Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,237

all my wanton urges, but the words spill out.

“You.” My breath comes short and quick. “I want you.”

In a quick motion, he jerks me into the shower, fully clothed. My dress plasters my skin, and water seeps into my shoes. It will infuriate me later that he has ruined a perfectly good pair of Jimmy Choos.

Chapter 8

Bristol

“YOU DID THIS ON PURPOSE.”

I flip down the visor mirror to study the bright red mark on my neck. I should have left that bathroom, but no, I just couldn’t resist. Grip’s shower ended like so many do—with me up against the wall.

Grip lets out a salacious chuckle from the driver’s seat. He’s one of the few people allowed to drive my car, and as he navigates back roads on our way to his mother’s house, I’m glad I trust him to do it. As nervous as I am, I’d probably run off the road.

“So, you think in the middle of shower sex, I had the presence of mind to give you a hickey?” Grip flicks me a disbelieving glance. “Just to embarrass you at my mom’s house?”

“Yes, I absolutely do, because you’re always looking for ways to embarrass me.”

“Babe, I don’t even know if the sky is blue when I’m inside you.”

“You’re so full of shit.” My laugh takes flight on the wind with the top down. “Your sweet talk doesn’t work on me.”

His knowing look picks my bravado apart, because his sweet talk totally works on me and he knows it.

“As if I’m not nervous enough.” I play with the cuff of my linen shorts, focusing on that small movement instead of the next few hours meeting Grip’s friends and family. I’ve met some here and there over the last few months, of course, but with Grip on tour all summer, not many.

“Don’t be nervous.” Grip’s frown comes quickly now that he sees I’m legitimately not looking forward to this. “Amir will be there, and Shon. You know them and they love you, and my mom is asking about swirl grandbabies every time we talk, so I’m pretty sure you’ve won her over. Once we procreate, you’ll have her eating from the palm of your hand.”

“Swirl . . . wait, what? Oh, my God.” I’m not sure if my stomach flips over inside because of his mother’s outrageousness or at the thought of having Grip’s kids. I never saw myself as maternal—like, at all—but imagining myself pregnant with Grip’s child is a different matter altogether. I’m assaulted with images and feelings better examined alone than when I’m heading into what feels like social battle.

“Everybody at this party,” Grip says, “they’re guys I grew up with, neighborhood ladies who whooped my ass when I was a snot-nosed kid, people from Ma’s church.”

“Church?” My hand flies to my neck to cover the bite marring my skin. “Oh, God.”

“It’ll be fine.” He grabs my hand from my lap and kisses my fingers, not taking his eyes from the road.

“I want them to like me,” I say. That’s hard to admit because I can count on one hand the people I want to like me, and it’s been that way all my life. I was born with a limited amount of fucks, but all of a sudden I need the approval of Ms. James and this whole group of nameless, faceless people who may hold the same views as Jade.

Ugh, Jade.

“Will Jade be there?” I ask, braced for the affirmative.

“Probably.” Grip’s shoulders lift and fall, quick and careless. “Look, Jade gets on board with us, or she doesn’t. I don’t give a damn.”

He says that, but I know how happy it made him to restore their relationship, and the last thing I want is to be the reason it falls apart again. I’m still considering that when we pull up to the house where Grip grew up. The narrow street is lined with cars, trucks, bikes— everything from the infamous Impala to three-wheelers.

Some mix of nerves, dread, and anticipation climbs up to lodge in my throat where I can’t gather enough breath. This is ridiculous. I run a record label. I make stars for a living, literally pluck people from obscurity and do whatever it takes to propel them into planetary stardom, from no-name to household name in the manner of an album release—and yet a house full of strangers on this crowded Compton street fills me with trepidation.

But it’s not them. It’s him.

Grip opens my door, the color of his skin even richer against the