Page 25 of Brown Sugar
“If you even have a job left by tomorrow. He is livid.”
“I did my job. I protected the asset.”
“But the interview?—”
“I did my job,” I repeat. “I protected the asset.”
“Bison, my friend, you might not get Tommy like I do. He will stop at nothing to get what he wants. How do you think he wound up with a client like Kiana in the first place?” Hal asks. “He swept her right out from under me.”
“I’m confused why you think I give a damn about what you or Tommy Tocha have to say,” I grumble. “Don’t fucking call me with bullshit like this again.”
I hang up on Hal, pocketing my phone and turning toward Kiana’s door. The doorknob has been left unlocked. I step inside the spacious penthouse expecting her to be dressed in the same outfit from the last event with Jamz.
Instead, she’s changed. The wavy, honey brown wig is gone. Her real hair let out from the cornrows it was braided into. The sparkling dress has been shed. In its place is a similar outfit to the one she’d worn in recent times—a crop top and cotton shorts that sit distractingly on her hourglass-shaped hips.
“There you are,” she says. “I’m about to order the food.”
Stay professional, asshole. This is a job. She is your asset.
But as I give a nod, I’ve never been more certain that I’m fighting a losing battle.
10
KIANA
“What do you think?” I ask once Tyson’s had his first bite of food.
His face remains as solemn as ever while he chews, giving no real reaction either way. The thick knot in his throat bobs up, then down as he swallows. A second passes and then…
“Spicy,” he coughs, bringing a curled hand up to his mouth.
I laugh despite myself. He reaches for the bottled water I’ve offered him from my fridge, draining half of it ’til the plastic’s crinkling.
“It’s not that bad!” I say once my laughter’s died down. “You’re just weak.”
He chugs more water, patches of red tinging his neck and ears. “I’ve been called a lot of things in my twenty-nine years. Weak has never been one of them.”
“Probably has something to do with you being able to crush them like a bug.” I shrug as I scoop up another spoonful of the parihuela we’ve ordered, a spicy seafood stew that’s become a favorite of mine. “But… I don’t know. I guess I just assumed a big guy like you would have a stronger spice tolerance.”
“More like… I’ve got the spice tolerance of the average White guy.”
I’m the one choking this time. The parihuela slips down the wrong pipe and the peppers and spices in the stew tickle my throat. I sputter so hard, my hand flies to my chest to calm myself down. But between these coughs comes my laughter as I eye Tyson from across the kitchen counter where we’re seated.
“I was…” I wheeze. “I was not expecting that out of you.”
He shrugs his broad, rock-like shoulders. “It’s the truth. I’m fine with salt and pepper seasoning.”
“Oh no. We’ve got to broaden those horizons, Goliath. Any bodyguard of mine has got to be able to take a three at least at most Thai and Indian spots.”
“That might be difficult considering I’ve never eaten either.”
My jaw drops open. “You don’t like Thai or Indian?”
“Didn’t say I don’t like them,” he answers. “Said I’ve never had them.”
“Whatdoyou eat?”
“Grilled chicken. Potatoes. Steak. Bread.”