come vehemently. “You were all my family. They weren’t perfect, far from it, but they were the only parents I had. I wanted them to love me. You were the only brother I had. The only family I had, and it was ripped apart. You didn’t seem to want to repair it.”

“Not with them, no,” he admits. “Not yet. Maybe not ever.”

“And me?” My heart flutters in my chest as I wait.

“When you would call, I thought it was them having you check up on me or trying to get in so they could get me back to make money for them. Even when you called and told me you wanted to come here for spring break, I thought there was an ulterior motive.”

He laughs, eyeing me with no small amount of doubt.

“And when you started talking today about moving here and managing my career—”

“I probably should have handled that better.” It’s the truth. “I know it seems crazy to you, but you’re a star, Rhyson. Like once-in-a-lifetime genius star. I don’t want to capitalize on it. I just want to see it happen, and for some reason, it isn’t.”

“I don’t know if I can do that shit again, Bris. It takes so much, and I only got through it with the drugs. I don’t want to create a situation where I need those again. If there was one thing I learned when I kicked the habit, it was that I have an addictive personality. Music is the only thing I need to be addicted to.”

“I’m not trying to create a situation where you need the drugs,” I say. “I just want to be your sister again.”

“And my manager?” Skepticism lifts one of his brows. “You want to be that, too?”

“I still have two years left at Columbia. We could start with me just being your sister.” A wide smile stretches across my face at the prospect. “And then see what happens.”