Keeping Jahleel (Loving All Wrong #1.5) (12 page)

He cared zero for fans or fame. He cared one hundred percent about dancing. And as a result, we’ve had to turn down a lot of proposals, millions, because he wouldn’t allow anything to interfere with the time and attention he promised his clients, his health, or his equilibrium. In other words, he wasn’t going to bite off more than he could chew for the sake of money and fame.

He was a stickler for living a balanced life and getting his eight hours of sleep. He didn’t do stress. He did whatever made him content and clear-headed.

I respected and understood his stance.

After all, my studio time came first and everything else after. Albums had to be made for me to sustain my career, right? Right. Top priority.

Nonetheless, it annoyed me that this was the fifth time Jahleel had left me to attend a well-paid club appearance by myself because he couldn’t be arsed with catching his goddamn flight to Vegas.

I haven’t seen him in three days because I’d been in Paris for the past two days working on my upcoming fragrance, and a few convenient photo shoots. Then the plan was for us to meet up in Vegas for the club appearance. And where was he? Not on the fucking plane, that’s where.

Stuffing my cellphone back into my fanny pack, I used one end of the hand-towel around my neck to wipe the sweat from my face as I ambled out of the hotel gym and hit the call button on the lift to take me up to my floor.

The doors pinged open and I dragged my weary body inside, hit my floor number, and slumped back as the doors closed and the lift jerked into motion.

Aside from my fiancé being a total arsewit when it came on to us working together, we were good.

Really good.

Our lives were busier than usual now, of course, but we made it work.
He
made it work as he was determined not to let our work get in between our relationship.

Hence decreeing a three day rule: work or not, we were not allowed to be apart for more than three days. So our assistants had to arrange our schedules accordingly. Three days
maximum
was the longest we could be separated for.

He loved me. I loved him. Things were working out unexpectedly well with Claire and me. And since we were yet to talk about whether he’d be moving in with me or me with him, I was practically living at his place. We lived a mere five minutes away from each other, so I didn’t think it even mattered.

Things were running smoother than an oiled engine, and we were simply cruising right along with it, not letting up on the gas pedal. No need to make simple things complicated.

We argued a lot about silly stuff, of course, but before the day could end, we’d forget what the hell we were even fighting about and made up. Because he told me never to leave him even if he asked me to, so I didn’t. And I wouldn’t.

I was happier than I’d ever been in my entire life. My dream was happening.

The lift spat me out on my floor and I fished for my key card from my fanny pack. As I was walking past Amanda’s door, I decided to check if she’d like to be my companion at the club tonight since Jahleel wouldn’t be making it. Thomas’ room was directly across the hall from mine, and Amanda’s next to mine.

There was a
Do Not Disturb
sign on the door handle, but I banged it anyway.

“Bloody hell, can you not
read
, whoever you are?!” Amanda bellowed from the other side of the door.

Snickering at the annoyance in her voice, I yelled back, “No! I got kicked out of high school for flashing the principal my hairy fanny and tearing my arse out to the rugby team. A rebellious little exhibitionist I was, yeah?”

Silence on the other side, then the door swung open. “Don’t you dare try to ruin my reputation with these frivolous things,” Amanda said, wagging a finger at me, indignant that I pointed out the
petty
crap she used to do. Her chin tipped up in pride. “I got kicked out because I buttered bread slices with jam and my feces, and told Elizabeth James it was peanut butter and jelly sandwich and made her lickerish arse eat it. Now, what do you want?”

My mouth dropped open, but nothing came out, it was busy gaping at the image beyond a leather-clad Amanda.

The six foot six, all muscles, mighty Zane Zekiel, was blindfolded, gagged, bound at the wrists, and was on his knees in the middle of her suite, wearing nothing but some tight white boxers.

Amanda closed the door to just a crack, blocking out the sight, stealing back my attention. “
What
do you want, Kia?”

“I-I…” I stuttered. “What-what are you doing to him?”

“Nonya business,” she spat.

“
Jesus Christ
,” I whispered, “you’re…horrendous.”

“Kia,” she said in a warning tone, “talk fast or I’m shutting this door in your face.”

Leaning my shoulder against the door-jamb, I tried peeking past Amanda’s head to see what the hell was going on in there. “JK missed his flight again and—”

“You want me to come to the club appearance with you,” she filled in. “Sorry. I can’t. Zane’s only here for a day.
Text
me when you’re ready for hair and make-up, yeah?”

She started to close the door, but I stopped it with my hand, giving her the sad face. “You’re really sending me to party in a booth by myself?”

“Kia,
please
,” she pleaded. “I haven’t seen him for a whole month because I’m all over the place with you. We
need
some time together.” She lowered her voice to a soft whisper. “This may come as a shock to you, but I think I’m falling in love with him. If you don’t want me to quit working for you, then allow me to have a life, too.”

Amanda falling in love? Novelty.

Dejectedly, I sighed and started to turn away. “Okay.”

“Wait.” Amanda stopped me. “I know you don’t like them, but Amy and Jamie flew in this afternoon. They claim they’re just here to party, but I know it’s because they miss us.
Call
them.”

My eyes rolled to the heavens, and I was about to give her a “not a chance,” but I thought about it and sighed in defeat. Because, well, what kind of superstar partied by themself?

Think it’s about time I started building a new street team.

My brother was MIA all the time since he met Sade. Amy and Jamie had been transferred to my Hate List the second they shagged Jahleel. Lion couldn’t be with me all the time, and my best friend was starting to back on out me a lot because she was falling for her hot and famous basketball player, Zane. That
I’d
set her up with, shooting myself right in the foot.

“
You
call them,” I told her, walking off before she could object.

For the first in a very long time, I felt completely alone.

People had no idea. Even with all the screaming fans and perpetual outside excitement, celebrities got lonely, too.

Torture.

This was fucking torture.

Partying with two wenches who knew the size of my man’s cock, how it felt inside them, and how good he could fuck, was not in the least bit fun. For the most part, I wanted to grab them both by the neck, slam their heads together and knock them the fuck out.

They, on the other hand, were over the moon. It’d been a while since they got invited to events with me. So they were too stoked about it to realize the only reason they were here was because I was out of options.

In my special booth, with Jamie and Amy on either side of me, I made an effort to appear like I was having a grand time. This was a paid appearance, after all. And fans were outright staring, some struggling to get near.

Thomas was inside the booth with me, while club security stood guard outside, ensuring no one snuck in to gush all over me, begging for autograph.

Amy and Jamie kept blabbering beside me like the usual excitable twats they were while I made surreptitious glances at my watch, wishing time would tick a little faster. Because underneath my faked appearance, I was bored, and the Coffee Patron was doing nothing to better my mood.

The club, nonetheless, was pumping, bursting with people who came out just because “
JK and Saskia would be partying in the #1 hotspot, Club ZIP, on Friday August 3rd!!
”

The DJ was mixing up a storm, giving me a “shout out” at ten minute intervals, and the vibe was overall rhapsodic.

My head just wasn’t in it, because the other half of me had missed his flight, and I was missing the hell out of him.

“…and I swear it’s
the
best feeling on earth! And if you skip the panties whenever you wear jeans, believe me, you’ll be so freakin’ stimulated throughout the day that you’ll want to play with your pussy every five minutes!”

Coming back to the here and now, I glanced at Amy. What was she talking about? Since we came into this club, the most I’ve said to them was “yeah,” “uh huh,” and “ace.” Because I wasn’t really interested in their pointless yammering.

“What?” I asked dully.

“My clit piercing,” she said, slapping my arm and giggling.

What part of “what” warranted a damn giggle?

“We got it done a couple of weeks ago,” Jamie said from the other side of me. “Hurts like a mofo at first, but once it heals, it’s the most awesome thing ever! You and Manda should get yours done, because then we ca….”

Tuning them out again, I inhaled deeply and rubbed my forehead. Now way was I having a conversation about clits and stimulation with these two.

I needed out of here.

In that moment, I noticed the noise level in the club skyrocketed. People were screaming their tonsils out, and it wasn’t for me. There was a division in the crowd as someone famous, along with their groupies, waded through the throngs of people agog with excitement.

From my booth, there was no descent view for me to tell who it was. And I didn’t care to know. I just wanted to leave. One more hour and I’d be conjuring up an excuse to bolt.

The chaos simmered down after a while and the crowd went back to partying as the unknown superstar settled in the second VIP booth on the opposite side of the club.

Scooping up my phone from the table, I tapped out a quick message to
him
:

Bored here.
Miss u so damn much.
Hurry, please.
I luv u.

The DJ gave another shout out to me just then, but it was promptly followed with, “…And I’d also like to give a special shout out to the one and only rock
G-O-D
of this century, Tex Laklin!!! Ninety Miles, welcome to Club motherfucking ZIP!!!!”

At that announcement, my head snapped up from my phone screen, spine stiff, while Amy and Jamie screamed their faces off beside me

“O.M.G, Ninety Miles!” screamed Amy. “Ninety Miles are
here
. In this club. With us!”

Jamie joined in, “This. Is. Freaking.
Awesome
!!!”

They both hugged me from each side, pressing their cheeks to mine. “Thank you, thank you, thank you
so
much for inviting us, Saskia. You rock!”

But all I could do was sit there, inertia taking me over.

Ninety Miles.

Tex Laklin.

Ninety Miles.

Remember that best-sex-ever rock god ex-boyfriend I once spoke of? The one whose heart I broke because I couldn’t get over my JK crush? The one who became Taylor Swift on me? Yeah, that was Tex.

Tex Laklin.

Lead singer of Ninety Miles rock band.

Uh-huh. That rocker who I haven’t had the bad luck of running into ever since I shagged him on his tour bus then broke up with him promptly afterward, was now, three years later, in the same club as me.

And I was nervous. As shite.

Why? Because Tex was a dick. A huge dick. Especially to people he hated.

And I was quite certain I’d made his hate list. He said so ten different ways in over ten different songs. But he also said he loved and missed me in twice as many songs, so…

Because I had no clue where we stood as ex-lovers, I didn’t know what to expect. If he was over the past, then perhaps we could hang, because I was bored, and Ninety Miles partied
hard.

But if he still hated me, then I needed to be out of there ASAP, because he was bound to pull some crap to topple me over as payback.

I mean, why on earth would he show up at Club Zip when he knew I’d be there? With my fiancé—who wasn’t here, of course—but, still.

Ninety Miles was the biggest
,
hottest rock band reigning right now. So, paired with me, the never-failing, forever-on-top-of-the-music-charts British sensation, in the same club, the intensity was at pressure cooker level. Bet the club owner was wishing he had a bigger club right now. No doubt there was a long line of people outside who couldn’t get in.

Word must’ve gotten out that I was partying alone tonight, because I couldn’t fathom
why
Tex was there.

I should go. I should really go.

As I was still on that thought, the guards permitted entrance to a pretty waitress. Smiling widely at me, she pronounced, “Courtesy of Tex Laklin,” as she relieved her hands of a tray holding a bottle of Champagne in an ice-bucket, three Champagne flutes, and a white-gold cigarette case with a raven bird engraved on the front.

The engraving alone told me the case belonged to Tex. He used to call me Raven, because he was obsessed with my hair. Of course, he didn’t know it was artificial.