Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,352

to trump up to meet those quotas, do you?”

“We don’t—”

“What if people in certain states start paying attention to the fine print of their tax bills? How outraged will they be when they realize they are penalized for fewer prisoners? That they pay for empty beds? It’s outrageous.”

“What you call outrageous, we call capitalism,” he says, looking into the audience for understanding, because the word “capitalism” always works.

“I’m a capitalist,” I interject before he can garner much support. “Ask me how much money I made on my last tour.”

I look out at the audience, playing into the curiosity on their faces.

“I have no idea.” I shrug. “Too much for me to keep up with.”

A smattering of laughter emboldens me to finish my point.

“I bleed green like the next American.” I look out to the audience instead of at Ford. “But I won’t stand by counting my money while innocent men sit in jail for months, years because they don’t have the resources to prove their innocence. Men like Kalief Browder. At sixteen years old, he was wrongfully accused and imprisoned for stealing a backpack. This innocent young man rotted in jail in Rikers Island for three years without a conviction—without a trial. Two of those years he spent in solitary confinement. He was little more than a child himself.”

I choke back anger and frustration at the miscarriage of justice. I can still see him in my mind, his young face and bright, intelligent eyes.

“He was never the same,” I continue quietly. “And when he was finally released—after three years, no trial, and no conviction—he later took his own life.”

Quiet descends over the crowded shop.

“I’m not asking for special treatment,” I say, looking back to Ford. “I’m begging for reform, working toward it, so our justice system won’t have the blood of boys like Kalief on its hands.”

The applause, loud and spontaneous, startles us both. We’ve debated for well over an hour in relative quiet because the moderators requested the audience hold their response. Red crawls up Ford’s neck and jagged displeasure seeps into his face. I look out, searching for Bristol in the crowd. She’s on her feet, applauding with a smile wider and brighter than I’ve seen in months. It was worth it. Sitting in this hot seat, unprepared and scared pissless that I’d let Iz down—it was all worth it to see that smile on her face.

“You were amazing,” she whispers when I come off the small

stage.

“Thank you.” I kiss the corner of her mouth, wishing all these eyes weren’t trained on us. “You ’bout to bounce? To meet Jimmi?”

“Nope.” She shakes her head, eyes locked with mine. “I asked her for a rain check. I wanted to spend time with my husband.”

I really hope “spend time” is a euphemism for “screw my husband till we pass out from exhaustion,” but I’ll get clarity later. I just nod and keep her close to me as I sign autographs and take selfies and whatever else fans and people from the audience come up with for me to do. I twist our fingers together and pull Bristol into my side. She tends to wander off for this part, gets impatient and fidgety and wonders how I put up with this long line of people. I’m a patient man. Waiting on her taught me to be patient. All those years when I wasn’t sure we would have this life together, that taught me patience.

Feeling this familiar closeness that I’ve missed, the closeness tragedy tried to steal from us, I’m not letting her out of my sight. Matter of fact, I’m tempted to send Amir in the car home ahead of us. Last time, we walked home from this very bookstore and were engaged by the end of the night. I’m considering shutting down the long line when someone taps my shoulder.

I turn to meet the cold calculation in Clem Ford’s eyes. Bristol’s fingers tighten around mine, a silent encouragement and warning. I tip my head slightly in her direction and nod, acknowledging her message: play it cool.

“Good job tonight, Mr. James,” he drawls, looking mighty self- satisfied for a man who ended the night with most of the room opposing his views.

“Thank you.” I can’t bring myself to lie and say he did a good job—a good job doing what? Being an entitled asshole? We’ll just leave it there.

“I didn’t want to leave without saying I was sorry,” he continues, even though my back is already half turned away.

“Sorry?” I glance