Page 29 of Brown Sugar
All attempts to make conversation fall flat.
She pretends she’s scrolling on her phone and gives one word answers.
I back off, deciding she must not be ready to talk about what her jackass ex said about her on the podcast. Last night she’d been so thrown by the video that she’d retreated to her room. We spoke through the door when she asked me to leave, citing exhaustion.
Of course, I knew the real reason.
I didn’t press her on it.
Ithadbeen another long day… and the lines had already been blurred with me staying over for dinner.
But it damn sure wasn’t the end of the matter for me. From the moment I made it back to my house, I was listening to the rest of the podcast interview. I researched Shawn Lassiter and whatever I could dig up on him.
Most people—celebrity and public figures included—don’t realize how massive their digital footprints are. They don’t understand how remarkably easy it is to find information about them.
Everything’s game. Anything you could want when digging up dirt.
Addresses. Phone numbers. Financial records.
Private communications like emails and text messages.
It’s all part of being in the security field. I’m able to have this info on Kiana’s ex within minutes.
But while he’s a piece of shit for cheating on her, I’m more concerned with searching for other patterns.
I stayed up until four a.m. trying to sort it out. Then woke up three hours later to escort Kiana to dance practice.
As she does her thing on the dance floor with her dancers—gyrating and executing complicated footwork—I stand post with my arms crossed over my chest. These routines where she dances intimately with other men are part of her job.
On a rational level, I get it.
On a more primal, territorial level, it’s impossible for me to accept.
Probably because I’m a man myself and I see howothermen look at her. For Kiana it might just be innocent and even nonsexual, but for the guy who’s crotch she’s gyrating on, I pick up on all the signs.
He’s attracted to her. He’d love nothing more than to weasel his way into her?—
“Tyson? Tyson? Hello!”
I snap out of my prolonged glare and angry, internal tangent and glance over to Amari. Kiana’s twin resembles her almost perfectly, except for the shorter pixie hair and birthmark she has on her chin. She stands before me now as her sister starts the routine from the top for the fiftieth time.
“Yeah?” I answer. “What is it?”
“There’s something Tai and I think you should see.”
I check on Kiana one last time before I follow Amari out of the dance studio into the lounge room where her team’s hanging out until the next event on the calendar. Amari points out a brown box that’s sitting on a stool.
“It arrived a few minutes ago from the local postman.”
“And that’s of relevance because…?”
“It’s addressed to K,” she explains, frowning. “And it’s from… look for yourself.”
I step forward to assess the package. The label slapped onto the front is handwritten in sloppy letters that almost seem intentionally juvenile.
To: Superstar Kiana
From: Your Biggest Fan