"It's not personal," he says with what looks like genuine regret in his eyes.
"When you're the person, it feels personal." I lean closer, speaking for his ears only. "What you wrote in that book about bias, I believe it. Do you?"
"Touché," he says with a tired smile. "You don't pull punches, do you?"
"No, I don't, especially when it comes to Grip. Even though he knows where you stand on us, he still respects and admires you. So do I. I believe you can help each other and help a whole lot of people."
I let those words sink in before going on.
"For that reason, I encouraged him to continue his work with you." I firm my lips and narrow my eyes. "But hurt him again, and you'll have to deal with me."
For a moment, shock overtakes his expression, and I wonder if I went too far. Then something cracks. His eyes light up, and laughter-completely at odds with the sobriety he's demonstrated all night-spills from his mouth. It goes on for several seconds, and I'm determined not to join him, but my lips twitch, which only sets off another round of laughter. After a few more seconds of me awkwardly watching him laugh at me, he settles into a relaxed grin.
"Message received, ‘Grip's Bristol.' Have a good evening," he says, dismissing me with a nod and still smiling. "Next in line."
I step aside with my signed copy pressed to my chest. Grip still has quite a few fans he's making his way through, and he catches my eye and mouths, "Sorry." I cross my eyes at him, drawing a wide grin before he turns his attention back to the selfies and autographs. I do what I've become accustomed to doing trailing behind superstars-my best imitation of a wallflower, posted up and waiting.
"Excuse me, have we met before?"
I glance up and can feel surprise and disgust warring on my face when I see the man in front of me. I school my features, unwilling to give Clem Ford the satisfaction of knowing my thoughts.
"I don't think so, Mr. Ford."
"Well you obviously know me." He smiles like an amicable snake.
"I'm here tonight, so of course I know who you are." I turn my attention to my phone, refusing to engage with him. "But no, we haven't met."
"Your mother is Angela Gray, right?"
Despite my inward double take, I look at him with no sign of surprise.
"Yes. You know her?"
"The Hamptons." He snaps his fingers as if now he has it. "Last summer in the Hamptons. We were both at her fundraiser for some charity or another."
I nod, remembering as vaguely as he does, but enough to know I was there.
"Yes, but I don't believe we met."
"Not formally." His eyes make quick work of my clothes like they aren't there and he can see what's beneath. "But who could forget a woman like you?"
Clem Ford is sixty if he's a day, and he might be a bigot and an opportunist, greedy and corrupt, but he's not a dirty old man . . . so I'm not sure why he's trying to convince me that he is. His eyes, poured into their deep sockets and surrounded by a network of wrinkles and saggy flesh, hold no real interest, at least not of a sexual nature. He's not a man who does things for no reason, so why is he bothering with me?
"Can I help you?" Grip asks from behind Ford.
If I hadn't been watching him closely, I would have missed the glint of satisfaction in Ford's eyes before he turns to face Grip. No, he didn't have any real interest in me, but he knew how to draw the person he is interested in. I was the unsuspecting bait in whatever trap he wants to set for Grip.
"Mr. James." With his back to me now, I'm left with the unflattering view of the balding back of Clem's head. "I'm sorry we didn't get to hear from you this evening."
Grip's eyes remain locked on Ford, assessing, picking around his intentions.
"From me?" Grip quirks one brow, but otherwise shows no response. "Wasn't my night."
"Dr. Hammond is definitely a worthy opponent in a debate." Ford slides his hands into his pockets and rears back. I don't need to see his face to know he's up to no good. "But you're the man everyone's talking about and listening to. You're the voice for this new American Dream."
Grip watches him, waiting for the point. Despite the languid posture, arms folded over his chest, he's on high alert, ready to flare barbs like a porcupine at the first sign of threat.
"I know you don't think we have much in common," Ford says, "but you're wrong. I can think of at least one thing we both seem to love."
Grip's eyes slit and he swallows, and I feel him bracing for Ford's next words. I'm sure they'll be handpicked to antagonize him, and I silently will him not to fall for it.
"And what's that?" Grip asks.
Ford steps closer to whisper into Grip's ear. I don't hear whatever nastiness he feeds Grip, but in a flash of lightning and with a thud that sounds like thunder, Ford lands beside me on the wall, pinned there by the manacle of Grip's hand.
"Say it now." Grip's voice razors through air viscous with animosity.
Even under the weight and pressure of Grip's hand, Ford forces a strangled, taunting chuckle. The chatter in the room dies down as people turn their attention to the drama playing out between these two men.
I ignore Ford and step close to Grip, placing my hand on his arm.
"You need to let him go," I say fierce and low. "Now."
Frustration bunches the muscle along Grip's jaw and his fingers tighten fractionally around Clem's throat.
"Man, he's not worth it," Dr. Hammond says, materializing on the other side of Grip. "This is what he wants-for everyone to see some violent thug when they look at you. Whatever he said, it's not worth it. Let him go before somebody turns the cameras back on or calls the cops. Or even worse, start a riot in here."
He glances at the crowd, a few of Ford's supporters making their way toward us, wearing outrage on their faces. Others inch closer, trying to catch the words flowing between us. A tall, suited man, apparently from Ford's security detail, steps forward menacingly, but Ford holds up a staying hand, stopping him from intervening.
"Is this what you wanted to see?" Grip asks Clem, loosening his fingers but not letting go. "The violent thug?"
"I knew he was in there," Ford rasps. "It's just a matter of knowing which button to push. We all have our weaknesses."
His eyes flick to the side and find me, a wretched grin sawed into his face.
"Don't look at her." The words fire from Grip's mouth. "Look at me."
Clem takes his time turning mocking eyes from my face back to Grip.
"You want to push my buttons?" Grip demands. "I would gladly do time on one of those plantations you call a prison for her. Try me and see."
I gulp back a river of profanity. The thought of this man using me to provoke Grip unleashes a rage that I leave boiling in my belly. I can't very well talk Grip down if I'm standing on the ledge beside him, ready to jump.
"Grip, please let him go," I say, finding matching concern in Dr. Hammond's eyes across Grip's arm, a stiff bridge from his body to Ford's neck.
As abruptly as he grabbed him, Grip releases Ford.
"Get him out of here," Dr. Hammond tells me, watching as Ford coughs a little, adjusts his suit, and walks back to the group of admirers security is holding back. When I see the outrage on their faces, I realize just how ugly this could have gotten. Grip's fans and Dr. Hammond's students and followers study the smaller group of supporters who showed up to demonstrate solidarity with Ford. This has the potential of a bomb poised to blow, and I need to get Grip out of blast range.
I drag him through the door and down the sidewalk. My feet hurt in the high-heeled boots, but I ignore the discomfort, covering as much ground as possible at a bruising pace.
"Bris." Grip tugs on my hand, trying to slow me down. "Babe, hold up."
I ignore him and keep moving, as much to give myself something else to focus on as to actually get away from that scene.
"I said stop."
Grip pulls us up short, stronger and able to stop me when he wants to. He lifts my chin, forcing me to look at him. We've been practically running in the freezing cold. Exerted, we watch each other through frosted-air breaths. He scans my face under the streetlights, impervious to the steady stream of people trickling past, a few of them wearing questions about Grip's identity on their faces. It's times like these I wish he was just mine, wish the whole world didn't feel they had a right to be in our lives.
Actually, I pretty much feel like that all the time.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
"Am I okay?" My voice spikes with incredulity. "You're the one who just choked a white supremacist in a roomful of white supremacists, but yeah, I'm just dandy, Grip. What the hell?"