Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,348

of who I am. My very nature rearranged to accommodate Zoe, and even though she’s gone, that space I made for her in my heart, it won’t ever close. It’s a wound that’s nowhere near healing—if it ever will—but life has a way of herding us back into its fold, of returning us to the flow of things that keep us moving forward. Bristol’s just getting back to work. Between Kai’s stint on Broadway and deals she’s working for Jimmi—who’s here in New York, too—her work pace is as demanding as it’s ever been. I think she needs that to distract her from some of the real shit we probably aren’t ready to face.

I’m finalizing my next album, starting promo for the book of poetry with Barrow, and have a few dates left on the Contagious tour with Iz.

Speak of the devil—my phone buzzes, and Iz’s name pops up.

“Dude.” I walk through to the living room with Amir and flop onto the couch. “What’s good?”

“You’re coming tonight?” Iz asks without preamble, a rare urgency in his voice.

“Yeah, I . . .”

My next thought leaves my head when Bristol comes down the steps looking rather scrumptious. She’s been pretty low key over the last six weeks, but tonight she’s got a dinner engagement with Jimmi and she’s pulled out all the stops. Her hair grew longer when she was pregnant and falls to the middle of her back, dark, streaked, wild. The dress is simple, relying on the shape of her body for its provocation and seduction, and let’s just say Bristol’s snap back game is on point. Between the grief starvation diet and her previously active life, you’d never know she just had a baby six weeks ago. The dress is white and strapless, clinging to all the curves that are riper now. The milk is gone, but I know her breasts by heart—and by hand—and they’re fuller than before. I love Bristol any way I can get her, but I’m not gonna complain about bigger breasts.

Not never.

“Grip?” Iz prompts, voice still anxious. “You are coming to the town hall?”

“Sorry. Yeah.” I drag my eyes away from Bristol as she smiles at Amir, greeting him with a kiss on the cheek. “I’m coming. I wouldn’t miss you taking down Clem Ford.”

Bristol’s head jerks around at the mention of that man. Her eyes meet mine, and I can tell she’s on high alert.

“My daughter’s been in an accident,” Iz says abruptly.

I sit up from my indolent slouch on the couch, elbows to my knees and the phone pressed tightly to my ear.

“Man, Iz. I’m sorry to hear that. Is she all right?”

“Yeah. I mean, I think so.” His heavy sigh raises my level of concern. “I don’t know. She’s in Philly, I’m here. My ex was in a hurry and didn’t give a lot of details. She would have told me if it was life- threatening but . . . I just feel like I should be there.”

“Of course. How can I help?”

“Debate Clem Ford.”

What you talking ’bout, Willis?

“You want me to debate Clem Ford?” I glance up at Bristol, who now stands right beside me, her brows knit into a frown. “I’m not . . . you. I’m not qualified for that.”

“The hell you’re not.” He sounds a helluva lot more confident than I feel. “You got this, Grip.”

His urgency and my doubt wrestle in the silence between us. “Please,” he says, and with his pride, I know what that costs him.

I run a weary hand over my face.

“Yeah, sure. Whatever you need, of course. Is there anything I should know?”

For the next few minutes I jot down contacts and details the organizers sent him. By the time I hang up and let him go to his daughter, the initial panic has passed. I’m feeling slightly better.

“It’s on you?” Amir asks, the game abandoned on the couch beside him.

“Looks like.” I glance at my watch, a quick smile quirking my lips that the piece of shit is still telling time after all these years. “It’s not far, but let’s take a car. We need to roll soon.”

I stand, bringing my body just inches from Bristol’s.

“You look beautiful.” I forego her lips, careful not to smear the vivid line of her lipstick, and opting to kiss Neruda’s scripted words running along her shoulder instead. I lift the gold bar necklace hanging between her breasts bearing the same inscription.

“Is Dr. Hammond’s daughter okay?” Worry pinches her expression.

“I think so.” I caution myself