He quirks his brow in challenge, “You want to betaken advantage of Savannah?”
“They’re not taking advantage,” I growl, “They’re doing their job and who are you to question their ethics! I researched before I hired anyone, and Luke was the best in the area. I trust him.”
His lip curls, “Someone has to, I suppose.”
“What the hell is your problem!?” I snap at him.
“You’re going to be late,” Killian replies, turning on his heel to head for the door. The workers inside the house clear a wide path for him, eyes averted while he storms from the building. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I count to three and then follow him out, offering soft smiles to the workers in the hopes they don’t all quit because Killian is being an asshole.
He’s already in his car and waiting for me by the time I get to mine. I don’t entertain him with a glare or a single word as I slam my door far harder than necessary and start the engine.
I do not understand this version of Killian. This isn’t the man I know; this isn’t the man I grew up idolizing, this is but a shell of him. I want to know what happened to make him this way. I know small things, little tidbits I’ve overheard over the years, and I know he didn’t have an easy childhood but even so, this is so unlike him.
What changed?
Choosing to ignore it, I hit play on my playlist, and music begins to blare through the speakers as I step on the gas, Killian right behind me.
It doesn’t take me long to get to the studio, the gates sliding open when the security guard runs my plates but to my surprise, Killian pulls up, speaking to the guard for a few seconds and then he follows me through, all the way to the parking lot next to the building.
“What are you doing?” I ask, coffee in hand.
“Making sure they don’t tear your hair from your scalp,” He grumbles, “Let’s go.”
He starts walking ahead of me, seeming to know the way to my dressing room without me telling him the way. Inside, he looks around, a slight curl to his lip as if the space disgusts him. I mean it isn’t anything fancy, a large mirror with lights, a rail holding my clothing and an ensuite bathroom with a couch that has probably seen more action than I have in months, but who’s judging? Killian, apparently.
Deciding not to let his presence affect me, I head for the fresh t-shirt hanging on the rack and make my way for the bathroom. He doesn’t say anything, but I feel his eyes follow me, his disdain pungent.
Once I have changed, in just the tee and a pair of panties, I slip my feet into the sliders provided and open the door.
“The fuck you think you’re going looking like that?”
A hand slaps against the door, forcing it closed before I can even get it open enough to get out.
“I’m shooting a music video,” I remind him.
“Like that!?”
My brow creases as I look down at myself. The t-shirt sits around mid-thigh, it’s no different to the tutus I wear when I am on stage. Sure, I have a body suit and tights to add an extra layer of protection but to look at, as an outsider, this isn’t much different.
People have been looking at my body for as long as I have been performing, they have seen everything, every wardrobe malfunction and slip, even when I am not performing because even if I am not a multi-millionaire performer, there’s still photographers ready to take your picture. There is no privacy with fame, regardless of where you stand on the scale.
“This is the wardrobe,” I explain to Killian and tug at the door handle, even though moving him is impossible, “I need to go to hair and make-up now.”
I watch his nostrils flare as his eyes dip down me, burning a path everywhere they touch. He relents, shoving away from the door to give me freedom but that doesn’t mean I am clear of him.
He follows me down to the room where I’m due to have my hair and make-up done, not giving me an inch to lock him out.
“Hey,” I greet the young woman assigned to perfect my face for the day. She already looks nervous, and Killian isn’t making it any easier. I don’t even need to look at him to know he is glaring at her as if this is her fault that I am here.
Thankfully, he remains quiet as she applies the glitter to my skin and then works on my face, sharpening mycheekbones and darkening my eyes. When she is done, I’m ushered to the hair department and already, my head throbs knowing what they are about to do to me.
Killian remains near the door as I sit myself in the chair, meeting his gaze in the reflection.
Immediately my hair is tugged back with a brush, my neck jerking with how hard the stylist yanks and I feel several strands of hair pull free with the move.
“Stop!” Killian bellows, “What the fuck are you doing!?”
“I – I–” My stylist stutters.
