16. Tyson

16

TYSON

ONE WEEK LATER…

I'm released from my contract as head bodyguard for Kiana. The label upholds their part of the bargain, paying me out for every cent I was owed for the nine months. Not because they're paying me for the work I've done. They're paying me to keep quiet.

Hush money.

I don't touch a red cent. It remains in my bank account as a reminder of what might've been a huge mistake.

Taking the job in the first place.

Though not for the reason I initially thought. I assumed accepting the job would be a bad idea because I hated the idea of working for a spoiled, entitled celebrity. The industry is soul-sucking, superficial, and more painful than being subjected to medieval torture.

All things that turned out to be true over the last few weeks.

But the real reason taking the job was a mistake was because of the blurred lines. Things quickly spun out of control, and I lost sight of what it meant to be a professional.

I let the human side of me win out. I became blinded by a beautiful woman and the way I started to feel about her…

I sigh and scrub both hands over my bearded face. I'm home in my secluded house far removed from the Los Angeles scene Kiana's so often a part of when she's in town. My only neighbors are the trees that surround my property and the occasional bird that tweets outside my window.

Up until a couple weeks ago, that's how I preferred it.

With Jax gone, I stopped seeing the use for much human contact.

In the days since I've returned from London, I've reverted back to that way of thinking—except my mind's still preoccupied. Thoughts of Kiana still rule me, inhabiting my brain in a constant reminder of what could be.

The two of us escaping the boxes we had found ourselves in.

Her fame and celebrity. My angst and solitude.

It was the most enjoyable thirty-six hours of my life.

And now it's over.

Her phone number's changed. She hasn't come home to her penthouse. Any real means of contacting her that I have has been removed.

I get up from bed late in the morning and make my way downstairs plagued by what to do next. Hal was the one who told me about the contract being eliminated and the fact that her old security guard—the same one the label had deemed not good enough—was being rehired.

"But what about the threat?" I'd growled on the phone.

"The threat is still there," Hal had replied. "But Tommy and the label have decided Arnold can be trusted to take care of it."

"Really? Because they fired Arnold not too long ago!"

"Bison, what do you want me to say? You've breached your contract by having personal relations. The label does not want any mess during this album rollout," Hal explained. "The breakup with Shawn was sloppy enough. Their teams are in talks to get them back together for a reason."

I scowled. "And I stand in the middle of that."

"Precisely. Not a good look for a female singer to be boinking her bodyguard when she's singing about being in love with another man. You get it, don't you?"

"I get that nobody seems to be thinking of her safety and well-being except for me!"

"The bottom line is profit. It always is with these labels. Kiana must know that," he said. "She chose Tommy as her manager for that reason."

I had hung up with him pulsing with unresolved fury and frustration.

It really did seem like nobody was taking her well-being seriously. Nobody gave a fuck about her safety and the fact that the threat was still very much out there.

Tommy, the label, and the rest of her handlers were pressing on with the entire album and tour campaign. Kiana had practically been holding back tears when she returned to the hotel suite and told me how she had no choice.

She was beholden to the label.

She had to do what they said or else she was financially and legally in trouble.

The cruel assholes knew it was her dream. Music was her passion.

And they were dangling it in front of her like a carrot.

The coffee's brewing and I've pulled out what I need to cook up a protein heavy breakfast when I take a break to check my phone. Bringing up the security app that's linked to the camera system inside Kiana's apartment, I do a quick check of the premises to see if she's home.

Nothing.

"Clint," I say after dialing him, "I need you to do me a favor."

"I thought we were pausing the investigation into the threat against Kiana Baduza."

"We're pausing shit. If anything, now is the time to ramp up. I need you to look into the finances of Smash Records. Tommy Tocha included."

"Last time it was Shawn Lassiter and I found nothing, Tyson?—"

"Which is why we'll continue looking. Something is up with that label of hers. We're gonna find out what."

I hang up with him and prop open my laptop on the kitchen counter. My fingers are thick and long enough to make the keyboard seem smaller than it is. They pound away on the keys as I type up the info I need to, logging onto the source I use for radar mapping.

The purpose is to track the movement of various aircraft, but one of its most common uses in today's celebrity-obsessed culture is to track private jets.

Seconds later, the page loads and shows me the latest details on the jet Kiana's record label has her flying in. She's en route to New York City.

That's where she'll be for the next three days before she's flown back to Europe for another press run.

"Those pieces of shit are purposely keeping you on the move," I mutter under my breath.

A pop up alert materializes on my screen to let me know new movement has been detected in her penthouse. I click on the box to bring up the surveillance footage.

It plays out before my eyes on the screen, boiling my blood at once. An intruder letting themselves inside her penthouse while she's gone.

I slam shut my laptop and snatch my keys off the counter.

I strap up, holstering an arsenal of weapons, then stride for my Hummer. I'm racing toward her penthouse within minutes.

As the perpetrator is still inside the penthouse, I'm coming down the hall ready to do what I must. Crack skulls. Lodge bullets in brains. Rip him limb from limb.

Whatever it takes to protect Kiana and her space.

Shawn's walking out of her bedroom when I appear in the living room area. I've got my usual enforcer mask on—my face steely and hard, my presence intimidating and dominant as I step into the hallway entrance, inevitably blocking his exit.

His shock is genuine. He comes to a faltering stop, then tries to hide what he's grabbed behind his back.

"Hey man, didn't realize somebody was?—"

"This is Ms. Baduza's private space," I interrupt. "You have no grounds to be here."

"I have a key."

"A key she's aware you have? Or a key you're not supposed to be using to access her penthouse?"

Shawn diverts his gaze, a telltale sign of dishonesty. "She gave it to me in the past. I was just dropping by to grab something."

I start toward him, extending my hand. "Give me what you've stolen."

"Man, I don't have to— UGH !"

Shawn groans as I jam the base of my palm into his throat and sweep my leg under him. He crashes down on the floor before he knows what hit him, and I've snatched the item right from his grip.

It's a tablet.

Kiana's tablet.

Shawn coughs, wrapping his hand around his throat. "What the fuck, man? You crazy ass. I'll call the cops!"

"Go ahead," I challenge. "Call the cops on me, Shawn. You're an NBA player in the penthouse of your ex-girlfriend who wants nothing to do with you. I'm a member of that ex- girlfriend's security team. Who do you think will be featured in the tabloids?"

Shawn scrambles to his feet, then rushes past me like I'm liable to charge at him at any moment. He's still touching his throat, like he's concerned I've caused real damage. He's right on both accounts—I do stalk after him and I might cause him real damage.

"Hey!" I call. "If I find out you're trying to hurt her, I will rip you apart. I will kill you."

His eyes widen in shock. "That tablet was a gift. I have every right to take it back?—"

"Get the fuck out of my sight," I say. "NOW! Before I crush you."

I've never seen a man flee as fast as Shawn Lassiter flees Kiana's penthouse. The piece of shit practically trips over himself making his getaway.

I wait 'til he's gone before glancing down at the tablet. Once again, I'm trying to piece together what the fuck is going on.

Just who is it that's really after Kiana?

I grab my phone and look up the number for the one person who might be willing to help. The one person who cares about Kiana's well-being like I do.

"Hello? It's Tyson Jeffries. Would you be open to meeting? I'm in your neighborhood."