Still (Grip Book 2)(42)

"But none of that is Grip," Qwest says. "You and I both know how he  feels about you, that he doesn't give a damn what any of them thinks.  All I hear in everything you've said is that he's willing to tell  everyone to fuck off for you, and that's gotta make you feel as secure  as hell."

She's right. When it comes down to it, as tired as I am of all the  outside voices and influences, I don't doubt Grip's love for me. I've  had moments where I let the negativity get to me, but at the center is a  rock-solid faith in our love.

"Besides," Qwest continues, a touch of malice in the look she gives me,  "you saw something you wanted that wasn't yours, and you went for it. I  probably would've done the same thing. Game recognize game."

I see what she's doing-provoking me-but the thought of her claiming Grip when he was never really hers festers under my skin.

"You're mistaken," I say before I can talk myself out of it.

"Oh?" Qwest furrows her brow as if she's clueless about what I mean. "How am I mistaken?"

"He was never yours." I force myself to look into eyes that hold more knowledge of Grip than they should.

"He was mine when he was in my bed."

"He's been in lots of beds, but there's only been one woman in his heart."

"And that's you?"

"And that's me." I hesitate, swallowing cruel words for kinder ones.  "Look, I'm trying to be gracious here, Qwest. Don't make me be mean."

Her harsh laugh scratches over my ears.

"Well the next time you feeling all gracious and shit," she spits  through a bitter smile, "and want to lend your man's dick out, let me  know, 'cause honey, I wasn't done with it."

She steps closer, her perfume invading my space as quickly as her slim body.

"You may be the only one who's ever ‘been in his heart,' but I wouldn't have known it by the way he fucked me."

The sharp reminder of their past intimacy slides under my ribs like a stiletto and makes me draw a stilted breath.

"Like I said, game recognize game," she says. "The next time you want to  throw Grip in my face, Bristol, be absolutely certain you can handle  what I'll throw back."

Why am I even doing this? Why engage with her this way? I know I have  nothing to worry about, but I keep letting this damn possessiveness get  the best of me, and I'm tired of being jealous for no reason. With a  weary sigh, I scoop the hair back from my face. The arrested expression  on Qwest's face confuses me until she reaches for my hand, holding my  ring finger up to the light. Hurt floods her eyes as she studies the  large square canary diamond Grip placed there.

"So it's true," she says quietly. "He's marrying you."

I don't know what to say. I just stare back at her and wait for her to drop my hand. She forces a laugh.

"Well that was fast."

"Fast? If you call ten years in the making fast, then yeah."

She pulls a stream of braids over her shoulder and fingers the sleek  strands. Her expression says she doesn't give a damn, but I'm not  convinced, and my heart hurts. I want to hate this woman. She slept with  Grip. She led a social media shade campaign against me, but it's the  hurt I see just beneath the surface that keeps me from the dislike I  want to give in to.

"I'm sorry, Qwest." I know she wouldn't want my pity. I respect her too  much for that, and the barbs we just exchanged assure me she doesn't  need it. I can't be sorry that Grip is mine, but I am sorry she ever  thought he would be hers, sorry for my part in letting her believe that  even for a few months.

"You said it-you're the only one who's ever been in his heart, who ever  got past his bed." Quest's glassy eyes fix on my ring finger. "The rest  of us he fucked, but doesn't give a damn about."         

     



 

Without another word or glance, she turns on her heel and walks away.





24





Grip





Over the last few months, at times I've been able to forget I'm a  celebrity. I've been dragging myself out of bed and going to class,  sitting through lectures, turning in assignments like any other NYU  student. Besides going into the studio and the occasional appearance,  life has been more normal than it has the last few years. Sure, Angie  Black put my life on blast and all the drama about me dating Bristol  flared up again, but it's been pretty tame, considering.

Tonight, though, I'm nominated for three Grammys, including song of the  year and best new artist. I walked the red carpet with Bristol at my  side, answering some questions, dodging others. She didn't wear her  ring, and we remained non-committal on our engagement, instead focusing  on which designers we were wearing and which performances we wanted to  see. Useless things like that seem so far removed from the issues I've  focused on for the last few months with Iz, but in perspective, I know  this is a big deal. This part of my life lends me more leverage in the  others. The higher my celebrity stock goes, the more influence and  resources I'll have for the things that really matter. So, I smile and  answer questions and shine as brightly as I can along with all the other  stars. My mama always told me to remember that every time I step out of  the house, I represent those who will never have the opportunity to  step onto a stage this large.

"Are you nervous?" Bristol leans over to whisper once we're in our seats and the show is underway.

I glance at her, and for a moment, forget how momentous tonight is. All I  can see is how beautiful she looks. Her dark burnished hair is wild in  that intentional way that probably takes a lot of time to make look that  effortless. The dress she chose is bluish-green with vibrant splashes  of color, and her feathery earrings reflect the brilliant palette of her  dress.

"You're my pretty bird tonight," I say instead of answering her question  directly. I touch the hair rioting around her face. "Maybe a peacock."

"Thanks, I think." She rolls her eyes, but quirks the fullness of her  lips into an irrepressible smile. "But don't change the subject. Your  first category is up next. Are you nervous?"

Grinding all these years, a Grammy seemed like the culmination, like  winning one would be the ultimate happiness, and I won't lie, winning  would be pretty dope. But, the hardware that makes me happiest isn't the  Grammy, it's the one Bristol left back in our hotel room. I lift her  hand to my lips for a quick kiss. I was more nervous walking around with  that ring in my pocket for a week than I am waiting for my first  Grammy.

"Nervous?" I repeat. "Li'l bit."

She studies me for an extra second before smiling and turning her  attention back to the stage as the nominees for best rap performance are  announced.

Some girl from a reality show I've never watched does the honors, her face animated when she opens the card.

"And the winner is," she says, pausing to stretch out the audience's bated breath. "‘Queen,' Grip and Qwest."

This moment is pretty surreal, with the applause louder than I thought  it would be, the lights brighter, more cameras capturing everything from  perfect angles. It feels like a dream I had as a kid that I just don't  wake up from. The only thing real in all of this is Bristol's hand  gripping mine and the tears swimming in her eyes. I lean over to kiss  her cheek, and she whispers, "I'm proud of you."

A part of me wishes I didn't have to go onstage or make a speech. I wish  I could just stay here and bask in the fact that the woman who knows me  better than anyone else and has seen this journey almost from the  beginning is proud of me. I squeeze her leg and lean down to kiss behind  her ear, where the smell of her perfume and the scent unique to her  body are strongest.

"Go." She laughs, giving me a little push. "And don't forget to thank your mother."

Like I could.

Qwest makes it to the stage before I do, and I nod for her to take the  mic first. With her long braids twisted into a knot at the base of her  neck and an evening dress sheathing all that famous ass, she looks  classy and composed, powerful and regal. I'm happy for her-it's her  first Grammy, too.

"Wow." She turns a bright smile on the audience, and I'm glad she gets  this moment for herself. "Obviously, I need to thank my team, my manager  Will, Ezra Cohen with Sound Management, my family for holding me down,  all the fans, and everyone who supported me along the way."         

     



 

She glances back at me, her smile wavering for just a second as the  feelings I suspect she still has for me congregate in her eyes. She  blinks, and that vulnerability disappears, covered with the high shine  of celebrity again.

"Most of all, thank you, Grip," she says after a moment. "For putting up  with my crazy ass and trusting me with such an incredible song."

I offer her a quick wink and a grin before she turns back to the crowd.

"It's an honor getting to inspire young girls to respect themselves, to  carry themselves like the queens they're meant to be. If a little brown  girl from Bed-Stuy can stand up here, you can stand anywhere you want!"