Page 49 of Brown Sugar
I get up from bed late in the morning and make my way downstairs plagued by what to do next. Hal was the one who told me about the contract being eliminated and the fact that her old security guard—the same one the label had deemed not good enough—was being rehired.
“But what about the threat?” I’d growled on the phone.
“The threat is still there,” Hal had replied. “But Tommy and the label have decided Arnold can be trusted to take care of it.”
“Really? Because they fired Arnold not too long ago!”
“Bison, what do you want me to say? You’ve breached your contract by having personal relations. The label does not want any mess during this album rollout,” Hal explained. “Thebreakup with Shawn was sloppy enough. Their teams are in talks to get them back together for a reason.”
I scowled. “And I stand in the middle of that.”
“Precisely. Not a good look for a female singer to be boinking her bodyguard when she’s singing about being in love with another man. You get it, don’t you?”
“I get that nobody seems to be thinking of her safety and well-being except for me!”
“The bottom line is profit. It always is with these labels. Kiana must know that,” he said. “She chose Tommy as her manager for that reason.”
I had hung up with him pulsing with unresolved fury and frustration.
It really did seem like nobody was taking her well-being seriously. Nobody gave a fuck about her safety and the fact that the threat was still very much out there.
Tommy, the label, and the rest of her handlers were pressing on with the entire album and tour campaign. Kiana had practically been holding back tears when she returned to the hotel suite and told me how she had no choice.
She was beholden to the label.
She had to do what they said or else she was financially and legally in trouble.
The cruel assholes knew it was her dream. Music was her passion.
And they were dangling it in front of her like a carrot.
The coffee’s brewing and I’ve pulled out what I need to cook up a protein heavy breakfast when I take a break to check my phone. Bringing up the security app that’s linked to the camera system inside Kiana’s apartment, I do a quick check of the premises to see if she’s home.
Nothing.
“Clint,” I say after dialing him, “I need you to do me a favor.”
“I thought we were pausing the investigation into the threat against Kiana Baduza.”
“We’re pausing shit. If anything, now is the time to ramp up. I need you to look into the finances of Smash Records. Tommy Tocha included.”
“Last time it was Shawn Lassiter and I found nothing, Tyson?—”
“Which is why we’ll continue looking. Something is up with that label of hers. We’re gonna find out what.”
I hang up with him and prop open my laptop on the kitchen counter. My fingers are thick and long enough to make the keyboard seem smaller than it is. They pound away on the keys as I type up the info I need to, logging onto the source I use for radar mapping.
The purpose is to track the movement of various aircraft, but one of its most common uses in today’s celebrity-obsessed culture is to track private jets.
Seconds later, the page loads and shows me the latest details on the jet Kiana’s record label has her flying in. She’s en route to New York City.
That’s where she’ll be for the next three days before she’s flown back to Europe for another press run.
“Those pieces of shit are purposely keeping you on the move,” I mutter under my breath.
A pop up alert materializes on my screen to let me know new movement has been detected in her penthouse. I click on the box to bring up the surveillance footage.
It plays out before my eyes on the screen, boiling my blood at once. An intruder letting themselves inside her penthouse while she’s gone.