“It’s better than the alternative,” he says.
“Which is what?” I pull back to peer up at his face.
“Kissing you.” His eyes boil from caramel to hot chocolate. Sweet, hot, steamy need spikes in the look he pours over me.
“I’m not doing this with you, Grip.” I close my eyes, my hands covering his on my hips. I mean to push them away, but my fingers won’t move. They trap his touch against me.
“We just met yesterday,” I remind him and myself.
“I know.” He shakes his head. “You’re my best friend’s sister.”
“I live in New York.”
“I’m here in LA.”
“I don’t even know you.” I laugh a little. “And what I do know is not good. You’re a player.”
“Who told you that?” Irritation crinkles his expression.
“Um, you basically did.” I roll my eyes. “And Jimmi. And Rhyson.”
“They shouldn’t …” He sighs, releasing his frustration into the stale alley air. “I understand why they would say that, but this isn’t … you’re not …”
He bites his bottom lip, a gesture that seems so uncertain when he’s been anything but.
“Don’t be upset with them for telling me the obvious,” I say. “I saw all those girls tonight for myself. I know what it’s like for musicians.”
“I don’t even know those girls.”
“You barely know me, either.”
He doesn’t reply, but the way he looks at me—the pull between us—defies my statement. We know each other. Not in terms of hours or days, but something deeper. Something more elemental. I can’t deny it, but I have no idea what to do with it.
“Look, I can admit I’m attracted to you.” Grip surveys my body one more time before clenching
his eyes closed and giving his head a quick shake. “Damn, that dress, Bristol. All fucking night.”
An involuntary smile tugs at my lips, but I pinch it into a tiny quirk of the lips instead of the wide, satisfied thing sprawling inside me.
“Not all night.” I firm my lips. “You had quite the fan base. Women lined up after your performance.”
“Thirsty chicks.” Grip grimaces. “Banking on the off chance that one day I’ll be something they can eat off of. Maybe get themselves a baby daddy. Get some bills paid every month.”
“It isn’t an off chance,” I say softly. “It’s a certainty.”
“What’s a certainty?” A frown conveys his confusion.
“That you’ll be something one day.” I point toward the door leading back into the club. “When you grabbed that mic, when you took that stage, it was obvious you’re as talented as Rhyson. It looks and sounds different, but you both have that special quality that makes people watch and listen. You can’t teach that or train it. You either have it or you don’t.”
I offer a smile.
“And you have it.”
Surprise and then something else, maybe self-consciousness, cross his face. For one so bold and sure, it’s funny to see.
“Yeah, well, thanks.” He shrugs and goes on. “Anyway, I know the deal. My mama schooled me on girls like that.”
“Your mother sounds very wise.”