11. Tyson

11

TYSON

Kiana refuses to talk about the podcast segment the next morning. She's got huge sunglasses covering her eyes and her lips pressed together when I turn up. I barely get a muttered good morning before we're off to dance practice.

All attempts to make conversation fall flat.

She pretends she's scrolling on her phone and gives one word answers.

I back off, deciding she must not be ready to talk about what her jackass ex said about her on the podcast. Last night she'd been so thrown by the video that she'd retreated to her room. We spoke through the door when she asked me to leave, citing exhaustion.

Of course, I knew the real reason.

I didn't press her on it.

It had been another long day… and the lines had already been blurred with me staying over for dinner.

But it damn sure wasn't the end of the matter for me. From the moment I made it back to my house, I was listening to the rest of the podcast interview. I researched Shawn Lassiter and whatever I could dig up on him.

Most people—celebrity and public figures included—don't realize how massive their digital footprints are. They don't understand how remarkably easy it is to find information about them.

Everything's game. Anything you could want when digging up dirt.

Addresses. Phone numbers. Financial records.

Private communications like emails and text messages.

It's all part of being in the security field. I'm able to have this info on Kiana's ex within minutes.

But while he's a piece of shit for cheating on her, I'm more concerned with searching for other patterns.

I stayed up until four a.m. trying to sort it out. Then woke up three hours later to escort Kiana to dance practice.

As she does her thing on the dance floor with her dancers—gyrating and executing complicated footwork—I stand post with my arms crossed over my chest. These routines where she dances intimately with other men are part of her job.

On a rational level, I get it.

On a more primal, territorial level, it's impossible for me to accept.

Probably because I'm a man myself and I see how other men look at her. For Kiana it might just be innocent and even nonsexual, but for the guy who's crotch she's gyrating on, I pick up on all the signs.

He's attracted to her. He'd love nothing more than to weasel his way into her?—

"Tyson? Tyson? Hello!"

I snap out of my prolonged glare and angry, internal tangent and glance over to Amari. Kiana's twin resembles her almost perfectly, except for the shorter pixie hair and birthmark she has on her chin. She stands before me now as her sister starts the routine from the top for the fiftieth time.

"Yeah?" I answer. "What is it?"

"There's something Tai and I think you should see."

I check on Kiana one last time before I follow Amari out of the dance studio into the lounge room where her team's hanging out until the next event on the calendar. Amari points out a brown box that's sitting on a stool.

"It arrived a few minutes ago from the local postman."

"And that's of relevance because…?"

"It's addressed to K," she explains, frowning. "And it's from… look for yourself."

I step forward to assess the package. The label slapped onto the front is handwritten in sloppy letters that almost seem intentionally juvenile.

To: Superstar Kiana

From: Your Biggest Fan

My jaw clenches as I brandish my pocket knife and then slash into the package. The flaps of the box fall aside to allow me to see the contents. Bits of white dust rise up into the air. I take a wide step back and bark over my shoulder, "Everybody get out of the room. There's some kind of substance in this box."

It takes another few minutes before I've donned proper gloves and a mask to examine what's been sent in the package. It's largely empty except for stuffing and a letter to Kiana that promises she'll get what's coming to her.

The letter's not handwritten like the label on the package. It's been pieced together using cutout letters from various magazines and newspapers.

I snap a photo of the letter for evidence purposes and then slide it into a laminated sleeve so I can send it off to Clint for deep analysis.

Kiana's still in practice when I return, none the wiser to the latest threat waged against her.

"Princess," I call out. "We need to talk."

She's glistening with sweat in a way only she can make look attractive. She nods, breathless as she glances at her dancers and they confirm a fifteen-minute break. I pull her outside to ensure we have privacy and then I tell her what's happened.

Her brows push together, worry in her brown eyes. "He sent me a package?"

"And this letter. He used cutouts from magazines."

"You'll get what's coming to you? See you soon?" Her hands come up to her mouth and she peers up at me like she's hoping I'll tell her it's a joke. "What does that mean?"

"Look, whoever he is, he's getting nowhere near you. I'll make sure of it, even if I have to follow you every damn second of every damn day. I'm not letting him do anything to you. He'll have to go through me first. Understand?"

The words rumble out of me in a throaty growl that sounds harsher and more intimidating than I meant for it to. But the bastard after her truly enrages me to my core. I see the worry on her face and all I want to do is break his.

Kiana gives a nod, shifting even closer toward me. The muscles in my arms twitch, so damn tempted to reach for her. I settle on a compromise, grabbing her by the shoulder and giving it a delicate squeeze.

"Princess, you alright? You trust me, right?"

Her expression eases slightly. "I do. I'm not sure how I'd handle all this without you."

"You eat yet? Want to grab something from that food truck over there?" I jut my chin at the Turkish food truck not far off, selling kebabs and other savory meats and sides.

"Did you hear my stomach rumbling?" She laughs. "I danced my ass off the past hour and a half."

"Then you deserve it. C'mon."

The day of Kiana's big trip to England arrives with me and the rest of the security team trying to ensure we've ramped up security measures. Clint has done his best to identify where the package and letter came from, but we're still without leads. We have concluded the powdered substance in the box was a poisonous toxin intended to hurt Kiana.

It drives home the point more than ever that we've got to cover all bases on this trip.

We leave an hour after dawn for the eleven hour flight. Because I spent another late night investigating the threat against Kiana, I'm already exhausted.

Within minutes of takeoff, my eyelids are heavy. Normally, I wouldn't let myself doze off while traveling with an asset, but considering Kiana's record label paid for a private jet, I make an exception.

The wheels are touching the ground the next time I open my eyes.

The first event on the schedule is a photoshoot for British Vogue, where Kiana's done up in so many high fashion costumes, I lose count.

We move on from the photoshoot to a luncheon with the British branch of her label, where she meets with execs and other high-ranking members to discuss the overseas launch of her upcoming album and tour.

Everybody's in damage control mode.

Shawn's appearance on the Fresh to Death podcast has gone viral, garnering millions of views over the past few days, prompting a huge online conversation even among famous bloggers like Messy Mandy.

Kiana's diehard stans are all over the internet and social media defending her. But her asshole of an ex has got his fanbase too—along with other dickish men from across the web—who are laughing and reveling in the conversation.

Her label concludes it's a classic case of all press is good press. They urge her to play into the drama by insinuating she's found a new lover.

The album is, in fact, not about Shawn.

"It'll generate even more buzz," says one female exec, her eyes shiny. "All the speculation will mean record-breaking sales!"

By the time we head out from the luncheon, Kiana seems even more depleted and tight-lipped.

Her schedule's once again too jam-packed for conversation. She's carted off to another promotional event, where she's stuck in sit-down interview after sit-down interview to discuss her upcoming project.

I grit my teeth as I linger in the background, my arms banded across my chest.

This job has reminded me why I hate working inside the industry. It's a whole other universe from the rest of the world. A universe where young starlets like Kiana are worked to the bone hour after hour, day after day 'til they're running on fumes.

Somebody's got to look out for the girl.

I make up my mind. Tonight, after she's done, I'm going to take her out for a night on the town.

Risky considering her celebrity—she's even recognizable overseas—but I've been to London enough times that I know of a few spots we could go.

"Hal, didn't I tell you not to call me with bullshit?" I snap when my phone rings.

"Wrong guy, Tyson," chuckles Clint. "I was calling with some more updates about the situation. We've been able to track Rashad to somebody… or an entity."

"An entity? Like a company?"

"An LLC of some type," Clint says. "But here's the thing. I can't trace it to a name."

"All LLCs can be traced."

"Not this one. The payment was made to Rashad for ten grand. It came from an LLC called Bass."

"Bass?" I repeat. "What kind of name is that? Who's it registered under?"

"No public association with anybody as far as I can tell."

"Keep looking."

"Will do. Not sure how much luck I'll have."

I think on it a second longer, waiting for Kiana to wrap up with her interview. "Look into Shawn Lassiter. See if he's started any LLCs or any kind of businesses."

"I already looked into his background. I couldn't find much."

"His business dealings, Clint," I say firmly. "Anything he's been involved in. She's the bigger celebrity name. He seems resentful of her in some capacity. Now he's trying to humiliate her on that podcast. All the signs are there."

We hang up from our call with a new path forward.

I pocket my phone and scan the area.

The interview has finished and the set's already emptying. The interviewer's walked off with her assistant while the crew is fiddling with their equipment.

Kiana is nowhere in sight.

Where the hell did she go?

I head in the direction that leads to the dressing room the studio gave her. The door hangs open, revealing her styling team inside. They're in the middle of chitchatting about meaningless celebrity garbage like who's dating who and some starlet that's checked into rehab.

"Where is she?" I ask.

Tai, her makeup artist, frowns at me. "Kiana? Isn't she with you? You escorted her to set. We were waiting for you to get back…"

My pulse immediately accelerates as I'm met with more blank, clueless stares.

I whip around and set off at a fast stride, scanning every inch of the place for any sign of her.

She wouldn't wander off alone. She wouldn't leave when she knows she's supposed to be accompanied by security at all times. Did one of the crew intercept her? One of the managers from the British branch of the label?

My mind's full of a dozen different possibilities as I scour the studio.

I'm back where I was, coming up on the TV set where Kiana's interview had been conducted. The interviewer's still hovering around in the middle of chatting with her assistant. I don't give a shit about interrupting.

"Kiana!" I yell at the woman. "Where is she?"

She eyes me like she's offended by my gruff tone, then says, "Kiana said she had somewhere to be. She walked out the side door there."

"What?!" I bark, my temper snapping free. "Fuck!"

I break out into a run, grabbing my phone to call up the rest of the security team.

What the hell would possess her to wander off by herself?