Chapter 3
Chapter Three
The network studio on Melrose was smaller than Kennedi expected. Two camera setups, a backdrop designed to resemble a custom garage, ring lights, and a sound guy who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.
She’d arrived an hour early to walk the space, check the lighting, and test angles on her phone. She wanted the B-roll clean, the interview tight, and the whole segment polished before the premiere tomorrow. Giovanni had given her full creative control, and she planned to use every bit of it.
Her notebook sat open on the director’s chair, questions arranged by topic, color-coded with tabs. She’d spent the flight organizing her thoughts between stolen glances at a man she was still pretending hadn’t disrupted her whole nervous system.
She’d snapped out of it for a moment. Professional Kennedi was back in charge. The woman from the plane who whispered damn at the sight of Rolani Pracher had been tucked away, dealt with, and dismissed.
Or so she thought.
Two o'clock came and went. Then two fifteen. Kennedi checked her phone, checked her watch, and checked the door — same man, different city, same problem.
“This man,” she muttered, flipping her notebook shut. She was starting to see a pattern, and the pattern was disrespectful.
She pulled up his number, typed with both thumbs, and almost erased it. She wasn't about to chase a grown man down for a shoot he'd agreed to.
She sent it anyway.
Kennedi: You still coming or should I pivot?
Three dots appeared. Then:
Ro: Outside, give me 5 minutes. My bad.
She set the phone down. Five minutes she could work with. She picked up her notebook and started reviewing her questions, in the meantime, but her eyes kept drifting to the door.
He was sitting in his rental, engine still running, talking to Georgie.
Today, Pearl’s headstone was going into the ground.
The final marker on a life that had held his together.
He’d picked the stone months ago, obsessed over the inscription, and changed it twice.
And now it was happening three thousand miles away while he sat in a parking lot on Melrose.
“They said they’re installing it today,” Georgie told him, her voice careful. “The granite is beautiful, baby. Just like she would’ve wanted. I’m heading over to make sure they set it right.”
He pressed his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose. “What about the flower bed?”
“Already handled. Just like you asked.”
He nodded even though she couldn’t see him. He checked the time again. He’d used his five minutes, but rushing inside wouldn’t change anything happening back home, but it would mean hanging up before he was ready.
“You okay, baby?” Georgie asked.
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “I’m good. Just make sure those flowers look right. She was particular.”
“Boy, who you telling? I have known that woman for sixty years. I’ll send you a picture when it’s done.”
“Thank you, Georgie. I mean that.”
“I know you do. Now go handle your business out there. She’s proud of you. And so am I. Don’t forget that.”
He sat there after the call ended, his hand still gripping the phone against his thigh. He exhaled through his nose, getting his emotions in check. He grabbed the keys, killed the engine, and stepped out into the heat.
By the time he pushed through the studio door, the heaviness was tucked somewhere behind his ribs where nobody could reach it. The mask was on. The smile was loaded.
“Aye, this where I’m supposed to be?”
Kennedi looked up from her notes, and whatever warmth had been in her expression was gone. She sat in the director’s chair with her arms folded, one leg crossed over the other; her expression could stone him.
“You’re forty-five minutes late.”
He strolled in, wearing a fitted tee, sweats, and Jordans. Simple. No chains today, just his watch. His locs hung loose past his shoulders, his beard freshly lined. She couldn’t help but notice that he looked better today than yesterday.
“My bad,” He said, like forty-five minutes was nothing. “I had to handle something.”
“Handle something?” She repeated it flat, letting the words sit between them. “You were late to the plane yesterday. Now you’re late to my shoot. Should I expect this for the premiere tomorrow too, or is that one special enough for you to show up on time?”
In a brief moment, a flicker appeared behind his hazel eyes, something she didn’t have the chance to explore. It quickly vanished, replaced by his irritating smirk.
“I said my bad, Kennedi. What else you need from me?”
She pressed her lips together.
“I need you to sit down so we can get started. We’ve already lost almost an hour of studio time.”
She motioned toward the stool positioned in front of the backdrop. He moved toward it, but he didn’t sit right away. He stood there studying the fake garage setup, the painted tool wall, and the branded Customs by Giovanni banner.
“This look like a garage to you?” He turned to her, forehead creased.
“It’s a set. It’s supposed to suggest the environment.”
“It suggests bullshit.” He tapped the foam wrench mounted to the pegboard. “Ain’t a real tool on this wall. Who approved this?”
“The network’s production team.”
“Have they ever been in a real shop?”
“Probably not.”
He shook his head and sat on the stool, looking out of place and unbothered about it simultaneously.
The cameraman adjusted his lens while Kennedi grabbed the lapel mic from the sound cart. She moved toward Rolani, and the distance between them became a problem. She could smell him again.
“What is that?” The question left her mouth before she could catch it.
He looked up at her. “What’s what?”
“Your cologne.” She kept her tone casual, like she was asking about the weather and not inhaling this man like oxygen. “I noticed it on the plane.”
His eyebrows rose slowly, and that grin spread across his face as if he had just been handed a gift. “So you’ve been thinking about how I smell since yesterday?”
“I asked a simple question.”
“Azzaro. The Most Wanted.” He leaned back on the stool, completely at ease. “That’s mine on your brain now.”
She shook her head. The laugh escaped anyway. “Well, it smells good, it fits you.”
“Was that a compliment, Kennedi?”
She grabbed the lapel mic from the cart just to give her hands something to do that wasn’t strangling him. “Can I?” She held it up, gesturing toward his collar.
He leaned forward slightly, arms resting on his thighs, giving her access. “Go ahead.”
Her fingers worked the clip onto his collar.
She’d mic’d hundreds of interview subjects.
Senators, athletes, CEOs. Her hands never shook.
But his chest was right there, rising and falling slowly.
She fumbled the clip once, caught it, and pressed it into place.
His cologne was going to be a problem for the rest of this shoot as it attacked her senses again.
“You good?” His voice was low, close enough that she felt the vibration of it in her own chest.
“Fine.” She stepped back quickly, smoothing her hands down her pants. “We’re going to start with the partnership, how you and Giovanni built Customs. Then we’ll talk about the show, the premiere, and what it means for the brand. Standard promo stuff.”
“Cool.”
“I need you to answer in full sentences. Don’t just say yes or no. Repeat the question in your answer so we can edit around my voice if we need to.”
He studied her while she talked, his head tilted, watching her with open fascination. She’d seen that look on the plane—that quiet intensity that had nothing to do with the words being said and everything to do with the woman saying them.
“You hear me?”
“I hear you.” His eyes didn’t move from her face. “Damn, you run a strict program, don’t you?”
“When I’m working? Yes.”
“I like it.”
She ignored that and turned to the cameraman. “Derek, are we good?”
“Rolling whenever you are.”
Kennedi settled into the chair across from Rolani, crossed her legs, and opened her notebook. The red light blinked on. She shifted into journalist mode, her spine straightening, her voice dropping into that professional register she’d spent years perfecting.
“Tell us about Customs by Giovanni and what viewers can expect from the show.”
He gave her the answers. Good ones, clean, she could chop into fifteen-second clips for Instagram and trailers.
He talked about business, the vision, and how the show captured the culture behind the cars.
He stayed on script, hit every talking point, and looked good doing it.
The camera loved him. That part wasn’t surprising.
What surprised her was his discipline. On the plane, he’d been all charm mixed with chaos.
Here, with the red light on, he was measured.
Controlled. He gave exactly what was needed and nothing more.
She recognized that. The ability to perform without revealing.
She did it herself every time she was on camera.
“And what does the premiere tomorrow mean for you personally?” she asked.
“The premiere means the work paid off. Simple as that.”
She made a note to revisit that question later, off camera, for TKL.
“Cut. Let’s reset for the next angle.”
Derek adjusted the camera position while the sound guy checked levels. Kennedi stood and walked behind the monitor to review the footage, scrolling through the playback with her pen between her teeth. Rolani stayed on the stool, pulling out his phone.
“Ayo.” His voice dropped, harder than it had been all afternoon, and Kennedi's ears pricked up before she could help it. “I don't care what he’s talking about. Tell that nigga the answer is no. He had his chance to get right, and he played with it. That conversation is dead.”
A pause. She kept her eyes on the monitor, pretending she wasn't listening. But she was listening to every syllable.
“Nah, nah. If he got a problem, I’ll be more than happy to revisit it in person, but for now I’m on legit business, respect that.
” His voice was calm, but the edge underneath it was real enough that the sound guy glanced up from his phone.
Derek found something interesting on the ceiling to look at.
Another pause. Then a low laugh that had nothing funny in it. “Exactly. I thought so. We done?... Aight.”
He pocketed the phone and looked up at Kennedi like nothing had happened. “Are we good to go?”
She studied him a second longer than she should have.
The man who had just delivered smooth, network-friendly answers had switched into someone else entirely on that call.
Voice harder, posture different, energy that said he went from boardroom to block in the span of a phone call and back again without breaking a sweat.
She didn’t know why her thighs pressed together under her notebook. She filed that reaction away under things to never, ever acknowledge.
“Yeah. We’re good. One more angle.”
He stood and rolled his neck, the movement pulling his shirt across his shoulders and chest. The crown tattoo peeked from under his sleeve when he stretched his arm overhead. She saw it and looked away. He saw her staring and smiled.
The second angle went smoothly. He gave his answers, she asked her questions, and the professional framework held. On the surface.
Between takes, Rolani filled the empty space. He stood too close when she showed him the monitor. His hand found the back of her chair when he leaned in to watch the playback, his thumb grazing the fabric near her shoulder. He asked her questions that had nothing to do with the interview.
“Where’d you learn all this? The camera angles and shit.”
“School. Then, ten years in newsrooms. It’s not just about angles; it’s about questions that uncover the core issues.”
“You miss it? The newsroom life?”
“Sometimes. The pace. The pressure.” She adjusted the monitor, hyper-aware of his proximity. “Being the first person to break a story. That rush is hard to replicate.”
“I know that rush.” His voice dropped, and the double meaning wasn’t subtle. “Hard to let go of once you’ve had it.”
She didn’t respond. Couldn’t respond to that without going somewhere; this conversation had no business going on in a professional setting.
“B-roll,” she announced, louder than necessary. “Derek, let’s get him walking through the set, interacting with the backdrop. Rolani, just be natural. Pretend the camera isn’t there.”
“I’ve been pretending shit ain’t there all day.” He said it under his breath, but she heard it. He wanted her to hear it.
The camera followed him, and Kennedi watched the monitor, directing Derek with small hand gestures.
He stopped at the workbench prop, picked up a wrench that was bolted down, and gave the camera a look that said you see this bullshit? Derek laughed behind the lens.
“That’s a wrap,” Kennedi said. “That's exactly what I needed.”
He drifted closer as she reviewed the playback, standing just close enough to be felt without touching. She stayed focused on the monitor, refusing to acknowledge how aware she was of him.
Derek powered down. The sound guy was already packing.
Rolani didn’t move right away. He leaned against the workbench, arms folded, watching her do the thing she did when she was uncomfortable. He was learning her tells. The notebook was a prop at this point, and they both knew it.
“So.” He pushed off the bench and closed the distance between them with three unhurried steps. “How’d I do, boss lady?”
“Everything turned out good. Clean takes. The network will be happy.”
“That ain’t what I asked.” He stood in front of her now, close enough that she had to tilt her chin up to meet his eyes. “I asked how I did.”
Its specificity made her pulse jump. He wasn’t asking about the interview. He was asking if she saw him. If the last two hours had moved whatever this was between them in any direction.
“You were...” She searched for the safe word. Professional. Adequate. Fine. “Surprising.”
“Surprising how?”
“You’re not what I expected. That’s not a bad thing.”
“What’d you expect?”
“Someone easier to dismiss.”
The words landed, and his whole face changed. The smirk gave way to something open she tried hard to ignore.
“Good,” he said quietly. “Don’t dismiss me then.”