“Qwest. She was all over you.”
“The hell she was. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, maybe you should check Instagram. That’s where you and I and Qwest are all tagged in a picture that shows her touching you.”
With her still on the line, I pull my phone away from my ear and go to my little-used Instagram account.
“Well, damn.”
Some intern, production assistant, gofer-ass punk skulking around here in the halls must have snapped a picture of Qwest with her hand on my chest and posted it just that fast. The moment that felt wrong when it was happening looks even worse out of context on Instagram. What was me trying to protect Qwest’s feelings and not hurt her any more than I already have looks intimate, like a secret, and the caption only adds fuel.
Maybe @TheRealGrip is taking @MsAngieBlack’s advice to heart and going back to black. Who is really #GripzQueen? #TheBlackerTheBerry #TheSweeterTheJuice #OnceYouGoBlack #YouWontGoBack #WokeCheck #PlayingInTheSnow
Neither Bristol nor Qwest is referenced specifically, but both are tagged.
Fuck my life.
“Bris.” Now my voice is dangerously soft. I’m good and damn tired of people in my damn business every time I turn around, poking their noses in my shit where it doesn’t belong, messing with me and my girl. “You know this isn’t real.”
“It looks real,” she whispers. “It feels real.”
“Bristol Gray, if you tell me you believe this, I’m fucking you into next week when I see you.”
Typically, she would say, Is that a promise? or offer some smartass comment, but the other end stays silent.
“Bris, come on.” I bang my fist into the wall. “You know this isn’t true. If she were a guy, I would kick Angie’s ass.”
“Well she’s a girl,” Bristol says, her voice hardening. “And I do plan to kick her ass where it will hurt most.”
“What do you mean?”
“Meaning I’m calling her producer. That shit was way beyond the scope of what we agreed to.”
“That isn’t the way to handle it.”
“The hell it isn’t.” Bristol’s indignation and resentment nearly choke her words. “She thinks she can come for me—for us like that with no consequences? She’s about to learn differently.”
I squeeze the bridge of my nose, bracing myself for a fight I really don’t want right now. “Bris, you’re not doing that.”
Her voice drops. “What did you say?”
Aw hell.
“I said you’re not doing that. That’s what she wants.”
“Then she’ll be very happy to find herself out of a job because if she wants a fight, I’m her girl, and she should know better than to bring a fucking tweet to a gun fight.”
“You don’t want beef with this chick. It’ll only turn the tide against you.”
“Why? Because I’m white? Because everyone’s looking for a reason to turn against me anyway since I’m with you? Like the tide wasn’t already against me.”
“We’re in the twenty-first century, and nobody should still hold these views, but it’s just a few, Bris. They are just the vocal ones. I know it’s hard. It’s hard for me, too.”
“I’m so sorry I’m making life hard for you, Grip.”
“Stop it.” Anger flares in my words. “We’re not doing this. Us fighting won’t make things any better.”
“No, what will make things better is teaching Angie Black that I’m not the bitch to mess with. She’s firing shots? I’m firing back.”