Page 15 of Brown Sugar
“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? Iama 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.