Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,215

you always do.”

“You are, you know.” Her voice softens. “My best friend, I mean.”

When she looks at me like this, her eyes stripped of every defense, no guard in sight, completely honest and open and vulnerable, I feel slightly invincible. It’s a trick of the heart, I know, but I can’t help but think that as long as she looks at me like this, there isn’t anything I couldn’t survive, that our love is the stuff of legends, rolled in Teflon, disaster-proof. I’m as fanciful as Bristol, my laughing bird.

“You’re mine, too,” I echo her sentiment. “My best friend.”

“I won’t tell Rhyson,” she promises with a grin.

“I’m pretty sure he spits the same line to Kai.” I keep a straight face. “We have to say that shit to get laid.”

“I hate you.”

“Orrrrrrrrr do you love me and want to blow me after dinner?” I shrug and lift my hands, my palms up. “Just saying. Listen to your heart, Bristol. Listen to your heart.”

“I’m listening to my belly right now, smartass, and it’s growling. Feed me.”

“Like my mama used to say, ain’t no freeloaders in this house. What’ll you give me for feeding you?”

“Um . . .”

“I do have a suggestion, if you’re searching.”

“Let me guess—you have a ‘Will fuck for food’ sign up here somewhere?”

“I used bubble letters.” I laugh and give her ass a light smack. “You can barter that booty.”

It’s so damn easy with Bristol—our banter, the chemistry, the perfect rhythm of our conversation. It was one of the first things I noticed when we met all those years ago. We didn’t read each other’s minds or finish each other’s sentences. It wasn’t cosmic, but it was a connection that seized me by the brain and grabbed me by the balls. She was as smart as she was sexy, as curious as she was forthcoming. There were years in between when we made things complicated, when things were strained, but now with our hearts settled on each other for good, it’s simple.

This.

Her.

Us.

I’m as sure of her as I am that every night the moon will show up, the stars will shine down, and hours later, the sun will rise again.

This is my favorite part of every day. The sun is down, and we eat by fairy lights strung overhead. We both devour the steak and salad I prepared. When our plates are scraped clean, I’m on my second beer and Bristol has gone through half a bottle of red wine. We’re cracking each other up and just sharing what happened during our day, which leads her back to lunch with Kevin.

“Your fans would eat up a poetry book from you.” Bristol pours another glass of red. “And it would showcase the breadth of your talent beyond hip-hop.”

I stand and gather our plates. Bristol, bottle in one hand and wine glass in the other, follows me to the door that leads back to the loft.

“I’ll think about it.” I gesture for her to walk ahead of me down the steps, mostly so I can catch glimpses of her ass under my shirt.

“Don’t just say you’ll think about it.” She looks over her shoulder, rolling her eyes when she catches me checking her out. “Really? You see me naked every day. Don’t guys ever mature beyond tenth grade?”

“Chronologically, yes.” I drop a kiss in her hair as I pass her prop- ping the door open for me. “In dick years, no.”

Her phone dings from the coffee table in the living room. I hate that phone sometimes. Managing entertainers, her work is around the clock and all over the globe. Bristol’s clients are usually spread across a few different time zones and never take into account the one she’s in.

“Hmmmm.” She takes another sip of her wine without glancing up from her phone. “You still interested in that panel in New York? The Artists as Activists thing?”

As soon as she says ‘New York,’ I’m reminded of my quandary. I have to talk to her about next semester before the night is over.

“Uh, yeah.” I load our plates and utensils into the dishwasher, watching her across the open space. “Definitely.”

“Hmmmm.” Bristol continues scanning whatever she’s reading, a slight dip between her brows.

“What’s up?” I ask. “Something wrong?”

I cross the room to read over her shoulder. It’s an email from the organizer, a popular New York-based radio personality named Angie Black with an army of loyal followers. I’m pretty sure Black isn’t her real last name, but she’s a titan on Black Twitter,