Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,34

the ancient Jeep. “Never mind.”

“Um, okay.” I get out, ready to slam the door when his words stop me again.

“I had fun tonight.” He leans across the middle console so I can see his face a little. His interior light doesn’t work, so he’s still basically in the dark. The shadows smudge the striking details of his face, but I feel the intensity of his eyes.

“You had fun wrangling a half-drunk girl off the dance floor and arguing in a dirty alleyway?” I ask sarcastically. “Yeah, right.”

I hear the little huff of a laugh from the driver’s seat.

“I had fun hanging with you,” he responds softly, the smile tinting his voice. I let his words settle over me for a moment before I pat the roof of the car twice and step back.

“Me, too,” I finally answer. “Have a good night and thanks for everything.”

Manners.

As Grip pulls away from the curb, I can’t help but wonder why I’m being painfully polite when what I’m starting to feel for him is anything but well mannered.

A little wild. A lot unexpected. Completely unlikely, but definitely not polite.

I use the key Rhyson gave me and hope there isn’t an alarm. I walk deeper into the house, still a little wired but unsure what to do. The door leading to the kitchen opens, and Rhyson steps into the living room.

“Hey,” I say softly, watching for signs of lingering anger.

“Hey.” His eyes fix on my face, and I’m guessing he’s gauging me, too. “You too tired to talk?”

I sit on the couch and gesture for him to join me. He sits, elbows to his knees and eyes on the floor.

“I’m sorry for how out of control things got at the studio,” he says, his voice quiet, subdued. “I . . .I don’t feel like we know each other anymore.”

A humorless laugh escapes my lips.

“And I’m not sure we ever did.” I smile a little sadly when our eyes connect around that truth in the lamplight.

“You’re probably right.”

He sighs, raking his long sensitive fingers through wild hair. He has an artist’s hands. Well kempt but competent and capable of creating.

“Do you remember when they insured your hands?” I ask.

“Yeah.” He doesn’t say anything more, but draws his brows draw into a frown.

“I overheard Mother discussing the policy. We were eleven.” I bite my lip and smile. “I remember asking her why they insured your hands. She said you insure things that are too valuable to lose forever. She said your gift was irreplaceable and that made you incredibly valuable. They had to protect you.”

“That sounds about right,” Rhyson says bitterly. “Protect their investment.”

I don’t acknowledge his interpretation of it because he never saw it from my side.

“I was so jealous of you that day.” I shake my head, feeling that helplessness and the frustration of having nothing to offer flood me again. “I had nothing to insure. I had nothing that valuable to our parents. They had shown me a million times, but that day she put it in words.”

“Jealous?” Rhyson’s incredulity twists his handsome face. “You were jealous of me? You had everything, Bristol. You had friends. You got to go to school with kids our age. You had a normal life. That was all I wanted.”

“You had them,” I counter. “The three of you would go off for weeks at a time, and I had nannies and therapists. You had our parents.”

“I had them?” Rhyson demands in rhetorical disbelief. “Yeah, I had them riding my ass to rehearse eight hours a day, reminding me that I might be a kid, but adults paid good money to come see me play. I had nothing.”

“You loved piano,” I insist, needing to know that things are as I remember them, because if they aren’t, what has been real?

“I loved piano, yes, but that just came to me. I don’t even remember not knowing how to play. Piano I was born with. The career? The road and the concerts and the tours? That they made me do.”

Condemnation colors his eyes.

“The addiction—I let that happen,” he says.

“You were too young,” I counter softly. “Too young to take the pills, and our parents should have stopped you, not enabled you. I see that now.”

He scoots closer, looking at me earnestly.

“Bris, I had to get away from them.” He shakes his head, and his eyes are bleak. “To survive. I needed to get better, and to do that, I had to put as much distance between them and myself as possible.”

“But