Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,74

need to get back to my office.”

It goes quiet, and everyone stares at her, but she doesn’t stop. She grabs her phone and walks quickly toward the door.

“Sarah,” she tosses over her shoulder. “Could you go over that last item on the agenda?”

“Um, okay.” Sarah’s wide eyes scan the agenda Bristol left. “Here we are. Bristol wants to—”

“I gotta go, too.” I push back my chair and stand. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

Before anyone can stop me or ask questions, I’m out the door and racing up the hall to catch her before she leaves. I round the corner and come to a halt. Bristol leans against the wall, head down. I approach slowly, cautiously, like she’ll run off if I startle her.

“Bris,” I say softly once I’m right in front of her.

She stiffens, raising her lashes to reveal the accusation of her eyes.

“How could you?” she asks, her whisper knife-sharp.

“It was just for me.” I grab the end of the braid hanging over her shoulder. “No one else was supposed—”

“But the song’s about us.” She jerks back, freeing her hair from my fingers. “About me. How dare you?”

“How dare I?” Now I’m pissed. “Those are my thoughts. My ideas. My music, Bristol. No one dictates how I express myself. Not even you.”

“Even when those thoughts and ideas are about me?” She presses her eyes closed and flattens her palm to her forehead. “What happened then was private, and you’ve put us on display for anyone shopping at Target.”

“I didn’t mean to. I’d forgotten about that track until Rhyson started playing it.” I squat until I’m eye level with her, even though she still doesn’t look at me. I lift her chin until she has to. “It was for me, not anyone else. Music, writing—it’s how I process what I’m feeling. Always has been. You know that. That’s how I was feeling, what I was thinking, and I needed to get it out.”

“How you were feeling.” Now that she’s looking at me, she isn’t looking away, and her eyes sear me even before her words do. “You hate me? In the lyrics, you said when I hate her. That’s how you feel?”

There’s startled hurt in her eyes, but I won’t lie to her.

“Maybe that day, that moment.” I shake my head. “But no. I don’t hate you. How you make me feel? I hate that sometimes.”

“How do I make you feel?”

Alive. Tortured. Exhilarated. Hungry.

“Confused,” I say instead. “Frustrated.”

“What’s so confusing about no?” She glances down at the shiny hardwood floor at our feet. “I’ve been telling you no for years. I mean it.”

“What’s confusing is that no matter what you say, I know what you feel.”

“And you know this how?” She looks up, one imperious brow lifted. “A few kisses on the roof one night when I was high?”

All those walls are firmly erected. No gaps. No cracks. We’re back at square one. Judging by the indifferent look on her face, we might even be pre-square one. Have I been fooling myself all these years?

But despite what my eyes tell me, my gut says she has no idea what to do with the way I make her feel. All my instincts tell me Bristol wants me, and fuck if I understand why she won’t give us a chance. Maybe she suspects what I know for sure. If I ever get her, no way in hell I’m letting her go. That gap last night showed me what’s behind that wall, and I want all of it.

She lures me closer without trying. Her scent, her warmth, her softness, her toughness entices me to lean into her. The feeling of last night, the want, rushes through me again. My hands find her waist, and I imprint my shape into hers against the wall.

“Grip, no.” Her breath shivers over her lips, and she turns her head away from me.

“Why not?” I run my nose up and down her neck until she shudders under me. Her body is honest with me even when she hides the truth. I want her truth. I have to know.

She wriggles free, stepping away and pacing a tight circuit in the corridor.

“Bristol, about last night—”

“The other song, ‘Bruise,’” she cuts in, stopping her pacing to face me. “It’s fantastic.”

Not-so-deft change of topic. I’m not sure if it was because she was genuinely interested in the song or afraid of what I would say next.

“Thank you.” I slip a fist into my pocket and lean against the wall