Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,121

“Sarah will get you all the details.”

“Hey, Bris,” I say.

She turns to me, the ease she shared with Amir evaporating as she waits for me to finish. “Speaking of Sarah, why don’t you let her reach out to Hector?”

“Sarah?” She frowns, but nods. “Okay. Why?”

I could tell her that soon Sarah will be handling all of my day-to- day. Or I could tell Bristol that Hector has a thing for her, and I don’t like guys who have a thing for her.

“Why not?” I counter, since we don’t already have enough to argue about.

“Because it’s my job.” She rests a fist on either hip. “Because I’m usually the first point of contact, and—”

“How did Rhyson put it earlier?” I touch my chin and glance up at the ceiling like I’m trying to remember. “Oh, yeah. If this is your job then I’m your boss, and because I said so.”

That goes over about as well as it did when Rhyson said it, but the irritation clouding her expression when she leaves is better than what we were feeling before Amir came in. A bristly Bristol is safer than the vulnerable one who makes me want to kiss her and make her scream my name.

“So?” I grab my box of one-of-ten kind Jordans and head for the door, checking to see if Amir is following. “Chicken and waffles?”

Chapter 18

BRISTOL

ARE YOU THERE, God? It’s Bristol.

Please make it stop.

For the love of all that’s holy, if Qwest kisses him one more time, I’m breaking out my Dramamine. And the woman has a perfectly good, overstuffed leather seat. Must she perch on Grip’s knee the whole time? The poor man’s leg must be asleep by now. I mean, sure she’s small, but still . . . all that ass . . .

Whoever said traveling by private jet was “flying in style” was never trapped in close quarters with the hip-hop lovebirds, also known as Grip and Qwest, for sixteen hours.

They look great together. Perfect together. I get why their fans still have #GripzQueen trending and want more of them as a couple. It’s great. He’s moved on. He looks happy. She’s happy. Hell, even his mother is happy. In a small way, I helped orchestrate this. The least I can do is watch my handiwork unfold.

Only I can’t.

I pull my sleep mask over my eyes and lie back. I’ll just drift off into the darkness, take advantage of the quiet.

“Excuse me, Bristol.” A low whisper comes from beside me. So much for quiet.

I lift one corner of the mask to peer at Meryl in the seat beside me.

“Sorry.” She nudges her glasses up the bridge of her nose with an index finger. “I had a few questions.”

Of course you do.

“Yes?” I draw on my dwindling reservoir of patience to respond with some civility. The girl has been our freaking shadow, and I’m regretting bringing her with us to Dubai, but I don’t see where we had much choice. The price you pay for publicity.

“When do I get my sit-down with Grip and Qwest together?”

“It will be the middle of the night when we arrive in Dubai,” I reply. “So we’ll go to sleep, acclimate our bodies some. I thought you guys could do the interview over brunch tomorrow?”

“Oh, that works.” Meryl jots something down in the notebook I’ve never seen her without. “And the desert shoot with Grip? Can that still happen?”

“Yes. I just need to confirm details with my liaison there. I think it can happen tomorrow afternoon, if your photographer will be ready?”

“Yeah, should be fine.” Meryl looks down the aisle to where the photographer she brought along snores faintly. “I think he wants to keep it simple.”

“Simple we can do.” I lower the sleep mask and cross my fingers that she’ll leave me alone.

“I’ve never flown on a private jet,” she says. “Hmmm.” I refuse to encourage her.

“I guess you have, huh? I mean, you’re dating Charles Parker, so of course you’ve been on a private jet. We saw the pictures.”

“Hmmm.”

My monosyllable won’t give this little newshound anything she doesn’t already have. Parker said he would “take care of ” the media’s impression that we’re dating. He needs to deal with it soon.

I’ve never been sure I believed in God.

My family wasn’t religious in the least. In a clan of prodigies and pianists, a concert hall was our cathedral. But here in a vast desert of Dubai, I’m positive that only the deft hand of a higher power could have crafted beauty