Chapter 12
chapter twelve
Kai
Denali seems . . . less unlike herself than she did the other day. Which is to say, she's no longer as mopey as before. After the flowers. But instead of the usual, sassy but professional assistant I am used to, now, she's a tyrant.
It suits her.
The gala fitting went off without a hitch.
But every time I came out of the dressing room, she had an opinion, and it was always a negative one.
I must've tried on sixteen different suits before they found one she was satisfied with.
And like, sure, I could have put my foot down, but she's a woman, and women will be looking at me, so I suppose it's important to appeal to them.
And Denali wouldn't steer me wrong, not when her check is contingent on my success.
And again, it feels like it's her natural state. And I don't hate it. So there's that.
I have to admit, the suit she picked out for me is stunning.
It cuts a hell of a figure, and I'm sure I won't lack for girls to invite back to my room.
The gala isn't in town, so we'll be staying at a nice hotel.
I'm sure that'll be a nice change of pace for Denali, who lives in a less-than-ideal part of town.
Her distance from me is beginning to become an issue, though, now that she's an on-call employee.
I might have to suggest to her that she move closer, in a nicer part of town, to better facilitate her job.
Currently, we're sitting in the back of the car in midday traffic, on our way to the rescheduled podcast. I'm not thrilled to be a part of it; in fact, I hate podcasts, but it's part of the job.
I can't help it. I'll bet they want to know a million different things I'm not technically allowed to answer—or at least I wasn't allowed, under my old company.
But I've been independent for a while, so maybe now is the time I spread my wings and act like the man I am, not the trainee they used to have on a leash.
"Did the podcast send over their list of questions for us to approve, kera?" I'm not really fussed about it, usually someone at the company, or the manager, or my agent, approves or denies them for me, but I'm a little curious what they plan to make me talk about.
"Oh, yes, I already submitted a revised list for you," she mumbles, flicking through her emails on the tablet. "And I really wish you'd tell me what that new nickname you have for me means. It's irritating not to know."
I've been calling her little woodpecker since she unplugged the speakers and started bossing me around in earnest. It feels right.
Sure, I've never given another assistant a pet name before, but this one is special.
She's annoying, like a woodpecker when you're trying to sleep.
A small, very attractive woodpecker, but one nonetheless.
Our fingers touch when she hands me the damn square electronic, and I watch quietly as she hurriedly pulls back and looks away.
It's not uncommon for people I work with to find me intimidating. I'm used to it. But for some reason, I don't think that's what this is. This is something else entirely.
Did I cause this? Or was this here before, and I just didn't notice it?
"We're here, you two," Roger says from the front, his eyes meeting Denali's in the rear view mirror. "Would you like me to wait, or just be back at a certain time—"
"There's no telling how long they'll go on, but they have a strict cutoff time of four, so meet us back here then?
" Denali checks her schedule again, frowning.
"No, make that three thirty. I'll see if I can wrap them up early so we can squeeze in that restaurant across town for lunch—Cutlery, I think they're called.
They've been sending you invitations to appear, and though it's just publicity for them, it's a healthy restaurant, so it'll be good for your image, too.
And Arista already approved it, so if you like the food, we can work out a sponsorship, maybe. "
And lunch is a necessity, for humans, she'll likely add—
"And lunch is a necessity for us humans. Which I'm still not sure you are."
And there it is.
In the short few months Denali has worked for me, I've started to learn her mannerisms, her habits, her sayings she defaults to.
It's amazing, because I never took the time to get to know my assistants or my drivers like I've taken to with her and Roger.
She did that. Her words that first day changed me and I don't know why.
Something in me wants to give her a good opinion of me, not a bad one.
I shouldn't care. She's just a worker bee in the great hive that is kNight Entertainment. But something about her makes me want to be on my best behavior. Or as good of behavior as I can manage, which is a wholly different thing from a normal person's good behavior.
Scandals and I don't know each other. There's no string of illicit affairs in my history, no secret kids, no weird headlines for doing stupid shit where people or cameras can catch me. No, as far as global or digital scandals go, I'm squeaky clean. But I'm no saint, and my image attests to that.
The questions on the list were all the basics—what brought you here?
What do you hope to find with your new company?
Do you have plans for the future? Are you making Nocturna Beach your new home?
But beyond those are carefully phrased ones designed to get around the censorship and let the interviewer ask more personal questions.
How does your family feel about the separation?
Is there anyone else joining you here soon?
What do you do in your free time? Have you made any friends yet?
They just want to know if I'm seeing anyone, what I'm doing with my life.
Back home, I'm not allowed to answer those questions.
But here, they've been approved. If I ever plan to go back to Japan and be successful, then I'll need to be careful of what I say here, even if the company has approved it.
It's not just the present day that would be affected. It's the future, too. My future, not theirs.
I'm ushered into the shiny, boring-ass glass building and dragged away to a makeup chair where they powder me up to make me look paler, prettier, however they want me, and then style my hair.
Once that's done—and it's a mediocre job at best—I'm led to a recording booth, where the podcast host is waiting with his stack of papers and his little soundboard and cue cards, watching the door for the moment I walk in and things kick off.
I'm not thrilled. I'm actually nervous. I hate when people only hear my voice. It's worrying to me, because my voice is nice, sure, but I've always been known for my face. How will people know who it is behind that mic if it's just me and some other random guy talking?
Old worries surface, but I tamp them down and take a deep breath. I'm no longer that little scared trainee. Nor am I a fresh idol with a thin skin. I'm a tried and tested professional, and there's no room for self-doubt in my schedule. Only perfection.
"We're ready for you, Mr. Kobayashi," the little assistant to the station says with a smile, holding her arm out to direct me to the booth.
Not that I need the direction, since it's right in front of me.
I give her a polite nod and step inside, already wishing I can get out of here before the time is up.
The interviewer is a man this time, but there's a woman behind him, and she's staring me down like she wants to take a bite of me.
I'm not timid around women, but something about her feels like a trap.
Still, she's pretty, so I offer her a polite smile and prepare to get down to business.
It's not her fault I'm miserable about being here.
I wonder, though, why she's here, when the interview only needs one person.
"So nice to have you on the show," the man says with a grin that's too wide, too forced. He's not happy to be here, either. "I'm Danny, the host of the show. Why don't you have a seat and introduce yourself, Mister Kai—can we call you that? Is it Kai, or Kaito, or—"
"Kai is fine," I say with a wince. The chair is mildly uncomfortable, the back too straight, the seat cushion flatter than the fields of corn country. I cross my legs, then watch as the man across from me notices, and frowns. "It's nice to be here."
It's not, but they don't pay me to tell the truth. These people don't want the truth. They want what sells, and I know that well.
"Well, shall we get started?"
The questions run out fifteen minutes in, though I do my best to drag the answers out.
It's impossible to do more without a captive audience.
I can't interact with people as well verbally as I can visually.
But that's not going to change just because I want it to, so I suck it up and straighten my spine when the woman swaps places with the man and starts asking the more personal questions that weren't on the approved list of things they could ask me.
"So, Kai, do you have a secret romance perhaps? Is there a special someone you miss back home? Or maybe a new flame here in town?" She licks her lips and leans forward when she asks, like she's volunteering to fill the role if it's empty and I'm looking.
I'm not. I don't want a woman long-term. I am just fine with the temporary flings I fall in and out of bed with these days. One night, maybe two, if they're good, and then I delete their numbers and go on my way. No repeats, no return trips, no lingering feelings.
They wouldn't understand my lifestyle, anyhow. Not many women are interested in a man who won't have time for them. And time is a commodity I don't have enough of, that's for sure.
"No secret romance," I say with a chuckle, trying my best to sound amused instead of irritated. "I'm too busy for lingering relationships like that. Can't have a new flame, or an old one, if you eat, sleep, and breathe the idol life."
"Ah, yeah, you have a point," she teases, her voice light. "But surely there's someone out there you spend your time with, right?"
These damn interviewers don't know when to quit. "Like I said, I'm too busy. There's no such thing as downtime in my life. Every extra second is spent working on my skills and honing my talent. There's no rest for the wicked, or the famous. And I'm both."
She twitters on about how everyone's loved someone in their lives, blah blah romance is a hot commodity, blah blah you should consider taking some time off, blah blah plenty of women in Nocturna Beach who'd love to get to know me, and I do my best to ignore her, hoping my noncommittal answers will turn her off the trail, but she's not having it, not taking hints, whatever you want to call it.
And then, all hell breaks loose.
The door to the recording booth springs open, and in marches Denali, followed closely by a big, burly man who I'd expect to be doing a better job of keeping her contained.
Instead, she's dragging him along behind her as she storms over to the girl's mic and yanks the cord out of the back, cutting the sound to it.
She does the same with mine next, and then puts her hand on the desk and scowls at the hostess.
"Interview's over," my fiery assistant snaps, her eyes hard as she sizes the other woman up.
"You've veered off the approved topics for ten minutes, and Kai has been more than accommodating to your blatant disregard for what we sent you and what was agreed upon in the contract.
" She snaps her fingers in my direction and I stand with a grin, watching her work her magic.
"We're done here. And I daresay the company will be thrilled to hear of the underhanded tactics you've employed here today.
I wouldn't expect any of their other talents to agree to an interview on your show again, if this is how you comport yourselves. "
She doesn't wait for an answer; instead, Denali just grabs my hand and drags me from the booth, daring anyone to stop us with her body language alone. I sort of wish I could see her face right now, because I'll just bet it's intimidating as fuck.
Letting her lead me out of the studio and to the car is easy enough.
Sure enough, as if she'd willed him to be there early, Roger is waiting at the curb, and she opens the door and practically shoves me in before storming around the car and getting in on her side.
The door slams. Her arms cross over her chest, and she scowls at the back of the passenger headrest as Roger waits for her direction.
Which she's not giving, because she's so mad she's practically fuming.
I pick up the tablet off her lap and open the schedule, skimming it to see where we're scheduled next.
Lunch. And sure enough, there's a big enough gap for us to drop into the new restaurant she mentioned she wanted to try last week. Not the one the company wants me to endorse.
"Well, Roger, it looks like we're going to Rockaway Heights," I say with a grin, flipping through the schedule for the rest of the day. "Lunchtime."
"Rockaway Heights? That's not where the Cutlery is," she mumbles, staring at me in confusion.
"No, it's where that place you wanted to try is," I say simply, closing the conversation just like that. "Rockaway Heights, Roger."
He puts the car in drive and grins at me in the rear view mirror. "Rockaway Heights it is, sir. Buckle up, and we'll get going."
I don't miss the tiny grin that Denali makes as she looks out the window and tries to hide it.