Still (Grip Book 2)(28)

Before I can fully process what he's saying or turn to see what's over  my shoulder, a warm, familiar weight settles at my hip. That clean  skin-deep scent I've come to associate with one person envelops me. I  look up and over my shoulder to find Grip scanning my face with sober  eyes.

"Hey." That's all he says, like he's supposed to be here on the set of a  reality TV show instead of in class, instead of in New York. His  fingers tighten at the curve of my waist, though, belying the calm  greeting. The tension rolls off his body and onto mine. I absorb it,  feel it tightening the line of my mouth and clenching my hand around the  strap of my bag.

"Dude." Luke reaches for Grip's free hand, doing that man clench handshake thing. "What's up? Good to see you."

"You too." Grip's mouth relaxes into a smile for our longtime friend.  "You think you big time now, huh? Now you got your own show and all."

Luke laughs, his bright blue eyes lighting up and crinkling at the corners.

"I've always been big time." He offers an immodest shrug of his  shoulders. "The rest of the world's just catching up, thanks in large  part to your girl here."

"Yeah, she's something else." Grip's smile dims a little, but he doesn't look my way. "Well, congrats."

Before any of us can say more, the director's assistant interrupts, her  harried expression and flyaway hair conveying the kind of day it's been.

"Luke, Steven's looking for you." She sets her stress aside long enough  to ping-pong admiring glances between Grip and Luke. I can't blame her.  Facing one another, they're a study of beautiful contrasts, Grip's  darkness and raw sexuality a perfect foil for Luke's blond hair and  surfer-boy-next-door good looks.

"You said Steven needs me?" Luke prompts.

"Um, yeah." She blinks the stars from her eyes and frowns. "He wants to talk through a few things for this next sequence."

As much as I loathe the thought of leaving Grip even for a few minutes, I  force myself to turn to him, prepared to ask him to wait for me, but  again, it's Luke to the rescue.

"Hey, I got this, Bris." His kind eyes smile back at me. "I'm sure Grip didn't come all this way to see me."

My eyes lock with Grip's, and I already see the reprimand behind his impassivity.

"Okay," I say. "I won't leave, though, until you're done. Come find me. I want to make sure you feel good about everything."

"That works," Luke says, turning back to the production assistant. "Take me to your leader."

He gestures for her to lead the way and they're gone, leaving Grip and me alone.

"Is there somewhere we can talk?" He scans the studio's parking lot,  which is doubling as our set. We've broken for lunch, and the crew  swarms around the craft service table like ants at a picnic, hungry and  industrious. There won't be much time for food. Everyone's focused on  the meal, but not too focused to miss Grip. His star has risen  stratospherically since his album dropped. They pretend not to be  starstruck, but their surreptitious attention presses in on the privacy  this conversation requires.

"Luke has a trailer of sorts." I flick my chin toward it, across the parking lot that has been cleared for today's shoot.

"That'll do." A thick fan of lashes hoods whatever is in his eyes. I  hate not knowing what he's thinking, other than that he's not pleased  with me.

I can't blame him; I haven't been pleased with me since that damn panel.

We're halfway across the lot, and the silence is suffocating. The air  hasn't been this heavy between us since before we got together. I hate  that I did this. He walks beside me, a gulf-sized space between us and  his eyes set on the trailer like it's a finish line. Once we're inside, I  walk farther into the room, setting my back against the wall and  watching him across the few feet separating us. Grip leans against the  small bar stocked with Luke's favorite drinks and stares back at me.  Everything is heightened in the small, tight space. Tension coils  between us, pushing against the flimsy trailer walls. While a thousand  ways to apologize fill my head and rest on my tongue, the silence  tautens and lengthens.         

     



 

"I was coming to New York tonight," I finally say. As apologies go, it's pretty lame, and not quite actually one.

"I heard you saying that when I walked up."

Grip looks good. He always does, but after more than a week apart, my  eyes are as hungry for him as my heart is and I can't look at anything  else in the room. He's wearing dark jeans and a Kelly green T-shirt that  says JOBS NOT JAIL on the front.

God, did I mention he looks good?

I just want to skip to the part where he's soothing this ache at my  core, where he's banging me like he's a bull and I'm his china shop. His  still somber eyes tell me we're not there yet, but the compulsive  clenching between my thighs reiterates that I'm ready to be.

"I'm sorry I pulled rank on you." His quiet apology when I was wrong on  so many levels-when by all accounts, I should be apologizing first  instead of just eye-fucking him-squelches my raging hormones.

"No, you were right." The words fight to get out of my mouth. "Not confronting Angie was the right call."

"I know that." He lifts one dark brow. "It would only make things worse,  but I should have talked that through with you until we agreed on it,  not tried to use the advantage our working relationship gives me to  manipulate you."

He pauses, hesitation evident in his expression.

"I want to be your partner, Bris," he says softly. "In everything. There's no rank between us-ever."

I drop my eyes to the hands clasped in front of me.

"Thank you for that. I'm sorry, too. I should have said it first. It seems like whenever we fight, you're always the one . . ."

I swallow my pride and set aside every insecurity that's assaulting me to give him the truth.

"I'm just glad you're here." My voice wobbles. Dammit. "I'm just . . . I'm sorry."

I don't look up, but I hear him taking the first steps, feel him drawing  closer. I anticipate his touch, shaking with the need of it. And then  it comes. The perfect simplicity of our fingers twined together, of him  holding my hand. It paradoxically brings me peace and incites my senses.  Even as my soul seems to exhale in relief, want and need form a blazing  knot in my belly. He tilts my chin until I have to meet his serious  stare, his loving eyes.

"Bris, this is all we have." His words are so low, if someone else were  in this tiny room with us, they wouldn't hear. They are only for me.  "Until this semester is over, our time is split, and this is all we  have."

I press our palms together.

"If you legit had to stay here in LA this weekend for work, I get that,"  he continues. "You know I'm not that dude who wants you compromising  your career for me, but if you were avoiding me because of our fight-"

"I was." The admission leaves my lips before I can dissemble. His  closeness, the intimacy of our fingers clinging, of our hearts beating  through our chests and straining toward each other, demands my  unequivocal honesty. I don't look away, refusing to let embarrassment  over my childish behavior deprive me of these beautiful dark eyes for  even another second. I don't miss the flash of disappointment at my  words.

"I know that." Grip's mouth tightens, and I want to lick at the seam of  his lips until they open for me, until he lets me back in. "That's why  you should have had your ass in New York this weekend."

With him standing here in front of me, solid evidence of his love, I'm  ashamed of myself, ashamed that I let doubt and insecurity rule me. I  let them keep me here when I should have been there with him.

"You're right," I state simply.

"I hate it when we fight." He drags a hand across his face. "I can't  focus. I can't sleep. I can't . . ." His words straggle into a growl of  frustration and his brows snap together. "Nothing feels right when we  aren't right. You let that shit Angie Black brought up get to you when  you know it means nothing, and that stupid post on Instagram . . . I get  how someone else would think something was up with Qwest when they saw  that, but for you to . . ."

The questions build up in the look he gives me until I'm sure the moment will explode.

"Why, Bris? There's gotta be more to this than just the shots Angie fired. We're used to that shit. What's up for real?"

The reality of him, the steady pulse of this connection we share-with  him standing in front of me, all the things that kept me on this coast  seem ridiculous now.

"I . . . um . . . I was . . ." I squeeze my eyes closed for a second, feeling ridiculous now. "I was jealous."         

     



 

"Jealous? Of Qwest?" The heavy breath he expels breaches the air between  us. The demand of his eyes is louder than the word, louder than her  name in the quiet room. "Because of some awkward photo posted to  Instagram? How could you possibly be jealous of anyone when you know  I've looked my own mother in the face and told her I would choose you  over anyone?"