8. Kiana

8

KIANA

I wake up to the most confusing text in the world.

A dick pic.

Shawn's dick pic.

I blink, then rub my eyes, trying to clear up my groggy sight. I've got to still be half asleep.

There's no way…

But when I look at my phone with fresh, wide-open eyes, I'm still seeing a dick on my screen.

It's arrived via text message from Shawn's number. The rest of the message reads:

morning bby

thinking of u

ready for tonight

My insides freeze into ice. I can only lay in bed like I've been encapsulated in a giant block of ice. Some glacier I'm trapped inside.

What the hell is this!?

Hot anger suddenly flames over me and melts the ice away. I go from frozen in place to furiously tapping at my phone, typing up a quick response to his message.

Wrong number Shawn.

shit… Kiki? sry

Maybe check the number you're texting next time.

its nothing u haven't seen before. chill.

"Chill?" I croak. "CHILL!? You cheated on me, you asshole!"

I shriek in frustration as I toss my phone across my king-sized bed. The audacity will never cease to surprise me. It's the realization that I spent four years with this man.

Four long years I was in love with him.

A part of me… still is.

Frustration bottles up inside me. I leap from my bed and march over to the balcony doors, wrenching them open to take in some fresh morning air.

I have no proof.

There's no way for me to ever know for sure.

But Shawn sent that dick pic on purpose. It was no accident.

He wanted me to see what I'm missing. He wanted to rub it in my face that he's moved onto to another woman.

Alexis.

I already knew they were fucking. Receiving a dick pic confirming as much is on another level.

"You need to move on," I mutter to myself. "He's not worth your time. Karma'll handle it. Hopefully."

My musings are interrupted by a knock at the front door.

I throw on a robe and go to answer.

"Ready?" Tyson asks as soon as I do.

My brows connect in a confused line. "For what?"

"Your pressers are today. I'm here to pick you up."

He speaks so damn matter-of-factly all the time. Just once I'd love some real human emotion.

All while he stands on my doorstep dressed in black.

A black crew neck shirt that's molded onto his huge, muscular torso and black pants that draw attention to how thick and powerful his thighs are.

He's towering over me, his eyes dark and impossible to read.

He's not my type—nor will he ever be, I quickly remind myself—but I'd be lying to say he doesn't look good today.

A sudden flush creeps over me as I step aside to allow him in and mumble, "Oh. Right. Gimme a minute."

"The daily schedule you were sent said leave the penthouse at seven a.m. That means being ready to go at seven a.m. Not a minute after," he points out.

I roll my eyes as I start for the hallway. "Sorry, Goliath. Some of us aren't as perfect as you. Some of us run a little late sometimes. Especially when…"

I trail off, catching myself.

Tyson presses me anyway, dogging a couple of my footsteps. "Especially when what?"

"It's nothing."

"You say that yet your inflection says differently. So does your body language."

"An expert, are you?"

"As a matter of fact," he says, "I am. Part of security is being able to assess threats. Part of being able to assess threats is learning human behavior and body language. People's tells. Signs they give."

"And what am I telling you right now?" I stop where I am, spinning around to face him with my arms out at my sides.

His gaze dips, his jaw pulling tighter. "Your robe…"

Shoot!

I glance down and spy that my robe's come half undone, revealing I've got nothing on underneath except my panties. Luckily, I catch the slipping fabric before a true wardrobe malfunction and a titty pops out. Clutching both ends of my robe together with a tight hand, I do my best to play it off.

"Um… thanks," I murmur. "But that's not what I meant."

"Your body language tells me you're upset by something. Likely something that just happened given by how preoccupied you seem."

Damn. On point.

"I received a dick pic," I sigh. "From my ex."

If Tyson feels some type of way about it, he doesn't show it— except for the subtle narrowing of his eyes. Otherwise, his face is steel.

Impenetrable and unaffected.

"I see," he says. "And why would he do that?"

"Because he's an ass and wanted me to know he's fucking the new girl. He claimed it was an accident."

"This ex, has he ever given you trouble in the past?"

I frown. "What kind of trouble?"

"Any kind of trouble. Has he ever exhibited concerning behavior? Ever been aggressive with you? Ever put his hands?—"

"Shawn never hit me," I interrupt right away. "Never. I wouldn't stay with a guy like that. But thanks for the vote of confidence. I'm the first one to call Shawn a dick, but if you're suspicious of him, don't be. This was about him rubbing our breakup in my face. Nothing more."

Tyson doesn't seem so convinced.

He merely raises a thick brow in silent judgment, then gestures toward the hallway.

"Are you going to get dressed? We're now six minutes behind schedule."

"Okay, okay. Patience is a virtue."

"So is being on time."

I turn to go with a roll of my eyes but then stop at what he says next.

"Princess?" he says. "Regardless of my suspicions, the guy's a jackass. He's not worth your time."

He's human after all.

I shoot him a small smile from over my shoulder. "First thing you've been right about since I met you, Goliath."

The rest of the day is hectic, and that's putting it lightly. I'm carted off from one media outlet and public engagement to another. I'm changed half a dozen times, stuffed into suffocating dresses that barely fit, and made to sit in the makeup chair to have my face done and redone to match each outfit.

I'm shoved in front of a camera for a photoshoot for the upcoming March edition of Cosmopolitan magazine.

Then I'm made to film a behind-the-scenes video where I sit down and show everyone what I typically carry in my bag.

As the director yells, "Action!" I put on a fake smile and launch into my rehearsed lines.

Everything's scripted. Everything's controlled.

Everything's so damn draining.

After the eighth interview and fifth outfit change of the day, I'm exhausted. My stomach's growling and my feet ache. Whenever I try to gravitate toward the craft services table, I'm intercepted by my team claiming there's no time.

Tyson's always around. He's either monitoring the area, making sure he's aware who comes in and out, or cutting in when someone unknown gets too close.

When my hair stylist pulls me away from the food table, Tyson steps in on my behalf. His large hand clamps down on the stylist's shoulder in warning.

"She needs to eat," he says. "You said at the last event she would get to. Then you herded her off to the dressing room instead. Let her get food."

And when I limp forward because the shoes I've been made to wear are two sizes too small, he objects too.

"Her feet are hurting. Change her shoes," he orders.

"These are the shoes that go with outfit number seven?—"

"I don't care if they're made of gold. Change them."

I collapse in the chair in my dressing room, simply grateful to have a plate of finger foods in my lap.

"Tyson, it's okay," I say. "I'm used to it. It's part of press tours."

"It's part of press tours for you to be starved and squeezed into painful shoes?"

…yes. Unfortunately.

"I've been doing it since I was seventeen. At least now I sort of get a say in what I wear."

He folds his arms over his broad chest. "Your entire life is controlled by your label."

"I'm my own person. I can… do whatever I want."

Sometimes. Once I run it by Tommy.

He eyes me skeptically. "It makes sense why you've been combative."

"Um, what?" I mumble through a mouthful of carrots and ranch. I move onto the tiny blocks of cheeses. Meanwhile, my hairstylist brushes out my hair, about to manipulate it into yet another style. "Are you doing what I think you are?"

"I said it makes sense. I understand the perspective now."

"You mean why you being one more thing trying to control me drives me crazy?" I ask.

"Yes," he answers. "But in this instance, it's for your safety."

"Not this again."

"We have reason to believe the man who opened fire at the Ice Lounge was hired."

I choke on my next bite of cheddar cheese. "Hired? By who!?"

"We're still figuring that part out. So, as you can see, princess, I'm not trying to control you. Not in the way your label and handlers are. I'm trying to protect you."

A warm feeling spreads inside of me.

I tear my gaze away from his, dropping to the plate in my lap.

Unable to bring myself to answer him, I'm grateful when I'm hauled off to my next activity.

A live interview on the rooftop of Jamz, one of the hugest music news outlets in the country. Fans gather on the streets below holding up signs with photos of me and slogans like, "We love you, Kiana!"

I walk toward the edge of the roof with my interviewer, Jewels, and wave down at the fans.

"Everybody loves you," Jewels says, smiling wide. She holds the microphone she's gripping toward me. "What do you have to say to your fans at home?"

I hit my mark, glancing up at the camera like rehearsed. "You know I love my fans even more than they love me. Thank you, thank you, thank you for the support! I can't wait for you to listen to this new album. It's my most personal yet."

"Excellent, we're all so excited," Jewels says. "Let's talk more about this album. Found is such an interesting title. What inspired you when naming this album?"

My heart twinges in my chest as I blink at the camera and fight to keep my smile on. The official answer is imprinted in my mind, but now that I'm being forced to market an album that was written about Shawn , I'm struggling.

I blink a few more times, my energy waning slightly. "Oh, you know, it's a love album. About finding that special someone for you. The completeness you feel when you do."

"I love it. Great concept." Jewels winks at the camera, her tone extra sugary. "And we're all aware of your amazing relationship with NBA superstar Shawn Lassiter. I'm guessing it's fair to say these love songs are written about him?"

…yes.

"Uh, well…" I stammer. A wave of lightheadedness comes over me. I try to blink out of it but end up searching the distance for help.

My team's on standby, watching with expressions that tell me this interview is a train wreck. It's being streamed and televised live and will likely go viral on social media.

And then there's Tyson, whose energy is as thick and irritated now as it was earlier when I'd been refused a chance to eat.

Get your act together, K.

"Yes," I croak finally, recovering. "Yeah, you know, Shawn and I have been together for years. But it's not just about my relationships. It's an album for everyone. Anyone who's… you know, found love."

"Beautiful. Simply beautiful."

"Cut!" the director yells. "Commercial."

"Thank God," Jewels says, dropping the microphone to her side. "Can we make sure she has her lines straight? The questions haven't changed."

Tyson's the first to come over to check on me. "You alright? You seemed to be fading the longer the interview went on."

"I'm just… it's been a long day…"

"Then maybe it needs to be cut short," he says. "You've been at this for ten hours."

"My manager?—"

"I'll handle him."

"This is my new album and tour," I snap, suddenly agitated. Suddenly moody and ready to take it out on him. "I'm not going to screw up the launch because the work days are long. Back off, Tyson."

His jaw clenches as if he's tempted to argue me on it more.

An eruption of crackling prevents him from doing so. The loud and abrasive sound drowns out everything else on the rooftop as everyone glances around and Tyson springs into action.

"Get down!"