Page 21 of Brown Sugar
“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 ofCosmopolitanmagazine.
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.”