by S. Ann Cole
“Kia,” he said in a patient tone. There was the sound of sheets ruffling in the background, like he was getting out of bed. “I know you feelin’ him. But, I don’t think you should see him….Yet.”
“Don’t—”
“Hear me out, will you?” he cut me off. “Two things. One, you got a six-months tour comin’ up in a few months. JK cannot be a distraction. There ain’t no time for that. Two, I know JK, and he’s the biggest asshole you’ll ever come across. I love both of you equally, but I just don’t wanna see you gettin’ hurt… And, Kia?”
“Yeah?”
“He will hurt you.”
“He won’t,” I protested, even though I mostly believed the opposite.
Lion sighed. “You alotta’ things, girl. Alotta’ things I adore and respect ‘bout you. But being stupid ain’t one of ‘em. Don’t see him.”
“Okay. Okay, I won’t.”
Silence for a good sixty seconds, “I’m bein’ serious, Kia.”
“So am I. You’re right; he’ll be a distraction, so I won’t see him.” Easing off the barstool, I told him, “I’ll try catching up on some sleep, then, yeah? Call ya’ later.”
I hung up before he could utter another word, tossed the phone on the kitchen counter, proceeded upstairs and hopped straight into the shower.
I had every intention of seeing Jahleel Kingston.
Chapter Three
Around noon, I woke up with my towel wrapped around me, my hair damp. Sometime after I showered this morning, weariness caved in and sleep followed.
I was expected at Jahleel’s studio by two. My hair was a wild, frizzy mess and my mood was crap. Too much cigarettes.
At this time of day, my house was usually as noisy as a kindergarten classroom. Ferbie lived with me—I went nowhere without him, nowhere. I’ve always been utterly protective of him and wouldn’t brook others making fun of him.
My best mate, Amanda, whom I hired as my hair and make-up artiste so she could move here, resided with me also. She, too, went wherever I went.
I had two American ‘friends’ Amy and Jamie, who I met when I first moved to the States and started the reality show. Not quite sure if I should label them as ‘friends’ or ‘groupies’, but they came through some door Lion T’mar opened and have stuck to me like chewing gum to a shoe bottom ever since.
On numerous occasions I tried getting rid of them, but Lion assured me they were ‘cool’, and I needed some American girlfriends until Amanda came. I gave them a chance and turned out to like them a bit.
A bit.
Credits to them, they were somewhat allegiant, because they’ve remained with me throughout the years and never wavered through the ups and downs. Always at my house, yeah, but didn’t live with me. Amy and Jamie were loaferish, trust fund brats who lived hour to hour without an aspiration.
When Amanda arrived, she didn’t have a problem with them, so I thought, what the heck, and we became a pack of four. Not that I trusted them, no, not at all. Lion warned me against trusting people, never to let my guard down, not even once, and never to tell real in-depth truths about myself. As far as trust went, it stretched to Lion, Lydia, my siblings, Amanda and no further.
Along with those people, I had three guards: two home guards, and one outside guard who accompanied me wherever I go. So, believe me, this house got real raucous at times.
Nevertheless, everyone knew when Saskia needed her sleep, she needed her sleep. My bedroom had its own level and was strictly off limits to other occupants of the house. That was how I managed to sleep right into noon without disturbance. Now, awake, I could hear the cacophonous chattering and jeering downstairs.
Rolling out of bed, I trundled to my massive walk-in closet and decided on something casual to wear. Best if I didn’t look as if I was trying too hard. So I went with Chucks, distressed jeans and a tee—the usual me.
My full reflection stared back at me in the closet mirror. The girl on the other side looked wild and wary, with a dash of famous and stinking rich sprinkled on top. Eighteen inches of stubborn, raven black curls, tipped rock n’ roll purple at the ends flowed around small shoulders. Cute piercing above an inherently arched eyebrow highlighted big, startling grey eyes on a heart-shaped face. Small nose with even smaller nostrils. Wide pinup-girl lips. Faint dimple on the chin.
At 5ft 8inches, the slender reflection in the mirror had long arms toned from punitive workouts forced on by a grouchy fitness trainer, long neck, coveted super-slim waist, curvy hips and even longer, toned legs. Sun-kissed complexion, glowing.
The reflection was only half-pleased with itself, but it turned and vanished from view as I exited the closet room to head downstairs.
The noisy herd was crowded around the breakfast bar chatting about the usual crap. I plopped down on a barstool and glanced at Amanda.
“Make up?” she asked.
“Obviously,” I mumbled. “My hair’s like a bloody bird nest and my face is bland as Cream of Wheat.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” sliding off the counter, she left to retrieve her work kit. “You have no idea how naturally gorgeous you are.”
Amanda was the British version of Twana, except her big bum was fake. She got her bum done the minute she landed on U.S. soil; it was something she always wanted to do. Not sure why, though, as her previous one had been big enough, in my opinion.
With a smooth mocha complexion, she was temptingly bodacious. Even if she hadn’t gotten the silicon bum and imitated Rihanna’s current haircut—that one where one side is shaved off and the other side has long curly hair—Amanda was still a natural beauty. She was more of a Rihanna fan than a Saskia Day fan, and whatever Riri did with her hair, she did, too.
Apparently, I didn’t change things up enough. Ever the same ole, same ole with me—chucks and tee, with wild raven curls dipped purple at the ends.
I hated heels with a bitter passion, and even pulled a Kristen Stewart on the red carpet once—ratty chucks, formal dress and messy hair—which resulted in landing on Fashion Police as Joan Rivers’ ‘fashion hoe of the week’. Consequently, I began practicing to wear heels for red carpet events and it was horrible.
Then I decided, fuck Fashion Police! Who gives a crap what they think, anyway? Amanda had glibly answered, “Hollywood.” But I disregarded every arsewit who thought they could dictate how people should dress and reverted back to my old self.
While I waited for Amanda, my housemaid, Sylvie, fixed a club sandwich and placed it in front of me with a glass of Crystal Light. Amy and Jamie sat beside me yapping about how “rad” some party was that they went to the night before, while Ferbie perched on the counter top asking Sylvie a million and one questions about things that mattered not one whit to the universe.
Biting into my sandwich, I spoke around a mouthful, “Go grab a shower, Ferbie. We leave in an hour.”
“Aye, Ma,” he nodded, hopping off the counter. “What colour do ya think I should wear today?”
“What does it matter?” Amy said through a giggle. “Seriously, Ferbie, you need to grow up.”
When I stopped chewing and shot her a look, she snapped her mouth shut. She should know by now not to mess with Ferbie when I was around.
“Blue,” I told him. “Blue will suit you well today.”
He grinned and jauntily walked off. Ferbie was actually good-looking—curly blonde hair that was as wild as mine but never grew past his nape, the exact cat-grey eyes as mine, and an inherently athletic body that reeled girls in like a magnet…until he opened his mouth. Some thought his good looks and amazing bod was wasted.
When Ferbie was out of sight, I turned to Amy with a vicious, “Mess with my brother again, in or out of my presence, and you’ll no longer be invited here, yeah?”
Looking chagrined, Amy nodded. She was as pretty as a Barbie. Naturally curly strawberry-blonde hair cropped above her shoulders. Bright, emerald-green eyes and superbly long lashes on an oval face. “I’m sorry, Kia. It’s j
ust weird that he’s twenty-eight and you’re twenty-five and he calls you ‘Ma’, waiting on your instructions for everything.”
“None of your bloody damn business,” I hissed. “Leave him the fuck alone.”
Amy nodded again as Amanda strolled back into the kitchen with her make-up kit. “He’d make a perfect submissive, you know. Too bad he’s not my type. I like them black and strong.”
“Even if you were attracted, I’d never let him be your submissive, you kinky fuck.”
Amy and Jamie giggled, while Amanda shrugged and set her kit on the counter.
Grabbing my shoulders, she turned me around on the barstool. “Okay, time to make you pretty for—”
I kicked her leg and she stopped, getting what I meant. Since Amy and Jamie weren’t privy to my personal business, they knew nothing about my Jahleel-craving.
Close people, usually called “sources” by the magazines, tended to snoop around for dirt to sell to the media all the time, and I was one of those ‘celebrities’ magazines and reporters had a hard time getting personal news on, because I kept things as private as I could, as trained by Lion. Although Amy and Jamie were rich brats who didn’t need to sell dirt for money, I still had a hard time trusting them, so they knew only what I wanted them to know.
Amanda realized her slip up and covered with, “The big meet.”
“You going to get out of the vehicle anytime this year, Kia?”
Amanda’s voice broke through my overworked nerves as I stared out the Jeep window at the two storey edifice of Kingston’s Dance Studios—standing proud and tall in all its weathered red-bricked glory and opaque, glass facade.
Thomas, my driver/bodyguard, had pulled into a parking space ten minutes ago, and I was still in the back with Amanda and Ferbie, nursing cold feet and rethinking, remembering Lion advising me not to see Jahleel.
Too bad he was back in L.A and couldn’t stop me.
Amy and Jamie were sitting in Jamie’s convertible in the lot next to us, waiting for me to make a move. Everyone waited for me to make a move. No one made a move without me, apparently.
Shooting Amanda an annoyed stare, I groused, “You’re a thorn in my goddamn side.”
Looking unconcerned as she inspected her nails, she replied, “You sure I’m the thorn in your side, or the guy inside that building who plagues your thoughts so much you can’t even take a minute to live?” She glanced up from her nail inspection and pinned me with her blunt stare. “This is stupid and dumb, as I’ve told you many times before. What’re you going to do, go in there and demand that he dates you? What if he already has a girlfriend? What if—”
“Shut up, Manda. You, of all else, are supposed to support me, not remind me how much of a berk I am.”
She shook her head and sighed. “Whatever. It’s going to be interesting to see how this plays out, yeah? Thanks in advance for the entertainment.”
Jabbing my middle finger in her face, I wrenched open the Jeep door and hopped out. “C’mon, Ferbie.”
Amy and Jamie got out of their car and fell in with my strides, as did Amanda, Ferbie by my side and Thomas, my tall hunk of body guard, who led in front. Ben, one of the other guards, also came along and was at the back.
Thomas pushed open the door to the building and we all shuffled in. A burly African American man at the security desk stood up as we entered, his grin being one of those wide star struck grins I’d grown used to getting. “Miss Saskia Day, Mr. Kingston is expecting you. Follow me.”
Plastering a smile on my face, I nodded once and we followed him up a flight of stairs, down a long hall, passing a number of closed doors with music seeping under the creases, until he finally stopped at a door at the end of the hall. “This is your stop. Have a wonderful afternoon.” Then he turned and left.
Thomas watched me, waiting for my cue. When I nodded slightly, he opened the door and we breezed in. Cool air-conditioning enveloped me in an instant, reminding me of how hot the climate was.
“Holy fack,” Amanda whispered from beside me. “Am I in hell or something? I swear to the most high, I’ve never seen so many hot guys in one room before.”
Amy and Jamie giggled like the giggly twits they were, while Ferbie just looked mildly bored. The room was long but wide at the same time, the entire right wall being of mirrors, bright lighting and black marley flooring, everything else was all-white.
There were about seven hot guys, all in black sweat pants and wife beaters, hunched over a laptop, laughing and jeering at something on the screen. As my eyes swept around the large room, there he was, back turned to us. He was down at the far end of the room with his cellphone pressed against his ear, though he wasn’t talking into it.
No.
He was staring at me by way of the mirror.
As my heart slowed to heavy, ponderous beats loud in my ears, I reminded myself I was someone now, and I needed to act like an important, respected ‘somebody’, which meant hyperventilating like an adolescent, as I’d done five years ago, wasn’t allowed.
Those golden eyes latched on to mine in the mirror and didn’t let go. His tongue made a swift pass over his bottom lip and his teeth promptly sank down on it as his eyes moved down my body, slowly.
Oh God, he was looking at me like that. The way I’d wanted him to look at me five years ago. The way he’d looked at Water Girl. My heart ricocheted in my chest, and of their own volition, my lips parted and a sigh flowed through.
I must remember to breathe. I must remember to breathe.
It seemed the person on the other end of the phone call felt neglected and nabbed his attention back in, because he suddenly snapped his gaze from me and frowned as he spoke into the phone. “Yeah, yeah, still here. No. What’d you say?…”
At the touch of Amanda’s hand on my arm, I dragged my eyes from Jahleel in the corner and turned to her with mild irritation. “What?”
In a low voice so only I could hear, she whispered, “You’re being a little too obvious, Kia. Those guys over there, along with Amy and Jamie here, are watching you watch him like you’ve never seen a man before. Chillax, mate. You’re the star here.”
I glanced over at the men who’d stopped laughing at whatever was on their computer screen and now watched me with amusement instead. Of course, they were Jahleel’s dancers, which meant they worked with celebrities frequently. I was just another famous face who didn’t faze them in the least. Idly, I couldn’t help wondering if Jahleel handpicked his dancers based on looks instead of talent, because those guys were an impressive pack—all taut muscles, drool-worthy faces, exuding undeniable steam.
“Saskia.”
At the sound of my name being used so informally, I turned to see Jahleel had ended his call and was coming up to me, right hand held out. My eyes ran over him one last time before I took his hand to shake it, ignoring the tingling warmth between our palms.
He was ruggedly sexy in faded, cut-off jeans ravelling out at the ends, a stretchy white tee with a dog-tag dangling on his chest, dogged grey sneakers and a grey beanie hiding what I knew was amazing sandy-brown hair underneath.
“Jahleel Kingston,” I greeted back, shaking his hand and trying not to shiver at the heat seeping from his pores to mine. “So nice to see you again.”
Brows furrowing, he tilted his head to the side and gold eyes squinted at me. “We’ve met before?”
Before I could make a bigger fool of myself, Amanda, ever the woman with control and a brain, came to the rescue by sticking out her hand. “I’m Amanda, Saskia’s bitch.” She turned and pointed to the others. “That’s Amy, Jamie, and Ferburt.”
His lips twitched at the corners as though he wanted to laugh, and I knew it was at the expense of my brother’s name. But he politely shook everyone’s hands. As a matter of fact, the eye-raping person who’d locked gazes with me in the mirror was gone. He was now professional and polite, in an informal kind of way.
Pleasantries done with, he cracked his knuckles and jerked his head to t
he side. “Come with me.” Then to my entourage, “You’re free to roam about, but keep off the floor once we start practicin’.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and started towards his dancers, expecting me to follow. Which I did; I’d follow him anywhere.
Smooth, dark hair laid flat on legs displayed in his cut-off jeans. Ongoing inscriptions tattooed his left leg, running from the side of his knee down to his ankle. The words were too small to read, plus they didn’t look like English. There were writings on his right arm also, running from under his short sleeve down to his wrist.
Glancing over his shoulder to check if I was still with him, he stopped on the other side of the room and gestured to his dancers one by one. “Meet Tyler, Sprigs, Mace, Dane, Andre, Leo and Trent. Team A, my main dancers.”
After I greeted the hot pack, I mean ‘Team A’, with a cordial smile and shook each of their hands, they went back to “That’s whassup!” and “Crazy, man!” over some dance competition on YouTube that they watched on the laptop.
Jahleel pulled out a small box of Sun Maid Raisins from his pocket, popped it open and tossed a couple in his mouth before putting it back from whence it came. Most men had mints, gum or mouth spray. He had raisins.
Mouth chewing, he crossed his arms over his broad chest and gave me his business face. “Okay, Saskia, I never got a clear explanation of what you were looking for,” he said. “So tell me, what exactly do you want?”
You. I’ve been wanting you for five bloody years, I was tempted to say.
But instead, I was silent. Mainly because, there I was, standing in front of Jahleel Kingston—the opportunity I’d dreamed of since I first saw him. And secondly, because I had no answer to his inquiry. What I wanted from him, I had a long list…or scroll. But as a dance instructor…no clue.
To get close to him, I’d used the excuse of wanting a choreographer, had been purposely vague about what I was hiring him for, and now, face to face, I was cornered. Not that I wouldn’t mind being cornered, as in, me pinned against a wall by his hips with his tongue in my mouth and his hand down my knickers. But not this kind of cornered where he was about to expose my lie. I hadn’t thought this through at all, thinking I could always get by on my name. I was screwed.