Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,87

all. When I look back, he’s propped against my tufted headboard like he has all the time in the world, sheet down to his waist, hands folded behind his head.

“You should probably get going.” I lean into the arched doorway of the bathroom. “I’m going to shower and then I’ll be leaving, so . . .”

“You kicking me out?” His smirk works my last remaining nerve.

“Yes, Parker. I’m kicking you out. Men don’t normally sleep at my house, and if I hadn’t been plastered out of my mind, you wouldn’t be here this morning.”

The smirk dies, collapsing into a flat line.

“You’re not implying that I took advantage of you somehow, are you?”

“Imply?” I shake my head. “I’m saying I’m disappointed you had sex with me knowing I was drunk and maybe not fully . . . aware.”

I've known Parker literally my whole life. As slimy as he can be, I don't want to think he would drug me, but was I that drunk? To remember nothing? Everything after we arrived in Vegas is a blank sheet of paper, and as hard as I try, I can't sketch any details. I wanted a good martini. That's all. I know I had no intention of sleeping with Parker. Even drunk I can't imagine allowing this, wanting this. I've come as close as I can to an accusation without actually making it, but based on Parker's heavy scowl, it's close enough.

“Bristol, you were completely willing, and we did use protection, if that’s your next question.”

It was, but I still see a visit to my doctor in the very near future.

“I don’t doubt that.” Even sighing makes my head spin a little. “But we haven’t had sex in over a decade, and you think the night I’m drunk is the night to get reacquainted?”

He climbs out of my bed, less modest than I was, not bothering to cover up. He’s in good shape, but his dick is as underwhelming as I remember. I avert my eyes, embarrassed for him. Embarrassed for myself. No wonder it doesn’t feel like I had sex last night.

“I know you’re having a rough morning,” Parker says as he steps into his pants. “So I’ll excuse that. When can I see you again?”

“I think we should slow this down.” I run fingers through the tangled hair hanging past my shoulders. “I didn’t, um . . . anticipate any of this. I’m not in the market for a relationship right now.”

“This is happening, Bristol.” He buttons up his shirt, his eyes never leaving my face. “It's always been obvious that we’re perfect for each other. Last night only solidified it.”

“Forgive me for not agreeing since I don’t remember much about last night.” I turn into the bathroom. “We’ll talk more later. Could you lock up on your way out?”

I don’t wait for his response before closing the bathroom door and slumping against it, barely able to meet my own eyes in the mirror. Shame, frustration, disappointment swirl in my belly, joining the nausea. I feel violated, and as much as I want to put all the blame on Parker, there's really no one to blame but myself. I blink at the disheveled, puffy-eyed girl in the mirror who has tears filling her eyes.

"Bristol," I say to her. "What the fuck?"

After a few more moments of self-castigation, I start my shower. I wonder what time it is, but I left my phone in the bedroom. At least I presume that’s where I left it. Hopefully, it isn’t lost somewhere between here and Vegas. I have this appointment downtown, then errands, and then the Prodigy lunch at Rhyson’s.

God, facing Grip after sleeping with Parker. Not that I haven’t slept with other guys before, but the other night on the roof, our conversation in the hall yesterday, the confrontation in the club last night—we haven’t talked this openly about what’s between us in years, and now everything feels right at the surface.

An hour later, YSL Roadie bag on my shoulder and feeling only slightly more like myself, I walk into Chelle’s, the high-end jewelry store I stumbled across downtown. Black skinny jeans ripped at the knee, black cashmere T-shirt, a knee-length camel-colored cardigan duster and nude ankle strap sandals. Hopefully no one will notice that I’m woefully in need of a pedicure. My head remains under attack, so I couldn’t endure the blow dryer. My still-damp hair is scooped up into a topknot that I hope looks somewhat intentional. I wait until the last