by S. Ann Cole
Jahleel
by
S. Ann Cole
Jahleel
By S. Ann Cole
Copyright © S. Ann Cole 2014
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Cover by S. Ann Cole
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Author's Note
Acknowledgement
About The Author
Contact Ann
S. Ann Cole's Bookshelf
Dedication
For Jahleel and Tiffany…
…because it was never just ‘Jahleel’, or just ‘Tiffany’. It was always Jahleel and Tiffany, or Tiffany and Jahleel.
I love you both.
Chapter One
“You are such a strong, head-on woman, Kia. You are awesome.”
I heard that a lot.
Long before my parents made their unexpected exit out of my life, I used to hear those words. At seventeen, after they died, I heard those words even more. The same words voiced by so many people complimented me all my life.
And I used to agree.
Accepting the credits, I did believe I was strong, sensible, driven, mature, sensible (deliberately repeated) and functional. Because I was. Really. Truly. I was all of those things…
Until I met Jahleel Kingston.
Alright, I didn’t exactly ‘meet’ him. No, not ‘meet’, because he didn’t even notice me. What I should’ve said was: until I ‘saw’ Jahleel Kingston.
Yes, saw.
Just saw him.
Glimpsed him at first. Then tripped over my own feet aiming to draw closer for a clearer, unhindered view. Then I gawked at him. Then drooled. Then hyperventilated. Then I became obsessed, becoming a Jahleel-craving idiot.
A fool. A dumbarse. A dolt. A lummox. Throw what names you will, I readily accept them.
So, the adjectives ‘strong’ or ‘sensible’ no longer belonged anywhere near the name Saskia Day. Once upon a time, I was a strong young woman, but that ‘me’ died a brutal death the second I laid eyes on the biggest American arsehole ever, who became the bane of my existence, but at the same time, the love of my life and holder of my happiness.
One glance at him, and he didn’t even have to acknowledge me to rob me of my senses, my thoughts, my integrity, my virtue, my pride, my heart and, most of all, my love. Both a blessing and a curse, he took it all, all of me, just by existing. Just by breathing.
Jahleel Kingston stole me, claimed me, owned me, just by ignoring me.
First time I saw him?
Well, I had just hit the 20, just got me some freedom, and just landed my biggest gig yet. Quite a lot of ‘justs’ there, yeah? So I’ll just throw in ‘just fell in love’, too.
Just for the heck of it.
Lion T’mar, a major R&B artiste who was sitting on top of the world at that time, was on tour headlining a show in Manchester, England. Being the silver-tongued, miracle worker that she was, my then manager, Lydia, got me the gig to open for Lion T’mar.
That was the catalyst for my career.
Even though the cheers from the audience weren’t for me—some wild-haired, tattooed chick they’d never heard of—I went up on that stage and stole their screams, their chants, their hearts and devotion. Confidence on high, I made them my bloody fans, too. The nervous, sweaty palms thing? All gone once I was in front of an audience. The rush was too great.
Even as I bounced off that stage, I optimistically convinced myself I would hit it large. Soon. One shot was all I needed, and opening for Lion T’mar, I believed, was that shot. Not bragging but, through Lydia’s coaching, I was good at making people like me.
Obviously, where Jahleel was concerned, I failed miserably.
The instant I was off the stage, I was bombarded with “Awesome!”, “You rock!”, “You ripped it up, Kia!” and other praises of that nature. But I hadn’t the time to respond as Lydia promptly grabbed my wrist, yanking me through the throngs while ecstatically yammering, “Lion has requested to see you! You did great, Kia. You were magnificent up there.”
Struggling to catch my breath, I let her haul me down an ongoing, shadowed hall, still yapping on about how great this was for me.
Security was hefty. Every other step we took, there was some buff, almost impenetrable man grumbling into his ear piece, while I was rushed through, beading sweat, not given the chance to grab a breath, a hand-towel or a bottle of water to rejuvenate.
Truth be told, I didn’t give two craps about Lion T’mar’s music. His music was utter bullocks and degrading to women. Songs along the lines of ‘Clap that Big Thang’, ‘Lick & Slurp’, ‘Glide & Grind’, ‘Sit on Daddy’s Lips’… Ugh.
Thing was, aside from his music, Lion had a talent for developing highly successful artistes. He recognized talent, and with his unlimited connections and secrets to dominating the business, he unfailingly turned them into stars. He was the hottest thing on the music scene back then. But now, even more so as a mover and shaker—he was my ticket to success.
Lydia stopped outside a door guarded by a man so big and so black, I had to take a frightened step back.
“Help you?” he asked in a rumble so deep, I felt my lungs vibrate.
Lydia told him we were there to see Lion T’mar at his request and he held up a hand, rumbled some more into his earpiece, then opened the door and stood aside for us to enter.
There wasn’t a dressing room behind the door as I expected, but a dance room. Wide and open with a long wall of mirrors, laminate flooring, air-conditioner on full blast.
The frigidity of the air-conditioner was much appreciated.
Along with Lion T’mar were six other chaps—his backup dancers. No one was dancing though; each had scattered to his own corner, cooling down in preparation for the show.
Lion, whose back was to us when we entered, fiddling on his phone, turned around with a slant grin on his
face.
“Saskia Day,” he greeted, swaggering towards me in baggy jeans, graffiti shirt, and one helluva gold chain hitting somewhere near his navel.
Tall and built like a line-backer, he had a smooth, dark caramel complexion, deep set brown eyes and trimmed dark hair. Clean, handsome, and unlike his songs implied, no tats, no piercing.
“Lion T’mar,” I returned with a nod and a smile, being formal. “It’s a pleasure to meet ya’. Thanks for the opportunity.”
With a steep raise of his brow, he scolded, “Don’t be comin’ up in here actin’ all nice and formal. Not wit’ them tats and shit.” He came forward and hauled me into a side hug.
“I was aiming for politeness,” I explained.
He waved a hand dismissively. “None of that with me. I like ‘em real. And I know you keep it one hunnit. Can tell by the way you sing, girl. Not many opening acts can get the crowd hyped like that. Sure as shit wasn’t like that for me when I started. Was a while before I learned how to get ‘em crunk, ya know,” he flashed a promising grin, “You gon’ hit it big.”
“That’s some faith you have in me, yeah?”
On a chuckle, he waved me off again and started to say something, but I got distracted when the air behind me shifted with the weight of someone’s presence, the overpowering scent of male, sweat and some earthy fragrance. A warm palm pressed lightly to my lower back, sending an electric wave up my spine as I was gently pushed forward to make room for the person to pass behind me.
At the mere touch, my eyes inexplicably fluttered closed, as my mind drifted off. To somewhere inexpressible. A place I’d never been before. It was a celestial journey. Somewhere I would love to go again. And again.
Back to earth, I opened my eyes and glanced to the mirror across the room to get a view of the person whose touch alone made my mind blank. But there was no one there.
I looked to the right of me in the mirror and my eyes got stuck to the reflection of a guy sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, knees drawn up, earplugs in his ears, head nodding to music only he could hear. He wasn’t there before. It had to be him who pushed me forward to pass by.
He wore grey sweats, white sneakers, and a red hoodie zipped open, sneaking me a peek of his abs and tattoos.
The hoodie was drawn over his head, so his face was obscure. But it was his hair hanging down the sides of his face under the hoodie that caught my attention. Thick, sandy-brown with sunburned blonde highlights, shoulder length, and begging me to rake my fingers through it.
Perfect.
Completely enraptured by the figure in the mirror, I didn’t hear when two girls entered the room until one of them stopped next to me to relay some news about the current performance on stage to Lion, while the other, holding a tray of FIJI water, went straight over to the figure I was staring at and handed him a water.
In tiny, butt-cheeks-revealing white shorts and skin-tight blue blouse slit at the front to exhibit her copious cleavage, she was, I hated to admit, flawlessly sexy: petite and curvy with raven dark hair flowing in waves around her.
Red Hoodie glanced up at her, and his white teeth sank into his bottom lip as he pulled the hoodie off his head. But before I got a chance to see his face, Water Girl moved in front of him, flirtatiously jutting her hip out to one side as she said something to him.
With my gaze still on them, I moved sideways like a crab, twisting at every angle, trying to see around the flirty tart, and before I knew it, I was tumbling to the ground in an embarrassing heap.
Faster than a pirate could say “aye!” I was back to standing, pretending my fall was no big deal, even though my ear tips were flaming. Everyone was watching me with concerned expressions. Everyone except Red Hoodie, and that was because the trollop still flirted with him.
“You okay, girlie?” I heard Lion ask.
Reluctantly dragging my gaze from the mirror, I raised a hand to my throat and croaked, “Yeah. Just need water.”
Which was the honest truth.
Lion frowned calculatingly at me as he called, “Tori, bring Saskia here one of those waters, will ya.”
Gaze shifting back to the mirror, I watched as Water Girl started to move off from Red Hoodie, but he grabbed her wrist and yanked her lower so her ear was at his lips. Her cheeks flushed crimson as her tongue licked across her lips at whatever he whispered to her. She nodded and started over to us, finally allowing me to see his face.
Every ounce of air left me. I was immediately desperate for that water. Breath robbed, my world stopped. Heart thudding, I watched him as he watched her bum.
He was…hot. Ridiculously hot. Ruggedly hot. No-words-to-describe hot.
Jesus Christ.
Along with his thick, sandy-brown hair, he had eyes so astoundingly gold, they almost seemed paranormal. The sharpest, most conspicuous jawline I’d ever seen on a man. A nose probably too small for a man, and lips probably too full. But everything just worked together. Made him perfect. Flawless. Made him, him.
And made me breathless. Never had I seen any man that…alluring. Beautiful. Physically without fault.
In hindsight, I believe the moment I lost my senses was when I fell as I attempted to catch a glimpse of that face. With that fall, my senses scattered from my brain onto the floor, and I’d never bothered picking them up.
“Um, hullo?”
I belatedly registered a well-manicured hand waving in front of my face—Water Girl trying to get my attention.
Snapping my eyes from Red Hoodie, who’d stopped leering at Water Girl’s bum and dragged the hoodie back over his head, I grabbed the bottle of water with a scowl.
Amused rather than snarky, she raised an eyebrow at me before turning to leave the room, exchanging a look with Red Hoodie as she did.
I unscrewed the bottle and downed half its contents. By the time the water helped cool my nerves, and I was somewhat coherent, I noticed how everyone in the room—except Red Hoodie, of course, who seemed to excel at ignoring others—watched me with much amusement.
Pretty apparent I was being too obvious. But I couldn’t help it. Like an eclipse in the sky: it’s there, blinding, unusual, like nothing you’ve ever seen, and you want to tear your eyes away, but you can’t. It’s too beautiful. Too remarkable a sight to miss. You. Just. Can’t. Help. Looking. And so you sacrifice your eyesight in admiration of its beauty.
Leaning over to me, Lion whispered, “That’s Jahleel. Also known as JK…my best dancer.”
As I began wagging my head, about to lie through my teeth that I wasn’t gawking/ogling, he called aloud, “JK!”
When he glanced up and pulled the plugs from his ears, Lion told him, “Saskia here wanna say ‘hi’.”
Oh hell.
Jahleel slid his gaze over me for a brief, bored second, muttered, “Hey, Sastia,” then made to put his earplugs back in.
“Saskia,” I corrected.
“Yeah,” he mumbled, without sparing me another glance.
I felt like nothing. No one. For some reason, I wanted him to look at me like he did Water Girl.
“Really, JK?” Lion said, brows raised, looking a tad surprised. “That’s the best you can do? What with all your nag—”
Head still down, Jahleel raised his glaring golden eyes at Lion and hissed out, “Gimme a fuckin’ break, man!”
Wow, not the wisest way to address the person who handles your pay check.
To my surprise, Lion merely shrugged and looked to me. “Touring gets a bit stressful sometimes. When it does, they get like that.”
“Not ‘they’,” a voice said from right behind me, “Him.”
Swivelling around, I realized one of the other dancers had sidled up to me, unapologetically raking me over with a licentious leer. “Don’t mind him, baby girl. He’s a natural asshole. It ain’t you.”
Gag. I hate it when men call me ‘baby girl’.
At the sound of the door opening, I glanced over my shoulder and glimpsed the red hoodie retreating thr
ough it.
“So, Saskia…” the dancer beside me began.
“Fall back,” Lion said to him.
“Why? Because I’m not JK?” the dancer shot back. “You know what he’s gettin’ ready to do, right? And we’re on in less than thirty minutes. Why does he always get away with shit like that?”
Lion took a step forward and more sternly warned, “Fall. The. Fuck. Back.”
The bloke took it with a sniff and walked away.
Lion turned back to Lydia and resumed their discussion, him trying to convince her to let me move to the U.S. This was my career, I should’ve been on my toes listening, pitching in and seeking favours, but at that moment, I could only concentrate on one thing, one person, while I stared at the now empty spot where he’d sat. I nursed his rebuff, wishing he’d looked at me like he had Water Girl.
Why didn’t I catch his attention? Was I not attractive? Were blonds not his type?
Right then, I decided as soon as the sun rose the next morning, I would head to the salon and dye my hair raven black.
Lion sent us off with, “When you hit it big, don’t forget it started here.”
I followed Lydia out the door, only half-listening as she went on about her plans for me.
As we drifted down the dark hall, my head a flustered mess, I heard a soft giggle followed by a moan, and for some instinctive reason, I stopped and glanced back over my shoulder.
A door on the left was slightly ajar, and as the giggle and moan came again I inched towards it, as though I were magnetically pulled. When I got there, I peeped through the crack and saw the familiar red hoodie and grey sweats, standing between the parted bare thighs of a woman whom I had no doubt was Water Girl.
She was spread open in the corner on a glass desk, and he was right there between those eagled legs doing something with his right hand while whispering God-knows-what in her ear, which had the magical effect of making her moan, giggle, then moan deeper and beg for him to kiss her.
Blech. I was already plotting her murder.
A firm hand gripped my bicep and dragged me away from the door. Lydia. She didn’t reproach me as I expected her to. As if understanding, she instead spoke to me like the mother I didn’t have.