10. Kiana

10

KIANA

"What do you think?" I ask once Tyson's had his first bite of food.

His face remains as solemn as ever while he chews, giving no real reaction either way. The thick knot in his throat bobs up, then down as he swallows. A second passes and then…

"Spicy," he coughs, bringing a curled hand up to his mouth.

I laugh despite myself. He reaches for the bottled water I've offered him from my fridge, draining half of it 'til the plastic's crinkling.

"It's not that bad!" I say once my laughter's died down. "You're just weak."

He chugs more water, patches of red tinging his neck and ears. "I've been called a lot of things in my twenty-nine years. Weak has never been one of them."

"Probably has something to do with you being able to crush them like a bug." I shrug as I scoop up another spoonful of the parihuela we've ordered, a spicy seafood stew that's become a favorite of mine. "But… I don't know. I guess I just assumed a big guy like you would have a stronger spice tolerance."

"More like… I've got the spice tolerance of the average White guy."

I'm the one choking this time. The parihuela slips down the wrong pipe and the peppers and spices in the stew tickle my throat. I sputter so hard, my hand flies to my chest to calm myself down. But between these coughs comes my laughter as I eye Tyson from across the kitchen counter where we're seated.

"I was…" I wheeze. "I was not expecting that out of you."

He shrugs his broad, rock-like shoulders. "It's the truth. I'm fine with salt and pepper seasoning."

"Oh no. We've got to broaden those horizons, Goliath. Any bodyguard of mine has got to be able to take a three at least at most Thai and Indian spots."

"That might be difficult considering I've never eaten either."

My jaw drops open. "You don't like Thai or Indian?"

"Didn't say I don't like them," he answers. "Said I've never had them."

"What do you eat?"

"Grilled chicken. Potatoes. Steak. Bread."

"Anything green? Or not previously alive?"

"I keep a very structured diet. For physique and performance purposes."

…and what a physique you have. You're the size of a damn mountain.

"We've got to get you trying some new things," I say. "When you come to England with me next week, we're hitting up some Indian restaurants. There are so many good ones in London."

"You can go there on your off time. I will be there accompanying you as part of my job."

"And you'll try some too!"

"Nothing in my job contract dictates I have to sample foods from around the world."

I fold my arms on the kitchen counter and roll my eyes. "Tommy and Hal forwarded me your resume. It seemed to show you're pretty well traveled."

"I am."

"Then? How have you been to so many countries but have never tried their cuisines? Weren't you deployed when you were in the military?"

"I was."

"And? What did you eat?"

"The chicken that was available. And bread. And MREs."

"What are?—"

"Meals ready to eat. Prepackaged meals that are about as good as canned food. It gets the job done when you're in the field."

"But yet you won't eat parihuela."

"I ate it. Then it made me cough up fire. So I won't be doing that again," he says, moving onto the beef empanadas we've ordered.

"You're different," I say, shaking my head. "Anybody ever tell you that?"

"I was five-ten before I even reached high school. I've heard it many times."

"Do you come from a tall family?" I've forgotten about my food, more interested in hearing more from the man I've been spending a large amount of time with over the last few days. "My family's short. It's no wonder me and A are."

"We're all pretty tall. My mother's six feet."

I whistle. "The things I could do if I was that tall. I'd model."

"You model now, don't you? What were all those photoshoots today?"

"As a singer. But it's not the same as high fashion modeling. Do you have any siblings? Sisters? Brothers? Younger? Older? Don't tell me. You have older sibling energy written all over you."

Tyson's tense at any given time. At my question, the tension in his broad body increases. I sense it from where I'm seated as his shoulders straighten and go stiff. His fist tightens around the fork he's gripping and his expression shifts.

For a quick second, torment flickers in and out on his features.

"Younger brother," he says. "His name was Jax."

Was? Oh no…

A moment of uncertainty passes between us, where his mind is elsewhere and I feel like an insensitive idiot for probing.

I'm piecing together how I can possibly fix putting my foot in my mouth when he does it for me. He redirects the conversation back onto my family.

"You and Amari are twins."

"Fraternal."

"You can tell you're related. Sisters."

"We did share a womb."

"And now you work together," he says.

"She's very talented. One of the best designers in the business. There's a reason I'm always topping fashion lists. And, listen, about your brother… I'm sorry. I didn't know or else I wouldn't have asked."

"It's fine. I prefer not to talk about it right now. It wasn't that long ago that it happened."

"Understandable." We fall into another silent spell where he eats the rest of the beef empanada he's started on, and I realize I've lost my appetite. Though a craving for something else has slowly come up. "Would you like a drink?"

"What'd you got?"

"Don't get too excited. I have wine and more wine."

He grunts out a sound that sounds similar to a laugh. "I don't find that surprising."

I'm not sure I can explain what's up with me tonight. I'm not even sure why I invited Tyson over for dinner in the first place—I was exhausted by the end of the extensive schedule and had looked at him seated by me in the back of the limousine. My heart fluttered as if I were nervous, but really, thoughts about the day were filling my head.

He'd stuck up for me where I hadn't even stuck up for myself.

And when everyone thought the crackling noises were gunfire, he'd pulled me down with no hesitation.

After how I've been treated as of late, especially by Shawn, it's nice.

It actually makes me feel special.

I pour two glasses of red wine and carry both over to where we're seated at the opposite kitchen counter. My phone goes off from where it's set down next to my plate of food.

"That's Tommy."

Tyson grunts. "Probably calling to tell you he wants me gone. He's pissed about the stunt at the Jamz interview."

I slide onto my barstool and scoff. "Tommy was the one who set up today's schedule. He's been working me nonstop for months now. He promised I'd get the summer off, then he and the label decided to move up my album release and the tour. Which means now I won't be getting any time off 'til next year."

"You're their moneymaker."

A sigh leaves me as I let Tommy's call go to voice mail. "It would be nice to be an indie artist. But I'm too big. Too much of a machine. My whole brand is controlled by him and the label."

Tyson grunts again. "He doesn't have your best interest in mind. Your brand? Sure. But you?"

I can't even refute his claim.

It's true.

I've always been aware of it. In the beginning, it never bothered me. I was so hungry for success, it was a sacrifice I was willing to make.

Several years and albums into my career, I'm on the verge of exhaustion…

"Thanks for what you did today, by the way," I say. "Standing up for me. Making sure I got a moment to eat. And ending the interview."

Tyson nods, taking his first sip of the red wine. "The new album you're promoting. It's really about the ex?"

"Unfortunately. I wrote it back when I was in love. Back when I was convinced we'd get married. Now I'm forced to release it. I'm sure it'll be a huge ego boost for Shawn."

"He'll get what's coming to him. They always do."

I smirk at him, bringing my own wine glass to my lips. "You're a great listener, did you know that?"

"Probably has to do with the fact that I don't talk much."

I laugh. "No, seriously… you are. I might've been wrong about you."

"Does that mean now you'll cooperate with your security detail?"

"Maybe," I say with another laugh.

He shakes his head at me like he can't believe I'm serious. But I've begun learning how to read him and I can tell he's just as engaged as I am in this conversation.

"Tomorrow," he says. "We leave for practice early. You gonna be on time?"

I sigh. "I'll set my alarm now so you'll believe me."

Picking up my phone to do so, I gasp when I unlock my screen and glance at the slew of notifications that have come in over the last few minutes.

The call from Tommy was just one of them.

I tap on the text Amari's sent me with a link to an Instagram Reel. It plays as soon as it opens on my phone screen.

Shawn's seated at a table with other men on some podcast. The clip starts right as one of the hosts asks Shawn a question.

"So you and your girl are no more, right?"

"For real?" says his co-host, shaking his head. "You mean you let fine-ass Kiana go?"

My stomach twinges watching the men chuckle like jocks in some locker room.

"I had to," Shawn replies after his laughter dies out. "It was time. Onto the next one."

"What was she like?"

"What was she like what?"

"Bro, you know," says the first host, and they break out into more laughs. "The sex game? What was she like?"

"Yeah, how freaky deaky was she? Scale of one to ten," cuts in the co-host.

Shawn grins then holds up his hand to signal just okay. The men bust up in even louder laughter.

"My new girl though, she's fire."

The clip ends and soon I'm left staring at the video still.

The video that has more than fifty thousand likes in the last hour. That's all over social media according to Amari. It's going viral everywhere.

I feel sick.

Tyson calls my name as I leap from the stool and rush off toward my bedroom.