“Can you get carpal tunnel from severe masturbation?”

Amir glances up from whatever game he’s playing on his phone.

“I don’t want to know this,” he answers distractedly.

“No, it’s a real question. I’m gonna WebMD that shit.” I pull out my phone and lean against the kitchen counter in our Tribeca apartment. “It’s like this sharp pain in my wrist whenever I—”

“Man, you broke my concentration.” He scowls down at his phone. “Asking me dumb questions.”

“Remember that Dave Chappelle episode when he was teaching the kids about STDs?” I ask him.

He looks up to catch my eyes, already laughing over the infamous episode.

“I’ll beat my dick like it owes me money,” we quote together.

The laughter dies down, but I’m not done teasing him.

“I figure if anybody would know about jerking off too much, it would be you,” I say, shrugging casually, fighting back a grin. “You know, since you never get any.”

“Not that it’s any of your damn business,” Amir says smugly, “but I’m getting plenty, and Shon ain’t complaining.”

“I just threw up.” I point to my mouth. “In here a little bit.”

“You told me about the stuff you and Bristol did all the time.”

“Yeah, but I’m me, and you’re you.” I grab an energy drink from the refrigerator and toss it to him. “You see the difference?”

We both laugh, and it feels good. I laugh less than I used to, not gonna lie. The last month has been the hardest of my life, certainly of my marriage. That day when Bristol cracked the door to let me in, when she read my poem, it was a turning point, but it was just a beginning. It feels like we begin something new every week. Bristol started taking the prescription Dr. Wagner suggested, and her moods stabilized and her hormones evened out some. We’ve been seeing a grief counselor and attending a support group for bereaved parents. Now that we’re back in New York, we’ll have to start with a new group since we’ll be here for the next few months. Another new start—Kai’s starring in her first Broadway show. Bristol is just getting back into the swing of things, and she wanted to base here for a little bit.

“Your little problem should be over soon, right?” Amir raises his brows, gulping down the energy drink.

“My little . . .” Realization hits me, and I offer a frown instead of the smirk he probably expects. “Oh, yeah.”

He knows Bristol had her six-week checkup yesterday, right before we flew to New York, clearing us for takeoff, you could say. I never thought I could go six weeks without sex, but that’s been the least of my problems. I mean, I had to jerk off a lot to function in polite society, but I didn’t mind. I waited years to have Bristol, and I have the rest of my life with her. Six weeks is a drop in the bucket. Do I want her? Hell yeah. Maybe it’s different for guys, or maybe just different for me, but grief doesn’t suppress my sex drive. The fucking Jolly Green Giant could sit on my sex drive and it wouldn’t be suppressed, but it’s been different for Bristol. She’s not the same. She may never be. We may never be.

I feel it, too, that tectonic shift in the fundamental structure of who I am. My very nature rearranged to accommodate Zoe, and even though she’s gone, that space I made for her in my heart, it won’t ever close. It’s a wound that’s nowhere near healing—if it ever will—but life has a way of herding us back into its fold, of returning us to the flow of things that keep us moving forward. Bristol’s just getting back to work. Between Kai’s stint on Broadway and deals she’s working for Jimmi—who’s here in New York, too—her work pace is as demanding as it’s ever been. I think she needs that to distract her from some of the real shit we probably aren’t ready to face.

I’m finalizing my next album, starting promo for the book of poetry with Barrow, and have a few dates left on the Contagious tour with Iz.

Speak of the devil—my phone buzzes, and Iz’s name pops up.

“Dude.” I walk through to the living room with Amir and flop onto the couch. “What’s good?”

“You’re coming tonight?” Iz asks without preamble, a rare urgency in his voice.

“Yeah, I . . .”

My next thought leaves my head when Bristol comes down the steps looking rather scrumptious. She’s been pretty low key over the last six weeks, but tonight she’s got a dinner engagement with Jimmi and she’s pulled out all the stops. Her hair grew longer when she was pregnant and falls to the middle of her back, dark, streaked, wild. The dress is simple, relying on the shape of her body for its provocation and seduction, and let’s just say Bristol’s snap back game is on point. Between the grief starvation diet and her previously active life, you’d never know she just had a baby six weeks ago. The dress is white and strapless, clinging to all the curves that are riper now. The milk is gone, but I know her breasts by heart—and by hand—and they’re fuller than before. I love Bristol any way I can get her, but I’m not gonna complain about bigger breasts.

Not never.

“Grip?” Iz prompts, voice still anxious. “You are coming to the town hall?”

“Sorry. Yeah.” I drag my eyes away from Bristol as she smiles at Amir, greeting him with a kiss on the cheek. “I’m coming. I wouldn’t miss you taking down Clem Ford.”

Bristol’s head jerks around at the mention of that man. Her eyes meet mine, and I can tell she’s on high alert.

“My daughter’s been in an accident,” Iz says abruptly.

I sit up from my indolent slouch on the couch, elbows to my knees and the phone pressed tightly to my ear.

“Man, Iz. I’m sorry to hear that. Is she all right?”

“Yeah. I mean, I think so.” His heavy sigh raises my level of concern. “I don’t know. She’s in Philly, I’m here. My ex was in a hurry and didn’t give a lot of details. She would have told me if it was life-threatening but . . . I just feel like I should be there.”

“Of course. How can I help?”

“Debate Clem Ford.”

What you talking ’bout, Willis?

“You want me to debate Clem Ford?” I glance up at Bristol, who now stands right beside me, her brows knit into a frown. “I’m not . . . you. I’m not qualified for that.”

“The hell you’re not.” He sounds a helluva lot more confident than I feel. “You got this, Grip.”

His urgency and my doubt wrestle in the silence between us.

“Please,” he says, and with his pride, I know what that costs him.

I run a weary hand over my face.

“Yeah, sure. Whatever you need, of course. Is there anything I should know?”

For the next few minutes I jot down contacts and details the organizers sent him. By the time I hang up and let him go to his daughter, the initial panic has passed. I’m feeling slightly better.

“It’s on you?” Amir asks, the game abandoned on the couch beside him.

“Looks like.” I glance at my watch, a quick smile quirking my lips that the piece of shit is still telling time after all these years. “It’s not far, but let’s take a car. We need to roll soon.”

I stand, bringing my body just inches from Bristol’s.

“You look beautiful.” I forego her lips, careful not to smear the vivid line of her lipstick, and opting to kiss Neruda’s scripted words running along her shoulder instead. I lift the gold bar necklace hanging between her breasts bearing the same inscription.

“Is Dr. Hammond’s daughter okay?” Worry pinches her expression.

“I think so.” I caution myself to keep it casual. Any talk of danger to a kid hits too close to home, brings up too many things we’re trying to get past. “He didn’t have all the information and was on his way to Philly.”

The longer we stand here together, the less I think about anything but us. I hope Iz’s daughter is okay, and I’m nervous about debating Ford, but Bristol’s scent, her proximity make everything else fade. We haven’t even talked about what the doctor said at her six-week. It was such a whirlwind getting out of LA and arriving here, and now we’ve both been pulled into commitments. At this rate, it’ll be tomorrow before my sore wrist goes into retirement. I rest my hands at her hips, rubbing my palms along the silkiness of her dress, imagining her skin, even silkier beneath. I turn a pointed glare on Amir, not so subtly signaling him to get ghost and give me a few minutes with my girl before we have to go our separate ways for the night.

“Uh, I’ll meet you downstairs in . . .” His expression inquires as he heads for the door.

“Twenty minutes. I need to get there a lot earlier now.”

“K. I’ll call for the car.”

“Bye Amir,” Bristol says. “We’ll see you in a little bit.”

“We?” I eat up the inches separating us, leaning down to run my nose along the satiny curve of her neck. “Damn, you smell good, Bris.”

“Thanks.” She pulls back and grabs her phone from the couch. “If you think for one second I’m leaving you in the same room with Clem Ford without me, you have another thing coming.”

As much as I want her with me, I don’t want her babysitting or feeling like I can’t handle my shit with this idiot.

Okay . . . I did lose my shit a little that last time, but that’s beside the point.

“That’s not necessary,” I tell her.

“Okay, it’s not necessary.” She doesn’t look up while her fingers fly over the keys of her phone. “But I’m still coming.”

“Speaking of coming . . .” I pluck the phone from her fingers and hide it behind my back. “We didn’t get to talk about what the doctor said yesterday.”

I can’t read her face, but she stops reaching for the phone.

“Oh, she said I’m fine.” She licks her lips, her brows jerking together and her eyes shifting away. “I mean, we can . . . ya know.”

My arm drops to my side and I hand her the phone without a word.

We can ya know wasn’t exactly the response I was hoping for. I mean, it’s great that we can . . . ya know . . . but she doesn’t sound too enthusiastic about it, certainly not desperate for it like I am. I swallow my disappointment and smooth over another layer of patience.

“Great.” I clear my throat and glance down at my dark jeans, button-up, and Jordans. “I look okay? I wasn’t planning to be onstage but I—”

“Grip, I’m sorry,” she interrupts. “You’ve been really patient, and I know it’s been hard.”

It’s hard right now with the double addiction of her scent and her nearness seeping into my veins and smoldering in my blood and headed for my cock like a cum-seeking missile, but I play it off.

“Babe, it’s okay.” I cradle her face between my hands and caress her cheeks. “However long you need. I’m not some horny beast.”

She gives me a look that says, I know you.

“Okay, I’m a horny beast.” I laugh to keep from crying because I’m as hard as Skid Row right about now. “But we have the rest of our lives.”

If I say it enough, maybe this hard-on will believe me.

“Tonight, when I get home . . .” she starts.

“Tonight? Yeah, we can do tonight.” Eager bastard. “Or tomorrow. Tonight works if you want.”

“I was going to say it’ll be late when I get home tonight.” Bristol’s smile loosens because she’s not so secretly laughing at me. “I have to meet Jimmi when I leave the debate, and there’s no telling what time I’ll get home.”

I’ve fucked on less than two minutes of sleep before, but I don’t point that out. If there’s a curfew on our new sex life, we can ease into this.

“I’m . . . I don’t know . . .” She shrugs. “Nervous? I know that sounds crazy. Are you nervous?”

“About sex?” I cannot wrap my mind around this concept. “Uh, no. Not even a little bit.”

“Grip, oh my God.” She laughs, and it does sound nervous, unsure, which she’s never been. What we’ve been through changed me, and it changed her, maybe in ways I wasn’t prepared for, but our vows didn’t come with conditions, and neither does my love.

Ask me when your belly is full like the moon,

and our love has stretched your body with my child,

Leaving your skin, once flawless,

now silvered, traced, scarred, 

I will worship you.

My eyes will never stray.

My heart will never wander,

gladly leashed to you all my days. 

I am fixed on you. 

It’s all still true and always will be. I couldn’t have known to write about losing that child, about losing bits and pieces of ourselves. You don’t see things like that coming, and you have no idea how it will affect you. You can only choose the right person, the person you want to go through shit with. Bristol is that person for me. I’ve always known she could endure anything life threw at her, that she would fight right alongside me. There’s always been a strength in her, but now it’s titanium core.

“I’m not nervous because nothing has changed,” I tell her, bending to align our eyes, our lips, our hearts.

“Things have changed.” She lowers her lashes, trying to hide from me. “My body and—”

“I love your body because it has you in it.” I drag my lips over the curve of her jaw, groaning at the taste of her along the way. “Sweet Jesus, Bristol. How could you think anything has changed for me?”

“Not just physically.” She glances up at me. “I don’t feel the same.”

At those words, my heart stumbles in my chest. A tundra inches over my whole body.

“About . . . me?” I can’t regulate my breathing. “You don’t feel the same about me?”

“Oh, God, no. Not that, Grip.” She reaches up to touch the side of my face, her eyes earnest. “I feel the same about you. You know I’m . . . it’s just . . . I’m all over the place. I’ve always been uninhibited with you, and now I feel caged, like I’ve had to keep my emotions on such a short leash lately, and there’s something in me that’s not free.”

She spreads her hands and shakes her head, helplessness in the look she aims up at me.

“I’m not doing a good job of articulating this, but I’m—”

My phone cuts her off, and I want to hurl it and Amir across the room.

“Dude, what the hell do you want?” I snap.

“Put your dick up and get down here,” Amir replies calmly, used to me. “Unless you want to be late and leave Iz hanging.”

Shit. Have I mentioned that I hate Amir?

“Oh, and I got you a brace,” he says.

“A brace? For what?”

“That carpal tunnel.” His deep chuckle taunts me and my stiff dick and my sore wrist.

“Fuck you.” I hang up and turn to Bristol. “Car’s ready. You sure you want to go?”

“There’s no way you’re going—”

“A simple yes would suffice.” I grab her hand, pausing to let her scoop up her clutch from the side table.

The town hall is being held at that same bookstore, and it’s being televised again. The magnitude of this hits me as I’m riding in the back of the SUV, cramming like this is some quiz.

“I’m not Iz,” I mumble, caressing Bristol’s hand absently while Googling stats on my phone. “Ford’s gonna eat me alive.”

“Ford will wish he was facing Iz tonight instead of you.” Bristol stretches her eyes at the skeptical look I offer in response to that bit of ridiculousness. “I’m serious. Iz may have the degree and the books and the credibility and the—”

“Let me know when you get to the reassuring part, babe.”

“And all those things.” She pauses, leaning her head onto my shoulder. “But you have passion. You’re brilliant. You know these issues. You’ve lived these issues. Just tell them what you know, what you’ve experienced.”

Her confidence soothes my tattered nerves, and her reassurances give me peace in a way no one else can. She’s always done that. Her eyes glow with pride and love and confidence in me. This feels like us. It’s been months since we felt like us, since there’s been any ease around us, between us. Maybe it’s being in a different city. Maybe it’s knowing we’re rounding a bend with Dr. Wagner loosening the chastity belt. Whatever it is, it feels good. For the first time since Zoe died, it feels right.

Even before we lost Zoe, the shadow of loss hung over us for months. I know we’ll never be the same. We’ll bear the scars of the ordeal we’ve suffered, but we’ll still be us. It’s not about what we endure, but that we endure, the fact that I ain’t going nowhere, and neither is she, no matter what’s tossed our way.

“We’re here,” she says, studying the line of people crowding the sidewalk. “You ready?”

“Hell no.” I bring her knuckles to my lips. “But are you with me?”

“Hell yeah,” she whispers, dotting kisses along my chin.

“Then I’m good.”

I capture her lips, wanting just a taste to hold me over, but dammit she’s so sweet and I can’t stop. Hunger breaks the surface of my control and makes me sloppy. Deep licks, sharp bites. I’m sucking her chin, nuzzling her neck. Without my permission, my hand wanders to cup her breast, to pinch her nipple, her sharply drawn breath making me even harder. I need it in my mouth. I’m sliding to my knees in front of her when everything crashes and burns.

“Ahem.” Amir, not looking even a little shamefaced, grabs our attention. “Like your mama always says, if you didn’t bring enough for everybody, put it away.”

“You vibe-killing, cock-blocking motherfucker,” I say as good-naturedly as can be expected with a saber poking through my jeans. Bristol’s throaty, unabashed chuckle doesn’t help matters. Inhibited, my ass. I don’t care what time she gets home, I’ll be up and ready to show her how uninhibited she still is.

“Let’s go kick some racist ass,” I say, struggling to refocus.

“Kicking racist ass” may be overstating my performance, but I hold my own against Clem Ford. I’m not Iz. I don’t have the epidemiological substantiation for my responses. I know fewer statistics than Iz does, and God knows I’m not as polished, but every bullshit reason Ford trots out for his corrupt system and avaricious worldview, I have an answer for.

“Are you saying crime shouldn’t be punished?” Ford asks after we’ve been at it for an hour. “That black men deserve special treatment?”

“Special treat . . .” Disbelief traps the words in my mouth. “You think we get special treatment?”

“It sounds to me like that’s what you’re asking for, that crime be overlooked.”

“No, I’m asking that justice be blind and that punishment fits the crime the same for everyone,” I say, outrage stiffening my voice. “That a black man with a busted tail light not spend weeks in jail because he doesn’t have bail money when someone snorting coke is given a slap on the wrist and set free. Prosecute a man for being guilty, not for being black, brown or poor.”

“Oh, not this argument again.” He rolls his eyes.

“Which argument are you anticipating exactly?” I demand, heat licking up my neck in the face of his derision. “The systematic criminalization of black and brown men in America? Or maybe you think I’ll point out that when crack ravaged communities of color in the nineties it was a crime, but now when we have widespread opioid abuse in suburbs and rural areas it’s a health crisis? I’m not saying it’s not a health crisis, but where was that perspective, that compassion when drugs eviscerated a generation of black people and their communities?”

“I’m only saying—”

“Oh, no,” I cut in over him. “You probably thought I’d regurgitate facts about men of color serving three, four times the sentences for possession of marijuana as other groups for possession of cocaine and heroin. Are those the arguments you were expecting?”

For a silent second, hatred rears from behind the polite mask covering Ford’s face. His fury is fire, but my composure isn’t even signed. And before he can hide it, I see that my even keel only makes him angrier.

“The courts determine the appropriate punishment for the crime, Mr. James,” he finally replies, his voice smooth and restrained.

“And when there is no crime, Mr. Ford?” I ask, not waiting for his response. “When black men, Hispanic men are pulled over and arrested for bullshit reasons and then languish in the system for months because they don’t have money for bail for their non-crime? What’s their crime? Their skin color? Their poverty?”

“I don’t think—”

“No, you don’t have to think about it, do you?” I punch the words for emphasis. “When corporations like yours set lock-up quotas, demanding ninety percent prison occupancy rates, securing cheap labor for your businesses, to do your work, you don’t think about the charges the system has to trump up to meet those quotas, do you?”

“We don’t—”

“What if people in certain states start paying attention to the fine print of their tax bills? How outraged will they be when they realize they are penalized for fewer prisoners? That they pay for empty beds? It’s outrageous.”

“What you call outrageous, we call capitalism,” he says, looking into the audience for understanding, because the word “capitalism” always works.

“I’m a capitalist,” I interject before he can garner much support. “Ask me how much money I made on my last tour.”

I look out at the audience, playing into the curiosity on their faces.

“I have no idea.” I shrug. “Too much for me to keep up with.”

A smattering of laughter emboldens me to finish my point.

“I bleed green like the next American.” I look out to the audience instead of at Ford. “But I won’t stand by counting my money while innocent men sit in jail for months, years because they don’t have the resources to prove their innocence. Men like . At sixteen years old, he was wrongfully accused and imprisoned for stealing a backpack. This innocent young man rotted in jail in Rikers Island for three years without a conviction—without a trial. Two of those years he spent in solitary confinement. He was little more than a child himself.”

I choke back anger and frustration at the miscarriage of justice. I can still see him in my mind, his young face and bright, intelligent eyes.

“He was never the same,” I continue quietly. “And when he was finally released—after three years, no trial, and no conviction—he later took his own life.”

Quiet descends over the crowded shop.

“I’m not asking for special treatment,” I say, looking back to Ford. “I’m begging for reform, working toward it, so our justice system won’t have the blood of boys like Khalief on its hands.”

The applause, loud and spontaneous, startles us both. We’ve debated for well over an hour in relative quiet because the moderators requested the audience hold their response. Red crawls up Ford’s neck and jagged displeasure seeps into his face. I look out, searching for Bristol in the crowd. She’s on her feet, applauding with a smile wider and brighter than I’ve seen in months. It was worth it. Sitting in this hot seat, unprepared and scared pissless that I’d let Iz down—it was all worth it to see that smile on her face.

“You were amazing,” she whispers when I come off the small stage.

“Thank you.” I kiss the corner of her mouth, wishing all these eyes weren’t trained on us. “You ’bout to bounce? To meet Jimmi?”

“Nope.” She shakes her head, eyes locked with mine. “I asked her for a rain check. I wanted to spend time with my husband.”

I really hope “spend time” is a euphemism for “screw my husband till we pass out from exhaustion,” but I’ll get clarity later. I just nod and keep her close to me as I sign autographs and take selfies and whatever else fans and people from the audience come up with for me to do. I twist our fingers together and pull Bristol into my side. She tends to wander off for this part, gets impatient and fidgety and wonders how I put up with this long line of people. I’m a patient man. Waiting on her taught me to be patient. All those years when I wasn’t sure we would have this life together, that taught me patience.

Feeling this familiar closeness that I’ve missed, the closeness tragedy tried to steal from us, I’m not letting her out of my sight. Matter of fact, I’m tempted to send Amir in the car home ahead of us. Last time, we walked home from this very bookstore and were engaged by the end of the night. I’m considering shutting down the long line when someone taps my shoulder.

I turn to meet the cold calculation in Clem Ford’s eyes. Bristol’s fingers tighten around mine, a silent encouragement and warning. I tip my head slightly in her direction and nod, acknowledging her message: play it cool.

“Good job tonight, Mr. James,” he drawls, looking mighty self-satisfied for a man who ended the night with most of the room opposing his views.

“Thank you.” I can’t bring myself to lie and say he did a good job—a good job doing what? Being an entitled asshole? We’ll just leave it there.

“I didn’t want to leave without saying I was sorry,” he continues, even though my back is already half turned away.

“Sorry?” I glance at him over my shoulder, one brow lifted. “For?”

“For your loss, of course.” His voice pitches too low for the line of people waiting to hear. “I heard about the condition your daughter suffered from. It’s tragic really, but you know what many have long held about children from . . .”

His eyes flick in Bristol’s direction and then back to me.

“Marriages like yours.” He pauses, a demon’s gleam in his eyes. “Some think those children are abominations. I haven’t seen pictures of her, but I’ve heard she—”

My fist is already arcing toward his face. I know it’s a cruel, clever trap. I know he’s pushing my buttons in the worst situation possible—with the cameras probably still rolling and in front of all these fans. He wants me violent, not civilized, educated, articulate, certainly not putting his flabby, pasty, bigot ass in its place, but knowing his agenda and letting this go are two different things. It’s too much for him to speak about Zoe like that. Before I can reach him, a blur of white separates Ford from me, and a crack sounds through the space. Collective shock ripples through the crowd as they watch my wife glare up at the shit bag destined for the hard end of my fist.

“You aren’t worthy to speak my daughter’s name,” she says, low enough for no one else to hear, fiercely enough to strip bark off trees in Central Park. “She did more in one day than you’ll do in your whole miserable life, you racist asshole.”

Ford’s hand touches the livid mark on his face and he sputters, but Bristol charges on before he can speak.

“You want to send someone to prison?” she asks. “Send me. Press charges against me.”

His eyes, narrowed and angry, telegraph his outrage as the event organizers, with Amir’s help, hustle everyone outside, even though people continue to look curiously over their shoulders at the drama unfolding. His supporters try to press close, but the event security herds them through the front door while a few stay close to us.

“I will press charges and—”

“Oh, please do,” Bristol interjects. “Then I can tell the whole world that you told a recently bereaved mother that her child was an abomination. Let’s see how quickly the sponsors for your radio show disappear then, Mr. Family Values. And the super PAC raising money for your future political aspirations—how long would it take them to withdraw their support?”

He blanches, licking nervously at the spittle collected in the corner of his mouth.

“It would be your word against mine,” he says with false calm.

“And who would people believe?” Bristol tilts her head to a pitying angle. “Do you know who my brother is? The people I manage and represent? Who my father is? The power my mother wields in this town? Do you know who’s mentored me since college? You don’t have nearly enough influence or firepower to fight me.”

She takes a step closer, and I step with her, grabbing her arm, hating to see her any closer to him.

“Bristol, let’s go,” I say, reflecting the words she used to calm me the last time we had an encounter with this man.

Her eyes plead with me to let her handle it this time, and after a moment, I reluctantly nod, linking my arm around her waist in case something pops off. I know why she did it, but it’s galling and I abhor the fact that she put herself in danger—again, for me, but I’ll deal with that once we’re done.

“It’s not all those people you should worry about,” she continues, pressing her arm over mine at her waist, twining our fingers.

“It’s me you should fear, because of the three of us”—with her free hand, she gestures to herself, Ford, and me—“you and I are the thugs. My husband is an honorable man. You won’t bring him down, and the next time you try, I’ll show you what an abomination looks like.”

Ford’s eyes slit with blood-thirst and he practically bares his fangs at Bristol. The air chills around us, his malevolence sweeping in like an icy wind.

“You keep looking at her like that,” I tell him through gritted teeth, “I’ll undo all her hard work convincing these nice people I wasn’t half a second off whipping your ass.”

“You think too highly of yourself, boy,” he spits, a gnarled smile on his face. “Upstarts like you, imposters. Your day is coming, though.”

“Oh, my day is here.” I struggle to maintain my composure. He’s pushing every button, and I need to get out of here before things get worse, before he says something else that will make me want to squeeze the life from his body.

“You take our jobs, our opportunities”—his narrowed eyes shift to Bristol—“our women, and you weaken the country my ancestors built, but we will take it back.”

“They built this country on my ancestors’ backs, motherfucker.” We go from me restraining Bristol to her restraining me. “None of us were here first. Unless you’re Native American, you’re an import just like me. We didn’t ask to come here, but we’re here now, and I have just as much right to it as you do. It’s as much mine as it is yours, maybe more, because nothing about you, what you believe, looks anything like the America I believe in.”

We’re a trifuckta, three sets of horns tangled up, when Amir steps in to break the tension.

“Car’s here,” he says tersely with a belligerent glance at Ford before he looks back to me. “You ready?”

I can’t even look at Ford for another second, the muscles of my arms straining and my fists clenching with the need to pound his face until it’s unrecognizable. I help Bristol into the car and immediately fling myself into the corner of the back seat, chin in my hand. Fury hounds me as I consider the city lights, unable to look at Bristol, much less speak to her.

“Grip, if you could—”

“Don’t.” It’s the only word I can manage without tearing into her.

“I know you’re upset I slapped him, but—”

“Bristol, be quiet.”

I close my eyes. I count to ten. I try to visualize a serene locale, but there is not enough woosah in the world to calm me down right now. It’s silent for a few moments, my harshly drawn breaths the only sound in the car.

“But if you would just—”

I snap my head around and pin her to the leather seat with a glare.

“What did I say? Not another word until we get home.”

“I’m not some child you can silence when you don’t like what I say,” she fires back, irritation pinching her pretty features.

She doesn’t realize her indignation is a puny thing compared to my wrath.

“One more word outta you, Bristol James, and you’re getting spanked or fucked in this back seat,” I snap. “Amir can never un-see either of those things. You decide what it’s gonna be.”

She blinks a few times, her eyes narrowed but a little nervous because she knows I mean every word. She huffs out a breath, sitting in her little corner and folding her arms over her chest, rolling her eyes in Amir’s direction. What the fuck ever. Pout, throw a tantrum and flail on the floor for all I care, but she better not say another damn word to me.

“Let us out,” I tell Amir when we reach our building. He and the driver take the SUV to the underground parking garage while we go through the lobby. In the elevator, I still cannot stomach looking at her. I’m so pissed right now, and the worst part? I’m harder than a motherfucker. There was a time when I’d know how this night would end. We’d have a knock-down, drag-out, we’d resolve the issue, and then we’d fuck the night away with makeup sex—but we haven’t had sex in six weeks, and the things I have to say to her may not be resolved tonight.

As soon as we’re inside, she takes off her shoes and stomps up the steps like we’re done.

The hell.

She makes it halfway before I catch up to her, grabbing her arm.

“Where do you think you’re going?” I demand, eye to eye since she’s on the step above.

“To bed,” she says. “You’re being ridiculous about this, and, apparently, you need space to calm down.”

“Oh, I need space to calm down?” The anger I’ve been checking busts the seams. “Is that what you think I need?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

“No, Bristol, what I need is for you to stop hurling yourself in front of Mack trucks every time you think you’re helping me.”

“I was helping.” She throws her free arm out to the side. “If you had hit Ford after all the things you said tonight, it would have undermined everything. That’s exactly what he wanted.”

“So you slapped a powerful, evil, dangerous man like Clem Ford? That’s your answer?”

“You have a better one?”

“Anything that doesn’t involve you making an enemy of someone like him is a better solution, but that seems to be your forte—making dumb decisions to save me.”

“Don’t you dare bring up Parker,” she says with heat.

“The same recklessness you demonstrated with Parker,” I reply through gritted teeth, “is the recklessness you showed tonight when you slapped fucking Clem Ford.”

“Don’t ask me not to protect you,” she says, her body taut with frustration and anger.

“You don’t protect me, dammit!” My voice shatters the quiet of our home, splintering any chance for peace. “I protect you.”

“That is the biggest load of chauvinist crap I’ve ever heard,” she yells back, the veins in her neck straining with the force of her anger.

“This isn’t about chauvinism or you being my equal, or whatever feminist shit you want to trot out. Call me a caveman, I don’t give a fuck. You will never put yourself in that position again.”

“Yes. I. Will.” The delicate line of her jaw juts out. “If the situation calls for it.”

“The situation won’t call for it.”

“You have a target on your back, Grip.” The concern in her eyes overpowers the anger. “Don’t you see that?”

“You think I don’t know?” I blow out an exasperated breath. “The more I do this, the deeper I get into these issues, the bigger the target gets. I can live with it, but what I cannot live with is you jumping in front of me every time you think I’m in trouble.”

“I won’t even think twice.”

“Bristol, no.” I clutch my head in both hands and look up at the ceiling. “You don’t get it.”

“No, you don’t get it.” Some of the anger melts from her face. “You’re right, this isn’t about me being a feminist. It’s about me being your wife, your partner. I’m not some damsel in distress, Grip. I don’t need rescuing, but if I ever do, I know you’d do whatever was necessary to protect me. All I’m asking is that you expect the same from me, and not lose your shit when I do it.”

I was right. This won’t be resolved tonight. I’m always going to want to protect her, and she’s always going to risk everything to protect me.

“You protect me all the time,” she adds softly. “You saved me.”

“When?” I scoff. “When have you ever sat your ass down long enough for me to save you?”

“When I was in the dark, unable to shower or eat or get out of bed . . . unable to imagine living again. That’s when you saved me.”

I wasn’t prepared for that answer. Her honesty and the naked need in her eyes chip away at my frustration.

“We saved each other,” I finally reply.

“That’s my point.” She pauses long enough for the words to reach my head and then my heart. “Yeah, I’m reckless. When you’re threatened, I don’t always think it through. I promise I’ll work on that, but I will save you if I can. That’s what this is: you and me spending the rest of our lives saving each other, supporting each other, loving each other. You say I’m precious to you, right?”

“The most precious thing in my life, yes.” I cup her neck with one hand and wrap the other around the curve of her waist. My hands are ready to make up, finding her hips, fingers spreading over the top of her ass.

“We’ve been through a loss no parents should ever have to experience,” she says, her voice wobbling, her eyes watering. “I know I wouldn’t have survived losing Zoe if it hadn’t been for you.”

“I feel the same way.” I drop my forehead to hers.

“I love you,” she whispers, angling her head until our lips brush together. Just that contact is kindling, and after six weeks, I’m a dry bush ready to burn. The fire in my belly could quickly roar out of control.

“I need to make love to you.” I dot kisses over the slant of her collarbone, lick into the well at the base of her throat, suck the gold chain and the skin beneath into my mouth.

“Yes.” She licks her lips, dropping her eyes but sliding her hands up my chest and linking her wrists behind my neck. “I want that, too.”

“Bris.” I groan into her neck, nudging the strapless dress down to expose one breast. I circle my nose around her nipple, blowing on it but not yet taking it in my mouth. It blossoms, stiffens, straining toward my lips. “I want to be gentle, but—”

“Don’t be.” Need ignites in her eyes. “I’ve been numb for too long. My senses have been muted, I guess by depression, drugs, I don’t know, but everything has been a shadow of what I felt before. This, now, us together, it feels rich. It finally feels right again.”

She seizes me by the jaw, pulling me close and forcing her way into my mouth, sucking on my tongue, her cheeks hollowing with the forceful suction.

“Fuuuuuuck.” I squeeze my eyes shut because I know I won’t be as gentle as I mean to be. “I don’t want to hurt you this first time.”

“I feel like someone who cuts just to feel.” Her eyes find mine. “That’s how numb I’ve been. I don’t mind if it stings a little.”

“You’ve been numb? You want to cut to feel?” I slide her hand down to my cock, nearly poking a hole in my jeans. “Here’s your knife.”

She squeezes my dick, her hand sliding up and down over the jeans, her eyes entangled with mine.

“Tell me what you want,” she whispers, echoing the words that have been so pivotal in our relationship, one of us always trying to out-please the other.

“I want you right here, spread on these steps.” My words are rough with desperation and lust.

Wordlessly, she drops to sit on the step, elbows behind her on the step above, the motion pushing her breasts forward. One nipple is already out, the dress still half off, half on. She’s obeyed every command, but I have one more.

“Panties off.”