Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,353

at him over my shoulder, one brow lifted. “For?”

“For your loss, of course.” His voice pitches too low for the line of people waiting to hear. “I heard about the condition your daughter suffered from. It’s tragic really, but you know what many have long held about children from . . .”

His eyes flick in Bristol’s direction and then back to me. “Marriages like yours.” He pauses, a demon’s gleam in his eyes. “Some think those children are abominations. I haven’t seen pictures of her, but I’ve heard she—”

My fist is already arcing toward his face. I know it’s a cruel, clever trap. I know he’s pushing my buttons in the worst situation possible—with the cameras probably still rolling and in front of all these fans. He wants me violent, not civilized, educated, articulate, certainly not putting his flabby, pasty, bigot ass in its place, but knowing his agenda and letting this go are two different things. It’s too much for him to speak about Zoe like that. Before I can reach him, a blur of white separates Ford from me, and a crack sounds through the space. Collective shock ripples through the crowd as they watch my wife glare up at the shit bag destined for the hard end of my fist.

“You aren’t worthy to speak my daughter’s name,” she says, low enough for no one else to hear, fiercely enough to strip bark off trees in Central Park. “She did more in one day than you’ll do in your whole miserable life, you racist asshole.”

Ford’s hand touches the livid mark on his face and he sputters, but Bristol charges on before he can speak.

“You want to send someone to prison?” she asks. “Send me. Press charges against me.”

His eyes, narrowed and angry, telegraph his outrage as the event organizers, with Amir’s help, hustle everyone outside, even though people continue to look curiously over their shoulders at the drama unfolding. His supporters try to press close, but the event security herds them through the front door while a few stay close to us.

“I will press charges and—”

“Oh, please do,” Bristol interjects. “Then I can tell the whole world that you told a recently bereaved mother that her child was an abomination. Let’s see how quickly the sponsors for your radio show disappear then, Mr. Family Values. And the super PAC raising money for your future political aspirations—how long would it take them to withdraw their support?”

He blanches, licking nervously at the spittle collected in the corner of his mouth.

“It would be your word against mine,” he says with false calm. “And who would people believe?”

Bristol tilts her head to a pitying angle. “Do you know who my brother is? The people I manage and represent? Who my father is? The power my mother wields in this town? Do you know who’s mentored me since college? You don’t have nearly enough influence or firepower to fight me.”

She takes a step closer, and I step with her, grabbing her arm, hating to see her any closer to him.

“Bristol, let’s go,” I say, reflecting the words she used to calm me the last time we had an encounter with this man.

Her eyes plead with me to let her handle it this time, and after a moment, I reluctantly nod, linking my arm around her waist in case something pops off. I know why she did it, but it’s galling and I abhor the fact that she put herself in danger—again, for me, but I’ll deal with that once we’re done.

“It’s not all those people you should worry about,” she continues, pressing her arm over mine at her waist, twining our fingers. “It’s me you should fear, because of the three of us”—with her free hand, she gestures to herself, Ford, and me—“you and I are the thugs. My husband is an honorable man. You won’t bring him down, and the next time you try, I’ll show you what an abomination looks like.”

Ford’s eyes slit with blood-thirst and he practically bares his fangs at Bristol. The air chills around us, his malevolence sweeping in like an icy wind.

“You keep looking at her like that,” I tell him through gritted teeth, “I’ll undo all her hard work convincing these nice people I wasn’t half a second off whipping your ass.”

“You think too highly of yourself, boy,” he spits, a gnarled smile on his face. “Upstarts like you, imposters. Your day is coming, though.”

“Oh, my day is here.” I struggle to maintain my composure. He’s