Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,116

an altar like a still-breathing sacrifice for slaughter. I brush past her in the wings, deliberately not looking at her face. It’s the first time I’ve performed the song live, and I hate it as much as I did the night I wrote it. And I love it just as much, too.

With the hard part—the performance—behind me, I’m deter- mined not to waste another moment brooding over the woman who wants someone else, or at the very least, doesn’t want me. We’re popping bottles and celebrating in earnest. Only my mother would look right at home in VIP and with her very own bottle of Ace of Spades.

“Baby, I’m so proud of you.” She takes a delicate sip straight from her bottle. “When Marlon was growing up, I always said my baby won’t have any strikes. That was all I wanted. My dream for him was just staying out of jail and not having a bunch of nappy headed kids running wild all over the neighborhood.”

“Ma, in your stories, why my imaginary kids always gotta have nappy heads?” I tease her with a grin, drawing from the bottle of Cristal on the table beside me.

“Because your imaginary baby’s mama has no idea what to do with their hair.” She cackles and passes a fresh bottle to Amir. “Then Grandma has to come in with bows and brushes to save the day.”

Everyone cracks up. Kai and Qwest sit on either side of my mom, and her hilarious commentary keeps them in stitches. Luke, our friend since high school and a certified pop star in his own right, has been in the studio non-stop recording his next album, so he looks like a convict on furlough. He signed to Prodigy shortly after Kai. Bristol manages them both.

“Luke, where’s Jimmi?” I ask. “I miss her crazy ass.”

“She’s in London.” Luke’s blue eyes are slightly glazed, maybe from smoking a little something. “She’ll be back in a couple of weeks. Hates she missed it.”

“She texted me, but I haven’t had a chance to open it,” I tell him. “She’s actually back next week,” Bristol pipes up from the corner of the velvet sectional taking up the entire wall of the VIP section.

Jimmi is the only non-Prodigy artist Bristol manages. They met on that fateful spring break trip, too, years ago and have been close ever since. If there’s trouble to be gotten into, they’ll get into it together. Jim’s one of the few people who can corrupt Bristol into outrageous behavior.

Like walking naked into the ocean at midnight.

I didn’t ask for the image of Bristol’s long, slim body nearly naked plunging into the Pacific between waves and moonlight, but it floats to me unbidden. I wonder if she ever thinks about that night. About that string of nights when she pulled me into her unexpected depths where I’ve been drowning ever since.

“Well, if it isn’t The One!” a slightly accented voice yells from a few feet away.

Hector, the owner of my favorite strip club in New York, Pirouette, crosses the space with sure, swift strides. His real name is Martin, but “Hector” suits his image of the first-generation Cuban- American who pulled himself up by the proverbial bootstraps. He launched his first high-end strip club in Miami, and New York soon followed. “Hector” has become infamous. His own mama probably doesn’t call him Martin anymore.

“This is amazing, Grip.” Hector squeezes into a small space between Amir and me, gaining a deep frown from my friend/body- guard/babysitter. “Feels like just yesterday you were in the strip club spinning for my grand opening in New York.”

“That didn’t even feel like work.” I laugh because it’s been a long time since I deejayed, and I miss it. “I haven’t done it in forever.”

“Come do it again!” Hector pushes an impatient hand through the dark hair that keeps flopping into his eyes. “You know we’re opening a Pirouette here in LA in two weeks.”

“For real?” I take another swill of my drink. “You doing big things.”

“Be bigger if I had Mr. Number One spinning on opening night.” Hector’s already-impassioned expression brightens even more if that’s possible. “And you and Qwest could perform ‘Queen.’”

His VIP visit feels less spontaneous and more calculated with every idea he unpacks. I glance over at Qwest, but she’s so deep in conversation with my mom, she didn’t hear Hector’s proposition.

Great.

Now I’ll never convince Ma that Qwest and I aren’t planning weddings and baby showers.

“We’ll have to check Qwest’s schedule.” I take another look