Chapter 6
chapter six
Denali
I make it the first week as Kai's assistant. Then the second. Then, before I know it, it's been a month, and my whole life has turned around.
Rent is caught up. I paid next month's in advance, much to the shock of Steve, my landlord, who thought we'd play touch-and-go for a lot longer while I sorted myself out, no doubt.
I bought a few new things for my closet, replaced household items that were so worn it's a miracle they lasted this long.
Hell, I even got Taco a new collar with a cute bell and a bow tie.
He's got a fancy new cat tower in the warmest spot in the house, right next to his favorite window now, and a litter box that scoops itself.
I've got enough money now to start a savings account and still make bills. And thanks to the raise that Mr. Kobayashi—Kai—demanded on my behalf, I'm able to go out once a week and do something fun for myself.
Life is good.
There's just one problem: Kai himself.
He's relaxed a little, sure, and he's eating on a regular basis now, but he's still a demanding, harsh taskmaster, and it's driving me up the walls. No sooner do I lay my head down for a moment than he's calling me, needing something that could have waited til the next morning.
I joked that he'd have to start paying me round-the-clock wages, and now he's having legal draft up a contract for on-call pay in exchange for me being a 24-7 always-on assistant.
I'm not so sure the money's worth it, though. I can't imagine being at the beck and call of yet another celebrity all the time, just to have him make stupid, frivolous demands of me whenever he's too lazy to do something for himself.
Well, in Kai's case, it's not an issue of laziness. More an issue of a lack of time to master yet another skill.
This week, he's in dance practice every day but Thursday, which means I'll be stuck inside a sweaty, hot, noise-filled dance studio while he works out choreography, learns routines for an upcoming music show performance, and practices until his body sweats out all the liquid inside it and he drops dead.
I've made his schedule for the next two weeks, I'm ahead on the administrative work he needs done this month, and I've got nothing to do but kill time.
So I pack up my laptop, an extra charge bank, and my phone, and plan to make myself available while simultaneously doing anything but work.
Which is how I find myself sitting in the cafeteria of the most upscale dance studio in the city while he berates the instructor and choreographer for not understanding what artistic vision is and how to harness it.
He's insane for the demands he puts on his staff, in all aspects.
The studio wants to shut down at five, so he pays them extra to stay open later so he can cram in more practice and do less days of it a week.
He works around the schedule of a local producer to record clips of his new tracks (they're just borrowed songs from the man he's standing in for, songs he's covering for the company, but still), working sometimes as late as midnight in that tiny, cramped box they call a production booth while they pour over the clips and sounds and vocals and pick them apart.
I've fallen asleep on a stool there twice now, and fell off one once. I still have the nice bruise that earned me, though it's starting to fade—finally. Unlike the eternal shame of falling on my ass out of a three foot high stool in the middle of a recording session.
Now, I've mastered the art of napping on the fly—because when you're keeping up with someone as active and on the go as Kai Kobayashi, you need to be able to grab sleep whenever, wherever you can.
And sometimes that means you're sleeping in the car for ten minutes at a time as you return from the last thing on his schedule, or taking a fifteen minute snooze as he does an interview with a local magazine or blog, or shoots MV scenes, or any number of activities he doesn't need anyone else for.
I'm a little behind on my catch-up sleep, though, so I'm dragging a little more than normal. I lean my head against the wall where I'm sitting in the booth and sigh, closing my eyes for just a second.
And then a hand shakes me awake quite rudely.
"Miss? You can't sleep here. You'll have to go somewhere else; we're closing."
I'm confused—we just got here. Kai's got the place rented and the choreographer booked out for at least three more hours.
I glance at my watch, frowning, but sure enough, I've zoned out and taken a two hour nap when I only intended to close my eyes for ten minutes.
Now, all the free time I planned to spend catching up on the latest fashion and working on my portfolio for any future social media management clients who might reach out is gone, wasted on a nap that wasn't even that good.
I still feel just as tired as I did when we showed up, except for now, my eyes are a bit red, too.
Because I forgot to take my contacts out to switch to glasses while I worked on the computer.
I groan, packing my things up as I reassure the worker that I'll be out in a few minutes, and then fish out my eyedrops and try to remedy my lack of intelligent decisions today.
I accidentally pack up my cellphone in the bottom of my bag when I shove all my things into it, and before I can get five feet out of the cafeteria, it starts to ring.
"You're a mess, always stressed, you're just looking to impress—"
Kai's ringtone isn't that. I know that sound, and I'm not answering it. It's either an old flame whose contact I've deleted, or a spam call, and neither one of those sounds like someone I'd like to talk to right now. So I let it go to voicemail. If it's important, they'll leave me a message.
The next song it plays is the same, and I shake it off, knowing there's more important things to make happen right now, like getting to wherever Kai is and making sure he's not killed his choreographer or fired him over some perceived slight or lack of ability or drive.
Thankfully, they're still going at it when I come up on the door to the studio they're using, so I set down my bag outside the doorway, stuff my hand into the bottom of the damn thing, and yank my phone out, determined to silence it once and for all by shutting it off until I'm ready to talk to people.
The name on the caller ID makes my blood run cold.
Theo The Terrible.
I've only got his name saved in my contacts still so I know not to answer his calls.
He doesn't make them often anymore, but when I first lost my job with him, when I first told him no, they happened every day.
Several times a day, he'd call me up to remind me that he wasn't finished with me.
That nobody tells Theo Swanson no. That he'd get what he wanted from me, or he'd make my life hell.
When I made it plain to him that I didn't care what he did, the calls slowed, until one day, they just didn't come.
The first day he went without calling me was like a breath of fresh air. Until the next call came a week later, shattering the false sense of security I'd built around myself.
I haven't had to feel that helpless fear in months. Why now, all of a sudden, after going so long without contact, would he try to reach out again?
My hands shake, but I'm proud of myself for not even bothering to answer it, or hit the fuck you button. Instead, I just let it ring through to the voicemail, and when he calls again, I silence the ringer and set it back in the bottom of my bag, shaking like a leaf the whole time.
I'm shaken. Disturbed. Because his renewed interest can't mean anything good.
All he's ever wanted out of me was my body, and then, when he couldn't have that, all he wanted then was my surrender.
Since I refused him that, the only thing he has left is disrupting my sense of peace and security.
And he relishes the fear I approach his memory with, I'm sure.
He knows what he does to me every time I see his name on my caller ID. He doesn't care. It's like he's not human, or he's incapable of human emotion, empathy, sympathy, or regret.
Men like him never change.
I almost don't hear the sound of someone approaching me, but since I'm on high alert, adrenaline is pumping through my veins, and I'm spiraling, old habits kick in, and I don't even bother checking who's behind me before I reach for the hand that falls on my shoulder, twist their arm around and forward, yanking them off-balance, and spin as I pull a pen out of my hair and put it against their throat.
Those self-defense training classes come in handy, when I can remember what I learned in them.
"Shit, Denali—stop, stop, it's me, what the fuck?!?"
I come to and realize that I've got the sharp end of my ballpoint pen pressed against the jugular of my fucking boss.
Shit. Well, there goes my gainful employment.
The pen hits the floor when it falls from my grip, clattering there in the silence as Kai and I regard each other with a wariness that hasn't been present in our working relationship since the day I met him.
To him, I'm dangerous now, a loose cannon who is likely to kill him if he approaches me wrong.
To me, he's an unknown variable, and now, he might decide that keeping me around isn't worth the trouble it could mean for him in the future.
I'm damaged, I know that. It's my problem to deal with.
But this is just the icing on the cake. Now that everything's stabilized for me, even though it's not in the way I imagined it, a single phone call brings everything to a screeching halt and ruins any chance of improvement I had in my life.
All the money I could have saved, that I spent on upgrades and replacements and spoiling myself and Taco, it all feels like a stinging slap in the face now, because I might need to sell all the things that I thought I could afford to make ends meet while I scramble to find a few dead-end jobs to cover the cost of food and rent and—
"Denali!" Kai's voice is like a razor blade to my brain, and I shake out of whatever this stupid frozen moment is and shiver, curling in on myself now that the fear-fueled adrenaline has leeched from my system, leaving nothing but exhaustion in its wake.
"S-sorry," I mumble, reaching desperately for the strap of my messenger bag. "A-are you finished for the night?"
His eyes narrow as he watches me curiously.
"No, actually. I was going to come find you and tell you to just go ahead and have our driver take you back to your apartment.
I'm planning to work a few extra hours tonight to perfect this routine, so I won't have to pay this asshole for another week of his bullshit.
" His famous scowl comes out to play, and I'm reminded that wherever Theo is, he's not here.
I'm here, with Kai, and Theo can't hurt me.
He can, but I tell myself he can't, because the alternative is to live in fear that he'll always be able to reach me, that I'll never escape him. And that's not living. That's not even surviving. That's existing, plain and simple. Nothing more to it than that.
"Denali?" he asks slowly, and I shake my head, attempting to separate myself from those terrible memories and ground myself in the present reality. "Did you hear me?"
"Yeah, sure, Kai, you're staying late," I say slowly, gritting my teeth as I lift my bag and throw the strap over my shoulder, wincing at the weight of it on my aching body.
"I don't mind staying late. You might need the car, and if he's not back in time, you'll be inconvenienced. You can't afford to wait around—"
His hands twitch, and I see him raise them to the outsides of my shoulders, pinning me in place with a curious, worried glare. "What's going on? Is there something I should know?"
I know what he's not saying: why did you nearly kill me with a ballpoint pen? But I don't have an answer for him, not one that will make any sense. I can't tell this man that a terrible previous employer still haunts every waking moment of my life when I'm unfortunately reminded of his existence.
"I'm just tired," I lie, yawning for maximum effect. I don't know if he believes me or not, but it's all I've got in me to do to make him believe it. "I'll just call a cab and take off. You keep the car—"
"Let Roger drive you back," he says firmly, but unlike the firm, demanding way Theo used to speak to me, this time, the man using the tone fills it with his clear concern for his employee. "Will you be okay to work tomorrow?"
He eyes me like he's unsure I'm fit to work ever again, so I rush out with a quick, clipped yes, and rush off before he can say another word.
The ride home in the back of the company car is long, lonely, and silent, but for once, I don't have it in me to make small talk with Roger, or even to scroll social media.
I just stare out the window at the streetlights as they blur together, the car moving too fast to focus on any one thing for too long.
Unlike my brain, which is focused on one thing, and one thing only: the persistent, renewed threat of a man I thought I'd finally escaped.
Theo Swanson—actor, model, entrepreneur, and all-around American Sweetheart.
And my worst nightmare.