17. Kiana

17

KIANA

"Kiana, you have to get out of bed," Monica says. "We have to start your styling."

I moan and roll over, covering myself with the bedsheet.

Monica sighs and turns to Link. "Do something. We're already running behind schedule."

"Kiana, babes, we need you to cooperate. C'mon, up and at 'em."

Together, my team succeeds in coaxing me out from under my bedsheet. They surround me and set to work, dolling me up for the reshoot I have this morning. We're doing more shots for the album and then I'll be moving onto tour practice.

More moving through the motions.

More moments of my life that pass before my eyes without any real meaning.

No one seems to understand what I mean when I say I'm exhausted. I'm burned out and checked out. Completely over everything that's going on.

I sit like a doll as Tai, Monica, and Link braid my hair in cornrows and then slip on a bright pink wig that pops against my brown skin. I'm zipped into a sparkly, fringe dress that stops at mid-thigh and then slipped into the usual heels that pinch my toes.

I'm supposed to be fun and bubbly for the photos.

I'm supposed to pretend I'm in love.

But how can I when it's Shawn who the album was written for?

How do they expect me to lie when the man who's really on my mind is no longer allowed to be a part of my life?

"Kiana, these poses aren't landing," the photographer says, sighing. He clicks away as I stand in front of a green screen and pretend I'm on a balcony overlooking a garden. "Can someone do something about this hair? The pink doesn't work!"

I'm pulled aside for my wig to be swapped out. The bubble gum pink goes goodbye for a burgundy red that's pin straight and down my back. I'm nudged back in front of the screen, expected to take up my mark again.

The problem is, my thoughts are elsewhere. My expression's vacant. I barely remember to pose for the camera as he resumes his clicking away.

I'm thinking about how I'm going to survive these next nine months. I'll be stuck promoting this album about Shawn as he gives podcast interviews about our sex life and goes home every night to the woman he cheated on me with. I'll be on the road for months performing in cities all over the road, putting on elaborate dance routines, straining my voice to hit notes for adoring fans that won't know what's going on behind the scenes.

All of it sounds like slow torture.

Then I think about the thirty-six hours I'd had in London with Tyson and my heart aches.

The photoshoot ends early with the photographer insisting he and the creative art director will figure something out from the shots they already have.

Tai and the others bring me into the dressing room to strip off the costume and help me into my workout clothes. I'm about to roll straight into three hours of intense dance practice.

Arnold shows up late, breadcrumbs at the corner of his lips as he announces he'll escort me to the dance studio. Whereas Tyson was like a hawk, always on top of the situation, providing a natural sense of protectiveness, Arnold is the opposite.

He barely seems to have his finger on the pulse.

I'd almost feel safer on my own, following him out to the car.

I sit in the backseat with ear pods in and my songbook flush in my lap.

The tall buildings of New York City whiz by in the car windows. A thousand people wander the streets, each one on their own journey for the day.

I glance down wondering about what Tyson's journey looks like now that we've been separated.

Images appear in my mind of him at the secluded home he'd described. I imagine myself there with him, hiding away from the world like we were in London. The times we shared together were amazing. They were passionate and fun. I truly felt free .

The pen in my hand scribbles on its own…

Sweet as brown sugar

Smooth as honey

Taste my flavor, feel my love…

I'm singing under my breath, jotting down the lyrics. The melody comes to me with each word, the creativity flowing from me for the first time in weeks…

I'm so tuned into the moment that I'm hardly paying attention to the bustling cityscape around me. Arnold's doing some of his own singing—he's turned up the radio and sings along to some hard rock song he loves from the '80s.

The car that rams into us seemingly comes out of nowhere.

We have the green light as we're crossing through the intersection when a truck speeds past their red light and clips the back half of the car. The songbook flies out of my lap. The same happens to the pen between my fingers. I scream as I'm whipped back and forth from the force of the collision.

"Crap!" Arnold fumbles with the wheel to course correct in the middle of the crowded intersection.

Tires screech. Horns honk. Rubber burns and my heart leaps into my throat. The scenery around me spins into distorted shapes and colors I can hardly recognize.

It feels like we're whirling around for seconds on end 'til finally we crash onto a nearby sidewalk and the car jerks to a sudden halt.

I've snapped forward against the seatbelt, half out of my seat. I'm unable to process what just happened. As I try to push myself back up into the rest of my seat, it feels like my brain's been rattled inside my skull. My back and neck are aching and I've lost my voice.

Arnold's not much better off. He's face-planted against the steering wheel. Blood trickles down the side of his face.

Another scream tears from my throat.

People have gathered around the car. Onlookers horrified from the collision they just witnessed. I'm a shaky mess as I claw at the door handles and push open the dented in door on my side. A man with headphones around his neck and a basketball jersey reaches for me.

"Miss, are you okay?" he asks. "That was a crazy crash!"

"My driver… he's… my driver needs help!"

"We've called 911," pipes up a woman from the man's side. Her eyes fill with worry. "You're all bruised."

I can feel it—my neck is throbbing from where the seatbelt caught against me and I'm certain I must have a lump on my forehead from how I'd fallen half out of my seat.

But that hardly compares to Arnold, who's slumped over the wheel…

"That guy came out of nowhere," the man with the headphones says. "He straight up ran that red light and smashed right into you guys."

"And then kept going," the woman says, shaking her head. "There's nothing worse than hit-and-run drivers."

I've tuned them out. I'm barely able to swallow as the swelling in my throat thickens and the immediate realization I've narrowly escaped another dangerous situation sinks in.

It could've been an accident. It could've just been some random hit-and-run like the man with the headphones and the woman claim.

Or it could be something else.

The most troubling possibility of all.

This was on purpose…

"Kiana, what am I going to do with you?" Tommy sighs. They're his first words as he shows up to the ER where I'm being checked out.

Because I'm a high profile patient, I've been ushered through the special VIP ward of the hospital, where there's more discretion and fewer prying eyes. He enters the room to find me seated on the exam table, as shell-shocked as I was at the scene of the crash.

He clicks his tongue and shakes his head side to side, sunglasses hiding his eyes. "You've got the worst luck in the world. How just a simple trip to the dance studio turned into this . And Arnold…"

"How is he?" I murmur, my voice hoarse. "Is he okay?"

Tommy swats a hand. "He'll be fine."

"He wasn't fine. He was bleeding and unconscious!"

"Sweetheart, how about you worry your pretty little head about what's important? Your tour practice?—"

"I'm in no shape for tour practice!"

"Will you let me finish? Sheesh!" He yanks off his sunglasses for a stern glare. "You've got the rest of today and tomorrow to recover. Then we have to look at picking up practice again. This tight of a schedule, we don't have any more room to slide. That's just the way things are."

I'm hollow, listening to Tommy go on and on about how inflexible the schedule is. Like I should be happy and consider myself fortunate I'm being given an extra day and a half because of how tight the schedule is.

It'll never end. It'll never stop with him. Nothing will ever be enough…

I'm not a person in his eyes. I'm a commodity. A product to be sold to the masses.

As he rambles on about how he'll be hiring new security and they've offered Shawn a new PR relationship contract, I realize what I have to do.

I can't last another second like this. I can't keep giving up control, no matter what consequences I'll face.

"Anyway, darling, you sit tight," Tommy says. He pushes his sunglasses back onto his face and pulls at the lapels of his velvet suit. "I'm going to go check with the nurses if it's alright for you to head out."

I give a nod of my head to signal I understand and then wait for him to leave the exam room.

The second I'm certain the coast is clear, I'm climbing down from the exam table and yanking on my clothes. My neck isn't the only part of me banged up, my knee sustained some bruising too, which has turned my walk into a slight limp.

I make my escape as quickly as I can given my injuries.

No one sees a thing. I slip out of a side door that leads into one of the hospital's courtyards, and then I make my way off the premises.

Once I reach the streets, I raise my arm up in the air and hail a taxi.

"Where to, sweetheart?" the taxi driver asks, hardly looking up in the rearview.

"The airport."