Akara angles the phone towards his chest and scrolls through the messages. “Chill. Eat. Try not to overthink, if that’s at all possible for you.”
“It’s not.” I can fucking admit this.
Akara smiles but concentrates on his phone. Pieces of his straight black hair touch his dark eyelashes. His cut muscles could tear through his blueStudio 9shirt. There’s no uniform for security detail. Bodyguards just typically dress for the occasion.
Like when I attend formal charity events, they’ll wear suits and tuxes.
I roll my shoulders backwards, muscles tight. I need to stretch, swim several laps.I check the time on my phone. Then I take another swig of orange juice and watch Akara text.
“You know,” I tell him, “I’m not asking for the meaning of life or a planetary map of undiscovered galaxies. You could give me his hair color. Zodiac sign. Maybe a last name?—”
“Nice try.” Akara’s brown eyes lift to mine just to sayyou can’t bullshit mebefore he returns to his cell. “Why don’t you finish making your list for him?”
“I already printed it out.” It’s in the pocket of my jeans. Akara suggested I bullet-point the “rules of my life” for the unknown person.
Like #32:I take pictures with fans in real time and let them post the pics.Not all of my cousins or siblings allow this. It gives the public and media a timestamp of where I am. And it’s considered dangerous.
A safety threat.
But I’ve lived my life beneath a spotlight since I was in the womb. I don’t give a shit if someone knows where I am atso-and-sotime. Chances are, paparazzi will find me anyway.
After placing my glass down on the bar, I rake a hand through my disheveled, light brown hair. The strands are dyed from their natural dark-brown hue.
I know thatyouknowwhat I look like. You’ve seen my face on the front page of tabloids. All while you were checking out two-percent milk, maybe a Kit-Kat bar, hopefully a can of Fizz.
I have forest-green eyes that dagger the souls of those who fuck with my family. Sharp cheekbones that look like knives, and a lean-cut swimmer’s build from my competitive swimming days. You maynotknow that Burberry and Calvin Klein scouted me when I was eighteen.
I turned them down.
Akara texts. And texts.
For the past five years, he’s been a central part of my life. Even if he isn’t my personal bodyguard. As the lead of SecurityForce Omega, he’s in charge of hires, transfers, terminations, and keeping the whole system running. He’s the glue.
The constant.
He’s twenty-five, Thai-American, MMA-trained but specialized in Muay Thai, and he owns the Studio 9 Boxing & MMA gym down the street. People pack Studio 9 every morning, and evenings are impossible to get into without a referral.
He glances up from his phone. Eyeing me. “You need to relax.”
I’m impatient. And I’m overly self-aware. Firmly, I tell him, “If he doesn’t show by eight, we have to leave.” I can’t be here when the store opens. I’ll be stuck signing autographs and taking photos for hourson end, and I have a long,longlist of things I need to get done.
I’m a CEO of a charity organization that raisesmillionsannually. And I set a goal to raise $300 million for H.M.C. Philanthropies by December. We’re not even halfway yet.
“He knows,” is all Akara says.He knows.
Who the fuck is he?I straighten up, rigid like I’m seconds from joining the National Guard. “Did you at least choose someone who can keep up with me? He’s not going to sputter out after an hour or two?” I constantly drive back-and-forth from my townhouse, to my work offices, and to the gated neighborhood of my childhood home. Where my three younger siblings still live.
“Again, relax.” Akara holds out a hand. “I know you. I wouldn’t put someone on your detail that can’t handle your lifestyle.” He pushes back his hair and then fits his baseball cap on backwards.
Akara appears approachable right now. Friendly, even.
But I witnessed him staring down a grown fifty-year-old man. Twice his size. Veins protruding in the man’s ripped muscles: a known steroid-user. He was also my cousin Beckett’sformer bodyguard. And he fucked up. He let a cameraman slip into a public bathroom while my cousin was pissing in a urinal.
Akara laid into the bodyguard. Yelling, scolding—and I just watched this much younger guy make a middle-aged man cry. Tears juststreamingdown his face. Akara made him feel like he committed involuntary manslaughter.
I realized that’s why most bodyguards say, “Don’t piss off the SFO lead.” Pissing off Akara is like putting your ass on death row.
Boom.
