“I believe you,” Grip says. “I’m just saying there’s a lot more to Jimmi, too, so maybe you guys have a lot in common. And maybe you should withhold judgment until you know her better. If not altogether.”
I’m quiet while I finish my brownie and think about what he said. He has a point. One I hadn’t considered. I had to leave my Ivy League college to get the most thought-provoking, stimulating conversation I’ve had in ages. Maybe ever. And with a rapper. Jimmi isn’t the only one there’s more to than meets the eye.
4
GRIP
I FIGURED RHYSON’S sister would be attractive. I mean, they’re twins, and he’s one of those guys girls trip all over themselves for. And I knew she went to an Ivy League college, so of course she’s smart. But Bristol is all kinds of things I could not have anticipated or prepared for. Her curiosity, her authenticity, and her honesty hook something in me and draw me closer. I didn’t expect the conversation we had at Mick’s to go where it did. I loved that she wasn’t afraid to wade through the difficult questions of race, and that she gave measured, thoughtful responses and expected the same from me. Those are tough conversations to have with someone you know, much less with someone you just met, but it felt like nothing was off-limits. As if I could give her room to be naïve and she could give me room to be obnoxious. We both gave each other space to be misunderstood, because we really wanted to understand.
I admit only to myself that I’m drawn to her in a way that is dangerous because she’s Rhyson’s sister. Starting something that can’t go anywhere could be awkward down the road. I’m not that guy. Usually I fuck them and then I leave them. That’s it. That’s all. And I can’t do that to Rhyson’s sister.
The string of text messages reminds me there’s a girl I’m trying to leave even now. I’ve been dating Tessa for two months, but we haven’t really talked in the last couple of weeks. She blew my mind the first time we had sex, and her pussy put some kind of hex on me and made me agree to “dating.” Well, that hex has worn off. I told her we probably need to take a break, but she either wasn’t hearing me or was ignoring me. When I tell a girl we need to take a brea
k, that’s code for there’s this other chick I’m feeling so we should cut this off before I do something we’ll both regret. I wish I could just let it fade, but I’m going to have to actually break it off. She keeps hitting me up, so it seems like that conversation will have to happen soon.
I steal a glance across at Bristol, who’s slumped in the passenger seat with her head dropped to an awkward angle while she sleeps. She probably wouldn’t give me the time of day anyway. Rhyson’s so unassuming that you’d never know he comes from deep pockets. Old money and new. He turned his back on that life to emancipate from his parents, but Bristol still occupies that world. A guy like me, driving this piece of shit Jeep, sweeping floors, and doing odd jobs to make ends meet—no way would she check for me. She doesn’t even listen to hip-hop. She probably hasn’t ever dated a Black guy, and I wouldn’t be the exception.
Now me? I like to think of myself as an equal opportunity connoisseur. My dick is not so much color blind, as it loves every color. And I have a rainbow coalition fuck record to prove it. If it’s wet and tight, I don’t really care what color it is.
Crude, I know.
Maybe that’s an issue of race I won’t explore with Bristol. I’m sure she has her limits.
I pull up in front of my apartment complex. I’m kind of glad Bristol’s asleep. Maybe I can sneak inside and get back out to the car before she wakes up. I need to grab my laptop for the tracks I’ll work on while I’m at Grady’s. I wouldn’t have stopped otherwise. We joked at the airport about her suitcase being bigger than my apartment. She isn’t far off.
I’m carefully, quietly opening the driver side door when she stirs.
“Hey.” She sits up and stretches her arms over her head, straining the tank top against her breasts. “Where are you going?’
My mouth goes dry when her nipples pucker through the thin material. I can resist her for my best friend. Bristol and Rhyson may not be close, but she is still his sister. A pretty face and a great set of tits aren’t worth any possible static with him. I may need to sticky note that over my mirror this week, though.
“Oh, you’re up.” I lean through the window. “I just need to run inside my apartment and grab something before we head to Grady’s.”
“Can I use your bathroom?”
Shit. I mentally run through the disaster area that is my tiny apartment. I’ll be lucky if a roach doesn’t greet us at the door.
“Um, sure. Come on.”
When we cross the landing, I remind myself I have nothing to be ashamed of. I pay my rent. I’m making my own way and not breaking any laws. I have the integrity of my art, not selling out for the quick buck, but holding out for the right opportunity. It all sounds hollow when Bristol, in her lambskin leather and designer distressed jeans, blows into my one-room apartment on a cloud of expensive perfume.
“Through there.” I point to the tiny bathroom off the one room that encompasses the kitchen, living room, and bedroom. The brochure called it “studio,” but hovel is probably a more accurate description.
Bristol’s sharp eyes wander over the threadbare thrift store couch and the Dollar Store dishes in the drying rack. The disarray of my narrow, unmade bed, which is flush against a wall, mocks me.
“Could you hurry up?” I ask curtly. “We need to get going.”
Her startled eyes stare back at me for a moment before she moves quickly to the bathroom. I grab my laptop and am already standing by the door when she comes out.
“There wasn’t a towel.” She holds up her dripping hands.
“Oh, sorry.” I take the few strides to the kitchen and grab a roll of paper towels on the counter for her.
She dries her hands and tosses the used paper towels into the trash. Instead of following me back to the door, she leans against the counter.
“I thought you were tired.” I shift from one foot to the other, back propping the door open. “Let’s go.”
“I have that same print.” She nods to the poster of Nina Simone hanging on the wall over my bed. “She was an excellent pianist, and my mother loves her.”