t, and him securing my arm tighter around his waist with a rough hand doesn’t help. To distract myself, I take in the scenery rushing past us. We soar over this mountain of scarlet sand, so high if I reached up to touch the azure sky, my palms might come away blue. The sun, high and saffron, splashes violet and pink through the clouds, a child playing with watercolors. Vivid color saturates the landscape, like a fresco stretched and painted, left out to dry in the sun.
We stop at the pinnacle of a dune, and just sit there for a few moments, the quad an idling beast beneath us. Grip kills the engine, swinging one leg over to get off. I carefully follow suit.
I steal a glance at Grip, who has walked a few feet away and surveys the same vibrant vista that captivated me during our ride, the helmet hanging from his hand. I take a few steps until I’m right in front of him, ready to ask what we’re doing out here and why he brought me if he has nothing to say. The guide gave him a black bandana to wear over his nose and mouth, protection from the sand flying from our wheels. With just his dark eyes and the slashing, inky brows visible above the bandana, he looks part outlaw, part Bedouin prince. He stows the helmet and pulls the bandana beneath his chin, revealing the rest of his face, the lips finely chiseled and full, the strong, square chin. He squints against the sun, his bold profile sketched into the horizon behind him, and my heart performs a perfect ten somersault.
It’s so quiet, the air rides a fine line between peace and desolation. It’s like we’re in a vacuum, void of time. Like we’re the last two people on a deserted planet, and everything except him and me and what’s between us dissipates. Every thought escapes me, except one.
“I miss you,” I whisper.
His head jerks around, his eyes meeting mine, going so narrow his long lashes tangle at the edges.
“You don’t get to say that to me, Bristol.”
I know why he says it, but it still feels like rejection.
“Grip, I just mean . . . your friendship. With things the way they’ve been, I miss us as friends.”
“My friendship?” He cocks his head, a humorless laugh escaping him and echoing over the dunes. “We’re not friends. Not right now.”
“We are,” I insist. “I need that.”
“You need.” Grip wads the bandana up in one hand and clenches the back of his neck with the other. “I’ve let you have that, let you do that, for too long. Ignore what I need. Fuck what I want. I’ve settled for whatever I could get from you for years.”
I want him to stop, but anything I could say to stop him stalls on my lips, so he just keeps going.
“Even this setup, you managing me, was an attempt to be closer to you,” he says, anger powering his words. “And what do you do? Go off and start dating that asshole. Choosing him when I’ve been patient. When I’ve been here.”
The explanation I should have given him weeks ago fills my mouth, collects on my tongue. I know if I tell him the truth about Parker, it could mess things up with Qwest. And I want to. Even though it may mean the end of them, I want to. I’d rather have the back and forth of him wanting and me resisting than not having him at all. It isn’t fair, but sometimes we do things that aren’t fair to protect ourselves. To survive.
“I’ve let you make all the rules, but I’m changing them. I have to,” Grip says before I can decide what I should say. “I was going to wait, but now’s as good a time as any. You won’t be managing me anymore.”
And just like that, the words I would say are sawdust in my mouth.
“Wha-what?” I never stammer. I have this one part of him, of his life I’ve allowed myself, and he’s taking even that away, and it makes me stutter. “What do you mean?”
“Sarah’s going to handle my day-to-day—”
“Sarah?” My strident voice punctures the surrounding quiet. “Sarah isn’t a manager. She’s my assistant.”
“I know.” Grip nods, his expression pinched. “Like I was saying, she’ll just handle the day-to-day stuff till I find a good fit for my manager.”
“I’m a good fit!” Stupid tears dampen my eyes, and emotion watermarks my throat as the hurt rises inside me. “You have the number one album in the country. I’m not saying that’s because of me, but—”
“Of course I know you’re a huge part of that.” He frowns and tosses the bandana back and forth between his hands. “This isn’t about that.”
“I did a good job.” My voice falls to a dismayed whisper.
“I don’t want to be your job.” He blows his frustration out in an extended sigh. “I never wanted that. I wanted . . . more, and know that we’re both with other people and it’s obvious what I wanted can’t happen . . .”
“What?” I demand, crossing my arms under my breasts, steeling my heart. “Then what?”
“I thought if I couldn’t have a relationship with you, I didn’t want anything.”
His words crash land in the pit of my stomach. I grasp desperately at my composure, determined he’s got as much of me as he’ll get. My dignity at least is mine.
“But I was wrong, Bris.”
His anger fading, his voice almost gentle, he reaches for my hand and dips his head to catch my eyes. I resent how my insides start melting.