Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,216

#BlackGirlMagic at its best. I study the details, trying to figure out what has Bristol grunting and scowling, and then one name leaps from the list of panelists Angie provided.

Qwest.

“I didn’t know Qwest was invited.” I keep my voice casual, pull Bristol’s hair back, and tuck my chin into the crook of her neck and shoulder.

“Hmmmm,” she non-comments again, stepping away to set her wine glass on the counter, her monosyllable speaking volumes.

“You okay with that?” I grab her wrist, forcing her to face me. I cup the smooth line of her neck and lift her chin so I can see her expression. “I don’t have to do the panel.”

She squints in consideration for a few seconds, her lip between her teeth.

“No, it’s fine,” she finally says. “Qwest performed on tour with you this summer for a few shows and everything was okay, right?”

Qwest joined me on tour for two shows and everything seemed fine, but then I did avoid her like syphilis when we weren’t on stage together.

“Yeah.” I nod, keeping the syphilis qualifier to myself. “And you have to work on her next album, right?”

We struck a deal from the beginning—Qwest featured on my album, and I’d feature on hers. I also agreed to produce two of the other songs on her project.

“Those are all things I’m legally committed to do, though.” I kiss the corner of Bristol’s mouth. “If you don’t want me to do the panel, I won’t.”

“But you really want to do the panel.”

It’s a statement, not a question. She knows I’m taking every opportunity I can to talk about criminal justice reform and improving relations with law enforcement . . . so yeah, I really want to do the panel, but I don’t want Bristol feeling some type of way about Qwest and me doing this event together.

“I want to, yeah. It’s important.” I link our fingers and dip my head so we’re looking into each other’s eyes. “But not more important than you.” I settle our linked fingers over my heart. “Not as important as us, Bris.”

After a moment, she yields a smile.

“I’m fine with you doing the panel—on one condition.” “Name it.”

“Piggyback ride.”

I fake exasperation, allowing her to shift the subject and lighten the air around us.

“Carry you up them steps?”

“Yes, up them steps.”

She turns me around and presses on my shoulder until I’m squat- ting. When she jumps on my back, my hands hook under her long, smooth legs. I pretend to struggle under her weight and she laughs.

She sounds so happy I can’t help but grin thinking of my driven, sarcastic girl describing herself as a bird.

“If I give you a piggyback ride,” I tell her at the bottom of the staircase, “you give me a blow job. We’ll call it even.”

“What’s so special about a blow job?” She tightens her arms around my neck when I start up the stairs. “I give you one like every other day.”

“First of all, I can’t believe you actually just asked me what’s so special about a blow job. You may as well ask what’s so special about the Taj Majal. A blow job is practically an eighth wonder.” I press on as she laughs into my neck. “Second, the operative words there are every other day, so obviously, there’s room for improvement.”

“No, the operative word is blow job.” She lightly smacks the side of my head. “Sounds like work for me.”

“Well you’re employee of the month.”

“I better be the only employee.”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about me cheating.” I squeeze her thighs. “I like my balls attached.”

Her husky laugh draws an answering chuckle from me. We’ve reached the bedroom and she slides off my back, walks around me to stand at the foot of the bed, mischief in her eyes, and smiles.

“What’s a habitual line stepper?” She tugs at the hem of my shirt, emblazoned with the tagline, flashing black silk panties at the apex of her thighs. My eyes are glued there in case she lifts the shirt again— wouldn’t want to miss that.

“Huh?” I burn a look over her breasts taunting me through the white cotton. “What was the question?”

“Habitual line stepper?” she asks patiently, pointing to the front of the T-shirt.

“Oh, uh . . . it’s from a Dave Chappelle sketch, the one where Prince slaps Charlie Murphy.”

“Prince slaps who?” She shakes her head. “I don’t get it. I watched an episode and wasn’t that impressed. He just makes a bunch of racial jokes.”

“At least he makes fun