Still (Grip Book 2)(15)

"Everybody at this party," Grip says, "they're guys I grew up with,  neighborhood ladies who whooped my ass when I was a snot-nosed kid,  people from Ma's church."

"Church?" My hand flies to my neck to cover the bite marring my skin. "Oh, God."

"It'll be fine." He grabs my hand from my lap and kisses my fingers, not taking his eyes from the road.

"I want them to like me," I say. That's hard to admit because I can  count on one hand the people I want to like me, and it's been that way  all my life. I was born with a limited amount of fucks, but all of a  sudden I need the approval of Ms. James and this whole group of  nameless, faceless people who may hold the same views as Jade.

Ugh, Jade.

"Will Jade be there?" I ask, braced for the affirmative.

"Probably." Grip's shoulders lift and fall, quick and careless. "Look,  Jade gets on board with us, or she doesn't. I don't give a damn."

He says that, but I know how happy it made him to restore their  relationship, and the last thing I want is to be the reason it falls  apart again. I'm still considering that when we pull up to the house  where Grip grew up. The narrow street is lined with cars, trucks,  bikes-everything from the infamous Impala to three-wheelers.

Some mix of nerves, dread, and anticipation climbs up to lodge in my  throat where I can't gather enough breath. This is ridiculous. I run a  record label. I make stars for a living, literally pluck people from  obscurity and do whatever it takes to propel them into planetary  stardom, from no-name to household name in the manner of an album  release-and yet a house full of strangers on this crowded Compton street  fills me with trepidation.

But it's not them. It's him.

Grip opens my door, the color of his skin even richer against the pink  polo shirt he's wearing with army green cargo shorts. His eyes are set  to simmer as he peers down at me in the passenger seat. He leans down  and takes my lips between his softly, tenderly, like I'm the most  precious thing in his world. His eyes say that, and he tells me all the  time. He's the reason for my trepidation. Relationships,  friendships-especially longstanding ones, familial ones-mean the world  to him.

Would he always put me first?

I know he would.

Would it hurt him if he had to make those choices?         

     



 

I know it would, and part of loving someone is doing everything in your power to make sure they don't hurt.

There's barely room to walk in the driveway with all the cars slotted  into the tight space. Grip weaves his way between the vehicles,  single-filing us in the narrow passages, his hand wrapped reassuringly  around mine. The sounds flooding Ms. James' stamp-size front porch-90s  Snoop Dogg, raucous laugher, and dozens of voices clamoring to talk over  each other-reach us before he opens the screen door.

There is what must be a code-breaking number of people squeezed into the  front room, running over into the hall, and presumably spilling into  the back yard. The smell of grilled meat wafts past my nose, joining a  tangle of other sensations. The whir of a fan oscillating in the corner  of the crowded living room. The rich palette of colors-skin tones  ranging from gold to bronze to copper, nutmeg to hazelnut to walnut, but  none that match my skin, barely sun-kissed, stark and pale among the  rich range of pigmentation.

They greet Grip, enthusiasm and undeniable pride in their words and the  affectionate embraces they offer him. When their eyes latch onto me,  though, they hold questions, speculation. They don't know me. They  aren't sure I can be trusted with the boy they watched grow up and do  better than most ever imagined anyone from this neighborhood could. I  swallow my discomfort, determined to fit in, determined to shake off my  sense of displacement and get to know the people Grip loves, the ones  who obviously love him.

"Bristol, hey!"

I turn toward the familiar voice in the crowd, hoping there's a familiar  face to go with it. I'm grateful to see Shondra, Amir's longtime crush  and maybe now girlfriend.

"Shon, hi." I reach for her like a lifeline, accepting the hug she folds me into.

"You got this girl," she whispers, a genuine smile spread across her pretty face. "These folks ain't nothing to be scared of."

Shon bore witness to the carnage of confrontation between Jade, Ms.  James, and me the first time I was here. She spoke up for us, for Grip  and me, and I'll never forget that.

"What are you whispering about, Shon?" Grip asks, pulling her into a  tight hug. "No, don't tell me. I probably don't wanna know. Where's your  boy?"

"And what boy would that be?" Shon lifts her brows in challenge.

"Whoa." Grip's grin turns into a full-bodied laugh. "You got more than one? Does Amir know?"

"Gotta keep him on his toes," she says with an audacious wink. "He's out back playing bones and losing."

"I've never seen Amir win at dominoes. I might whoop his ass in Spades  later, too." Grip laughs, but is distracted when a gorgeous girl, no  higher than his breastbone, walks up and places her hand on his arm, an  invitation stamped clearly on her heart-shaped face.

"Grip, hey baby," she purrs, her wide eyes and the dark hair curling around her shoulders a seduction. "Welcome home."

My discomfort and nervousness dissipate at the sight of this beautiful  woman with her richly golden skin practically petting my boyfriend. I'm  standing right here. He's holding my hand. We're obviously together. I  suppress the possessive growl curling at the base of my throat; better  to let Grip handle it instead of behaving unreasonably and alienating  people any more than I have to.

"Sierra, hey." Grip deliberately lifts her tiny hand from his arm. "It's  been a minute. I heard you opened that shop down off Central Ave.  Congratulations."

"Same to you." She tips her head back, the long hair winding down her  spine and nearly touching her curvy backside. "You done good. Come a  long way since we snuck behind the bleachers at football games."

Her sultry laugh grates on my nerves, and my fingers tighten around  Grip's in a warning. If he doesn't back this bitch up, I will.

"Uh . . . yeah. That was a long time ago." Grip clears his throat and  pulls me forward. "I don't think you've met my girlfriend Bristol."

Sierra's subtly scornful glance starts at my wedge-heeled espadrilles,  crawls over my legs in mint green mini shorts, gains momentum when she  searches my face, and finally is downright rude by the time she reaches  the artfully messy bun I gathered my hair into.

Fuck. Her.

"Hi." I extend my hand and smile politely. "Nice to meet you."

She stares at my hand like it's palsied for a moment too long before taking it between her French manicure-tipped fingers.

"I guess you'll miss Grip when he moves to New York," she says, watching for my response.         

     



 

"Not really, since I'm moving with him." I widen my eyes innocently.  "Grip says this is my going away party, too, so thank you for coming."

Grip catches his half cough, half chuckle in a fist at his mouth.

"It was good seeing you again, Sierra," he says neutrally. "Good luck."

"Well maybe we could-" she starts.

"Sierra, your sister's looking for you out back," Ms. James interrupts, suddenly appearing at my side.

"But I was just-"

"I know, baby." Ms. James turns Sierra by one slim shoulder toward the  back yard. "But she said something 'bout potato salad. Child, you better  get out there. We need that potato salad."

Ms. James waits for the tiny thorn in my side to get out of earshot.

"She always was a fast tail girl." She tsks and shakes her head, her  neat dreadlocks swooshing with the motion. "Been after my boy since  training bra days. She don't ever give up. Marlon, why you always late?  You stay on CP time. You can take the boy out the hood, but you can't  take the hood out the boy. Bristol, come to this kitchen and help me  with these greens."

And she's gone.

In a flurry of lightning-strike words, affectionate admonishments, and  dreadlocks, she's gone, plowing her way through the knot of bodies  slowly realizing Grip has arrived and lining up to greet him. At the  threshold of her neat kitchen, she turns, one brow lifting and reminding  me of her son.

"You coming?" She rests a fist on one slim cocked hip. "These greens won't cook themselves."

Grip widens his eyes meaningfully and cocks his head for me to follow his mother.

"Don't shoo me," I mutter, untangling our fingers. I can't hold back a  smile, though, over what just happened. Ms. James put that "fast tail"  girl in her place and chose me-I mean, she just chose me for collard  greens, but I'll take it.

"Hey, wait." Grip tugs me back into his hard body, one hand palming the  small of my back. He squats enough to kiss my nose then settles his lips  over mine, lingering and taking his time to stake a claim on my mouth.  "Don't be too long. I want everybody to meet my girl."