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The black leather miniskirt she has on cinches at her tiny waist and stretches a little tightly over curved hips, so that when she sits down, it rides up her thighs, which I'm trying not to stare at from my position. Her white midriff top with puffed sleeves shows off the silky-smooth skin of her back, and her leather boots are zipped all the way up to just below the knee. She looks ready to dance a night away at a club and command every single man's attention in there.
Definitely not the same little KiKi I saw peeking around the corner when I would visit the Yin's Hong Kong residence during summer vacations, and not the Kiara of five years ago in London. Who knows the things she’s experienced in that time. The places she’s been, the work she’s done... the men she’s been with.
An invisible vice tightens around my lungs and I have to press a hand against my chest to massage the breath back into my body, my eyes boring into the side of her face.
She suddenly looks over and I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping she didn’t catch me looking at her. After a few seconds, I peek out under my eyelashes to see a frown immediately crack across her forehead before she turns her attention back to the police report.
I don’t blame her.
Me staring at Kiara Yin and contemplating her womanhood is not going to end well for anyone.
A few seconds later, though, my eyes are drawn back to her.
Sitting with her back dead straight in what could fairly be described as one of the most uncomfortable chairs ever constructed, arms in her lap, she's composed, almost regal and holds the policeman's attention, looking serious, but not unkind.
She’s not showing any adverse effects from the incident at the club; I don’t even really know what happened inside the club, but she doesn’t look shaken or scared as I would reasonably expect any person to be. I don’t know if that’s a good thing; perhaps it’s not affecting her because she’s immune to it now. Something tells me, however, that even though I haven’t seen her in a long time and she could have changed in so many ways, the thing about Kiara is that she always felt everything deeply. No matter how often it happened. If she’s not showing anything now, it’s because she’s holding it in to get the job at hand done.
I feel a flash of pride as I can't help but notice how the police officer is hanging off her every word. When she sat down fifteen minutes ago, he was watching YouTube videos on his phone, taking a swig from his Coke can, and making no secret of the fact that he was not happy about being interrupted at this time of night.
Now he’s leaning so far across the table, his chest is almost touching it, his pen poised over the form, his eyes almost never leaving her face unless it’s to make sure he isn't writing on the table.
Knowing Kiara, she would’ve made it a point to keep her name and face out of the Hong Kong papers. He probably doesn’t know that he’s sitting in front of one of the heirs to a billion dollar fortune and estate. No, she was commanding his attention based on nothing but the way she is carrying and conducting herself.
Like I said, pride.
Not that I have a damn reason to feel any ownership over who she's grown up to be. I'm nothing but Kylian, Nathan's annoying friend who eats too much, listens to horrendous old people music, embarrasses her in front of her friends when she’s cutting school… and the person who… the person who turned out to be a complete and total asshole five years ago. She hasn’t come right out and said anything about how she feels about what happened but considering that she looks at me as if I served tofurkey for Christmas dinner, I can hazard an educated guess.
And even when I was hanging around Nathan's house all those summers, I hadn't ever spent much time alone with her.
Nathan had made it clear that his sister was out of bounds, and after seeing how he reacted when he'd found a photo of Kiara with a boy's arm around her shoulder when we were in our senior year and she was only 12 years old, I'd be surprised if she's even mentioned a male in her life ever again. Probably not if she wanted him to live.
If anyone has ever seen Nathan train for as little as five minutes at his Muay Thai club, they'd make it a point not to piss him off in any way. And now that I think about it, Kiara used to train right beside him. That might explain the tone of her legs and the slight curve of bicep.
The sound of the metal chair leg scratching on the linoleum floor draws me out of my musing about her body, and good thing too. My body is starting to respond in ways I hadn't expected.
The police officer who took her report is saying, "We will call you as soon as we have any news. But... as I told you..."
"It might be very likely that will I never see my car again," she finishes for him.
With their conversation coming to an end, I stand up, stretching my legs and shaking out the stiffness from the horrible chair.
The policeman turns to me, almost as if he's forgotten that I've been there the whole time.
"Kylian," I say, reaching over and offering him my hand. "Baxter. Thank you for your help with Miss Kiara and her car. If you don’t mind, I'll take her home now."
He bows slightly and then takes my hand.
Kiara ignores me and says to the police officer, "If you will get me a taxi, please."
My hand keeps a grip on the cop’s hand and I stare directly into his eyes. "Please, don't trouble yourself. I will drive her home."
He swallows and nods.
I let go of his hand and turn to Kiara who looks like her glare could cut through a six-inch thick titanium wall. "You don't want to burden the officers any more, do you? I'm sure they need to get right on finding your car.” While my tone is joking, the smile on my face is wide and genuine, but it doesn't have the desired effect and the respectful attitude she had graced the police officer with has quickly faded.
"Never mind. I will walk," she hisses, picks up her purse and storms out of the station.
"Please excuse her, she has had a very rough night. Thank you for helping us." A quick nod to the two policemen and I’m striding after her.
