1. Kiana

1

KIANA

"Are you listening, K? Kiana? Kiana !"

I'm busy smirking at my phone 'til Amari snatches it out of my hands. I look up at her as if I'm just now aware of her presence and we haven't been stuck in the back of this limo together for the last forty-five minutes.

"What the hell, A? I was reading that!"

"You mean the selfie you've been staring at since we left LAX? Baby girl, please. At least make sure I'm not sitting right next to you when you lie."

"What else am I supposed to do? It's been almost an hour and we've moved, like, twenty feet."

Amari's round features clench into a scowl. She turns her head forward and taps at the glass partition that separates us from the driver. When it rolls down, she scooches closer. "Hi, Amari Baduza, stylist and twin sister of R&B sensation Kiana. Remember me?"

The driver blinks at us in the rearview mirror as if questioning whether she's joking. "Yes… considering I picked you up from the airport myself."

"Cool story, but see… here's the thing. I'm not sure you get it . R&B megastar Kiana has sold more than ten million albums."

The driver blinks some more. "I'm aware she's a best-selling artist."

"Are you though?" Amari asks, tilting her head to the side, her tone snippy. "'Cuz I'm thinking if you were, you'd find us a way around this horrendous LA traffic?—"

"Amari," I laugh nervously. Then I flash an apologetic smile to the driver. "I'm sorry, you can ignore her. She gets a little cranky when she hasn't had her afternoon snack and nap. It's been that way since she was three."

I'm on the receiving end of Amari's glare all over again. She's forgotten about pestering the chauffeur and refocused her attention entirely on me.

"Oh, so we're pulling the big sister card, are we?"

"I am your bigger sister. Don't look at me like that—those two minutes count! And why not pull that card? You pulled the ‘stylist of R&B sensation' card!" I ask in return, settled against the limo's leather cushions.

Her eyes shrink to slits. "Wait 'til I tell Ma you were rude to me…"

"We'll be seventy and covered in wrinkles and your little behind will still be trying to snitch on me."

The tension breaks and we bust up in laughter at how true it is. The chauffeur seems more lost than ever as the limo fills up with our laughter, and he presses the button to raise the partition and cut us off.

Amari nudges my knee with hers. "Why did I agree to work for my twin again?"

"Because you love fashion, and I needed somebody who could style me."

"Which is why we need to hurry our asses up to this event, K—and not just any event, the Grammys, for which you're performing and nominated!"

"I already told you my mind's made up."

"But it's out of the way."

I fold my arms. "Don't care."

"You'll see him later tonight."

"Not soon enough."

Amari's nose scrunches up. "This is about getting that itch scratched, isn't it? The both of you are nasties."

"We do what grown folks do."

"Don't need to know what you two get up to." Amari makes a retching noise that only makes me roll my eyes and smile.

I snatch my phone back and return to staring at the photo of mine , like I had been doing before I was interrupted.

Amari and everyone else might be obsessing over the fact that it's Grammys weekend. I'm nominated for seven Grammys—including Best R&B Album and Album of the Year—but I'm more focused on what else is this weekend.

Tomorrow marks four years with Shawn.

My heart flutters just at the thought. We grew up in the same city and both happened to find fame and fortune on our own. Shawn through his NBA career. Me at the age of sixteen when I was signed to Smash Records. We reconnected years later at an industry party and have been deeply in love ever since.

I promised when I flew into LA, I'd come through his hotel and spend a few hours with him. He's got a game tonight while I have the Grammys. But because his hotel is further out in the city, we've been stuck navigating LA's afternoon traffic.

Being late to practice and my costume fitting doesn't matter to me so long as I get to wrap my arms around Shawn even for a few minutes…

It takes us another half hour to make it to Shawn's hotel. My finger hovers over his name on my contact list as I debate whether to call him and let him know I've arrived. I smile, deciding against it.

The surprise will make the situation even more special.

Amari calls after me as I rush from the limo and leave her and my security behind. A habit my manager, Tommy, hates . He says it's dangerous since I'm as famous as I am. I say it's my life and I'll do what I want, when I want.

…even if ninety percent of the time I end up having to listen to him and my label.

As I jog up the carpeted front path leading into the Prism Hotel, several passersby recognize me. A few scream out my name while others fumble for their phones to take a picture. Used to being recognized just about everywhere I go, I don't miss a beat. I spin through the revolving glass door leading into the hotel and approach the front desk.

The clerk gapes at me, completely starstruck, as I ask for the room NBA player Shawn Lassiter is staying in. In the elevator, I can't stand still. I'm smiling ear to ear, bouncing on my feet. My eyes remain glued to the bright red digital numbers on the screen as the elevator takes me to the top floor.

The second the doors open, I'm hurrying into the hall.

Some would say I've been foolish focusing on my relationship with Shawn so much when I have a flourishing music career. Mom and Amari both warn me he's really the only man I've ever been in a serious relationship with, so I should take things slow. Be cautious and focus on my music.

But what they don't get is that Shawn is the source of a lot of my best-selling music. The love songs I've written and recorded would be nothing without Shawn serving as an inspiration. It's because I've fallen in love with him that I'm able to do what I do.

That I've had the success I have…

I come up on his room and tap my knuckles against the door.

On the other side, voices shout in competition with the blaring music. Someone announces room service must be at the door.

I almost laugh listening to the footsteps pad closer.

The door flings open, and I'm afforded a view into the living area of the hotel room. Sure enough, Shawn has some of his friends and entourage over. I don't recognize most of them, including the guy holding a drink who's answered the door.

But I'm not paying attention to anybody else in the room. I only have eyes for Shawn.

And the woman he's holding and kissing on.