Page 17 of Brown Sugar
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.Withoutbail,” 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.