Scandalous - Michael B Jordan

chapter 18

bakari looks apoplectic as the crowd roars. bile rose in my throat, but i hold my fake smile. the host shot to his feet. whooping, pumping his fist, inciting the audience, he spun on me and said something i couldn't hear over the noise. it didn't matter.

my heart pounding like i was gonna have a heart attack, the look on bakari's face crushing me, i told myself i did the right thing. i distracted and evaded.
i had to.

but i was sick about it. gut-wrenchingly sick, but i didn't have a choice. ryan must have a video of bakari spanking my naked ass as he flung me over his shoulder. i had to protect michael. i remembered every word of his threat about making him my next viral video, and i couldn't let that happen.

i'll lose him for sure if that happened. not that i had him, i knew that, rationally, but i couldn't let a video surface of him. at least now i had a chance to text cortez and tell him to sue ryan and miami morning if they leaked anything.

i tell myself i had to say what i did. i had to get the attention away from whatever footage ryan had.
the host shouted over the crowd, "we're cutting to commercial, but stay tuned!" he turned to the producer in the wings, laughing, making a cutthroat motion.

the cameras swung to scan the audience and the live stream cut to commercial. bakari was on me in half a second. his hand wrapped around my upper arm and we were moving. his other arm in front of us, he plowed through the producer and everyone else in production, taking us straight toward the rear exit.

the producer, the host, the stage hands, the assistants, they shouted my name, and his, but bakari didn't pause. the two luna and associates men that come with us suddenly appeared, and bakari moved his hand to the back of my neck.

idiotic, unexpected heat rushed between my legs at the display of dominance and i faltered, making me misstep. my ankle twisted in my six-inch heels and i cried out as i started to fall. before i hit the ground, his heavy, thick arms landed behind my knees and back and i was airborne.

knowing i shouldn't have thrown him under the bus anymore, knowing it was shitty, i couldn't let the opportunity pass. i looked behind us, then i did what every actress lived to do.

blowing the entire crew, host and producer a hollywood kiss, i wrapped my arms around my bodyguard's thick neck, threw my head back and laughed like this was all part of the show. michael kicked the back door open.

the three black suv's right where we left them, bakari strode to the front one. "protocol." he barked, yanking the rear door open.

"alright," the two other bodyguards said in unison, one walking to the second suv, the other getting behind the wheel of the front one.

bakari practically threw me in the back seat and got in behind me, slamming the door shut. "drive." he barked at the brunette man in a luna and associates shirt who had gotten behind the wheel.

the driver floored it, and i was pushed against the seat. for ten terrifying minutes he wove in and out of downtown miami traffic until he cut across to the coast and drove toward the house in golden beach.
the whole ride, bakari sat next me silently fuming.
his mouth set, his jaw ticking, he stared out the window.

my hands shaking, i pulled my phone out of my purse and sent ryan a text, telling him to go after miami morning for whatever video they had and spend whatever it took to get it shut down.

fighting tears, i carefully took off my shoes and rubbed my sore ankle. it wasn't swelling up, so thank god for that, but it still hurt. everything hurt. the driver pulled up to the first security gate and entered the code, then drove to the gate for the house and entered that code.