Jahleel (4 page)

However, being an hour away from Jahleel didn’t mean I got to see him. What Lion didn’t prepare me for was the insurmountable amount of work I’d have to invest into ‘making it big’.

A heck of a lot. It was never easy. There was no rest. Just work, work, work, day and night, with me surviving on the rush of unwholesome consumptions of energy drinks and adrenaline.

As soon as I hit U.S. soil, he had me doing a reality show, as apparently that was the new and most effective method of building a loyal fan base.

“
Hook the world on your raw beauty and down-to-earth personality,
” he told me. “
Buy fans with true reality.
”

Despite my doubts, I went along with it. See, I went along with most of what Lion and Lydia suggested, mainly because they knew the ropes. Also: they never, ever tried to change me, or told me to sing, act or dress like anyone else but myself.

Lion believed in the real me, my real voice, my real attitude and that’s who he allowed me to be. Unlike the songs he sang, I later learned the
real
Lion T’mar was a man of morals. He’d never once hit on me. His love for me was genuine, only wanting the best for me and taking pride in watching as I succeeded.

He had a woman, and he worshipped the very ground she walked on. With an über-ghetto name, Twana, she had a bum so big, one saw it before seeing her, along with thick, meaty thighs and perfect perky D-cups. The sceptical side of me inquired, and yep, she was authentic: no silicon, anywhere. That bum, that rack, that tiny waist, all real.

I’d been to tons of parties and events with Lion. Where he went, I went, and I could testify on a stack of Holy Catholic Bibles that I’d
never
seen him so much as flirt with another woman. Everything was all about Twana. Twana was his Queen.

So because of his echt quality, dedication, and commitment to me, I trusted him with my career and rarely disagreed with his suggestions. As a result, most things were smooth sailing because I never put up a fight, followed orders and performed each show, sang each song, delivered each appearance to the best of my ability.

In my mind, I wanted to get ‘there’ as expeditiously as possible so I could resume my Jahleel chase. And what better way to do that than to push brattiness aside and listen to your mentors who’ve been in this business since the age of Adam?

By God’s good grace, America received me well. Exceptionally well. Everything happened so fast. At such velocity, I hardly had time to realize my life was changing, climbing, growing, as was my net worth.

For a whole year, I had no time to stop and appreciate, because it was all work, no sleep and no play. Until my first album,
Notice Me
, went platinum. An album mostly permeated with songs I wrote while in the throes of Jahleel-craving.

Since then, Saskia Day has been a sensation.

One would think I’d feel different, grow a pride pimple somewhere, knowing I could get whomever and whatever I wanted and to hell with that Jahleel dude. But I didn’t. I was, of course, proud of myself. I got what I dreamed of. Ferbie and Timberly lacked nothing, were contented. And because they were contented, I was…somewhat.

‘Somewhat’, because I still felt incomplete. The one thing—person—I wanted, I didn’t have.

It wasn’t as though I didn’t date other men, attempting to kill my undying and obsessive crush. I had. But no one,
no one
, has ever managed to make me feel how I felt in those few short minutes when I first saw Jahleel under that red hoodie. He stole something from me, a huge chunk, and I would never again feel whole, until I saw him again, even if it’s just once, so I could recover that piece of me back from his grasp.

So, I sold my Hollywood mansion and moved to San Francisco. A move Lion was flat-out against. Residing in Los Angles was more convenient and accessible, he’d told me, why remove myself an hour away from the star capital to make things that much more hectic?

Because I no longer wanted to be an hour
away
from Jahleel Kingston, I wanted to be where he was.

And not even Lion could stop that move. Now, I was near. So close I could almost smell him.

Getting him to take me on as a client was nothing short of difficult.

Jahleel had transcended into one of the most acclaimed dance choreographers in this hemisphere. Lion endorsed him like he was his first born, while Jahleel let his talent speak for itself, and as a result, he was highly demanded. People went to him, not the other way around. And he picked and chose who to work with. That’s what made getting to work with him so hard.

He’d accepted me as a client twice last year, and ended up cancelling both times at last minute. Of course, people who
truly
needed a choreographer would’ve moved on to the next best person. This was their career, after all.

I, however, didn’t need a choreographer. My performances consisted of running around on stage in wild bursts of energy or standing/sitting with a microphone as I pour my heart into a soulful, high note song. But pretending I needed a dance routine was the only route to seeing Jahleel face to face.

Earlier this year, he agreed again to take me on but cancelled that meet as well. Frustrating, yeah. But refusing to give up, I tried again, and so far, all was good. Today, Friday April 2nd, I would meet the man who’d owned me, body and soul, for the past 1,826 days.

Unwittingly so.

As the sun rose up in its coruscating glory, burning away the cotton candy colours from the cirrus clouds, I grew more and more anxious. I glanced down and saw over four cigarette butts at my feet. Jesus, I needed to kick this habit before things got bad. Sometime between my parents’ death and me quitting school to take on two jobs, I’d picked up smoking and have not been able to quit since.

Outing the current cigarette in my hand, I turned to go back inside the house, snatched up my wireless phone, hiked myself up on a barstool in the kitchen and dialled.

Lion answered in a groggy voice, probably frustrated with me as usual, but he never neglected me. “You callin’ me this hour means you freakin’ out ‘bout somethin’. Wassup, Kia?”

Making a meal of my thumbnail, I whispered down the line, “I’m seeing him today…”

For a passing minute he remained silent, then sighed. “I thought you were over that, Kia.”

“I’ve never been over him!” I exploded, more exasperated with my stupid self than with him. Sometimes I believed I had a dose of Ferburt-ism in my blood. In a calmer voice, I explained, “I don’t know how to…”

“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 can
not
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

A
round 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.