7. Tyson

7

TYSON

The next morning, I show up on princess's doorstep, ready for my first official day as her head bodyguard.

But there's one problem.

The asset I'm supposed to be protecting isn't fucking home.

Her twin sister answers the door. Then cringes as if she knows there'll be hell to pay.

"Uh," Amari says, scratching her head. "K's actually not… uh, here right now."

My glare darkens. "Where?"

"The dance studio on Pike Street. But, wait, don't be mad!"

Too fucking late.

I'm already gone from the doorway by the time her sister utters the last syllable.

The doorman stationed at the front of the building tries to stop me so he can ask about my authority to be here. As I storm toward the revolving door, he doesn't get out of my path in time. My shoulder collides with his in a bad game of chicken.

It's no contest—he loses, stumbling back as I bulldoze past him.

There's no stopping me.

I'm on the warpath. Within seconds, I'm hitting the LA streets, racing toward Pike.

I pull up outside the dance studio with an aggressive slam of the brakes. People on the nearby sidewalk jump in alarm and stare at me like I'm a beast. I ignore every last one as I fling open the dance studio's doors and stride inside.

It's no mystery where Kiana is—I follow the heavy dance beats coming from down the hall.

A new wave of rage floods me when I make it to the studio room.

Kiana's in the center, in the middle of an intense dance routine. She's got on a crop top and leggings as she gyrates amid a group of male dancers. Her round ass bounces up and down against the front of the guy closest to her.

Some part of the routine where she's supposed to entice him.

She spins away from him as she steps in sync with the rest of her dancers, executing another complicated combination of moves.

She's a great dancer. Natural and fluid.

But the entire sight boils my blood. It makes my jaw clench hard. If I was pissed before, now I'm fucking livid, ready to raise hell.

I storm toward the group aware I look like a bull charging in for the kill.

She's returned to dancing with the same male dancer as he copies her steps, trailing after her as she leads him on.

I put an end to it in a single snatch of her wrist.

The other dancers leap back as my huge hand locks around her wrist and I yank her toward me in the middle of her next step.

Her almond-shaped eyes widen in surprise, her chest rising and falling from the heavy dancing.

The music cuts off and the dance studio's plunged into total silence.

Everybody's watching as I drag her away from the group of male dancers.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I grumble.

"Practicing." She wrenches her wrist from my grasp, releasing an indignant huff. "You know it's what I do, right? I am a performer. My world tour?—"

"I don't give a fuck if you're going on a tour of the fucking universe—you had clear instructions not to leave your apartment alone."

"This might surprise you, Goliath, but I'm a fully autonomous human, a whole grown-ass woman, capable of walking, talking, AND even making it to the dance studio on my own!"

"It's not about whether you can make it on your own! It's about risk mitigation!"

"You keep talking about all these risks… and yet I made it just fine all by myself."

"This time."

"I can't do this! Where's my phone? Someone bring me my phone!" she yells, spinning around to face the dancers.

The main guy she was gyrating on rushes toward a chair against the wall where her things are. He delivers her phone as if proud he's proving his use. By the way he eyes her—the way he so fucking happily let her rub up against him—he's hoping he's up next.

Now that she's broken up with her boyfriend, he's aware there's a window of opportunity.

"Thanks, Justin." She takes the phone, barely sparing him a glance, and begins texting.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm telling Tommy this… this thing is over. Sorry, Goliath, but you don't fit my—put me down!"

I've scooped her up in my arms, turning around like I'm carrying a five pound package and not a ‘whole grown-ass woman' like she'd called herself. The dancers watch in confused silence as I carry her out of the dance studio.

We make it all the way outside before I set her down.

She goes into attack mode, rushing at me with fists she pounds into my chest.

"Don't you ever fucking do that again!" she screams. "You work for me! I can fire you at any time! And you'll do what I say!"

Her anger's supposed to be intimidating. She's trying to put her foot down.

But I couldn't be less fazed by the public tantrum. A few people have taken notice, muttering among themselves about whether it's really Kiana they've spotted.

"Your phone's ringing."

She's so pissed, barking at me like a damn little chihuahua, she almost doesn't notice. She answers as angrily as she'd snapped at me.

"Tommy!" she says. "Yes, you read right! This has been a disaster from the first—what do you mean he's staying? I don't want him anymore! The label says what ?"

I fold my arms over my chest, watching the anger fade from her face. Shock and disbelief take its place, her jaw dropping open.

"That's not fair! I get a say in who my security—Tommy, this isn't over! I refuse to listen on this!"

The phone call cuts off. The dial tone hums from her phone, audible even though it's not on speaker. Her alluring brown eyes flick up to me as she lowers the phone from her ear. She's been stunned speechless.

I cock a brow, my lips almost spreading enough for a grin. "You through with your tantrum, princess?"

"I can't believe this is happening to me," she mutters under her breath. "The label's demanding you stay. The contract is ironclad."

"You're a valuable asset," I reply. "The label and your manager are protecting that valuable asset. A brand worth a billion, right? Like I tried to tell you, but it went right in and out of that little hard head of yours—there was a direct attempt made on your life, princess. This is no fucking laughing matter."

She closes her eyes like she's counting backward from ten. "Anyone else in the world…"

"You ready to head inside and finish that practice of yours or are you done? A crowd's gathering." I motion my head at the spectators that have slowly accumulated over the last minute or two.

She glances around as if seeing them for the first time, then sighs.

"Take me home. I'm done."

My large hand falls to the small of her back as I begin guiding her toward my Hummer. I can't resist giving her a hard time, teasing her after all the shit she's pulled. "What princess wants, princess gets."

"You got a sec, Tyson?" asks Clint. "I've got some new info you might want to hear."

"Shoot," I answer, getting up off my couch. I walk toward the window for a peek outside at my isolated neighborhood. Trees, trees, and more trees. "What'd you find out?"

"You already know all the basics. Name, Rashad Williams. Age twenty-two. Record since he was a juvenile that includes assault, armed robbery, illegal possession of a firearm?—"

"Then tell me what I don't know," I interrupt on an impatient note.

"It's what you suspected. Rashad was just the fall guy. The guy hired for the job."

I make a grunt noise, my glare narrowing as I peer out the window.

"We combed through his phone. Read all his private messages and tracked all his phone calls. He was paid five grand to take Kiana out."

"Who ordered the hit?"

…and why?

Clint sighs. "That's what we still don't know. We're looking into it."

"I want more info on the ex. Run him through the system."

"Shawn Lassiter? The NBA player?"

"I don't think I stuttered," I grind out. "Something's up there. The new girl he's with needs to be looked at too."

"Typical Tyson Jeffries," Clint laughs. "Nobody's safe from your suspicions."

"Damn straight. Somebody's after her. Could be somebody close."

"We'll do our best."

"And Williams? He's still in custody?"

"Locked up. Without bail," Clint answers proudly. "He's not going anywhere anytime soon. I'll keep you posted."

I hang up with my insider from the Los Angeles Police Department and then scrub a hand over my face. Thoughts race at a mile a minute through my head. All sorts of possibilities about what the fuck could be going on.

More often than not, in situations like these where a celebrity is being targeted, there's one of three culprits. The first being some kind of unsavory association with a person or group of people. Relations sour and retaliation is carried out.

The other possibility is a crazed fanatic of some kind—some mentally unstable person out there who has developed a fixation with the celebrity and copes in unhealthy, often violent ways.

The last, and possibly most common, is a person from the celebrity's inner circle seeking revenge. Usually out of bitterness, jealousy, or some other bridge burned between them. Spouses and romantic partners. Former friends and family members who have been excommunicated.

Kiana might believe those closest to her could never hurt her, but I'm not so sure…

I crash down on my sofa and pull up the surveillance app on my phone. I've had a top-of-the-line security system installed in Kiana's penthouse. Motion sensors, smart locks, internal cams. But one feature she's unaware of is how the cameras in her place are linked to my phone.

I can watch her any time I want.

At least from most spots in her apartment. The bathroom being the only real room without any camera.

Right now, as I pull up the app, she's wandering into the kitchen. Her curls are big and puffy like a dark cloud that frames her face. She's in nothing but a t-shirt and panties as she approaches the fridge and draws it open.

She bends, digging inside for a glass jar of pickles and a bottle of sparkling water.

A late evening snack as she shuts the fridge door with her hip.

Now that I've verified she's fine, I should close out of the app. I should stop watching. Nothing's going on but a mundane evening, home alone in her penthouse.

Instead, I find myself transfixed on my phone screen as she unscrews the top of the jar and bites into a dill pickle. She leans against the kitchen counter with her elbows propped up, her hips pushed back.

I'm a professional first. My job in the security world and duty as her bodyguard comes before anything.

But I'm still a human being. I'm still a fucking man.

My body temperature rises watching her. Blood gravitates toward my groin and my pants grow tighter.

I inhale a ragged breath, trying to keep myself in check. Keep myself grounded.

On my phone screen, Kiana's straightened up from the kitchen counter and strolls into the living room area of her penthouse. Her cloud of curls bounces along with every step. So does her round ass, the full cheeks peeking out from the pair of men's briefs she appears to be wearing.

Damnnn.

I grit my teeth, fighting off my arousal, aware it's a losing battle.

It's wrong. It's unprofessional. A violation of trust.

Before I know it, I've got a raging fucking hard-on that's not going away. It's expanding in my pants 'til it's a whole tent that demands attention.

Any willpower I've got left depletes from my body. I unzip my pants and pull out my hard dick, thoughts of one person and one person only on my mind.

The same woman on my screen. The same woman munching on a dill pickle as she wanders over to the huge window and peers out at the city streets.

A throaty grunt leaves me as I fist myself. My large hand encloses around my girth and slides up and down.

The reality playing out on the screen morphs into other racier thoughts.

Fantasies about what it would be like to be there with her. What it would be like to palm her fat ass in my bare hands and capture her full lips against mine.

I imagine her kissing me back. The soft pads of her fingertips reaching up to trace my jaw and stroke my beard. Her addictive gasps for air as I kiss the fuck out of her.

My mind goes to how wet she would get.

How I'd eventually sneak a hand into her panties and feel the moisture slicked along her pussy lips.

"Fuck," I grunt, fisting myself. My eyes clench shut as the pressure welled up inside me erupts. My hand runs up and down my dick 'til the dam bursts and I spill onto my pants.

The fantasy fades before my eyes in the same moment the intense pleasure does.

I come down from my masturbatory session and realize what the fuck I've done.

"Fuck," I repeat. This time in a different tone. Embarrassment? Disappointment? Shock I'd let myself be so damn pathetic?

Clarity has hit.

I exit out of the app as Kiana stretches her arms into the air and her t-shirt rises, showing off her toned bare stomach.

That has to be the only time.

That can never happen again.

This is a job and nothing more. It's got to stay that way.