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I roll my eyes. Men are so slow. ‘Because this job is too important to me to risk having her project whatever we were onto my work, for better or worse. I want her to take my work at face value, not in the context of me being the ex of a guy she once had a thing with. I mean it’s not even relevant. I just want to be able to maintain professionalism and I don’t want our connection to affect that. I mean not our connection, our—’

‘History.’ Never to be repeated.

‘Right. History. Prehistoric history. Like, mammoth-and-sabre-tooth-tiger history.’

Malakai tilts his head. ‘Are you high? You blink a lot when you’re high. I’ve only seen it once before, but that time you blinked a lot.’

I tip my chin up. ‘If you must know, I accidentally had a sip of Taré’s weed tea.’

Malakai is trying and failing to trap a smile. His eyes glint. ‘You have the tolerance of an ant. When we were in Amsterdam, I had to convince you that a demon wasn’t crawling up your throat– you just wanted to cough. You typed “pray for me” in your notes app and held it up to my face.’

‘Well, that was the Kiki you knew. This Kiki’s handling it great. Do you have a snack on you? Like a packet of pickled-onion Monster Munch?’ Somewhere in the recesses of my brain, I am aware that asking Malakai for a snack I last had when I was nine probably undermines my detached stance.

Malakai’s mouth twitches. ‘Nah. Sorry.’ He reaches into his sleek laptop backpack and pulls out a bottle of water. ‘Have some of this, Bad Gyal Kiki. It’s new. You won’t get lurgies.’

He watches me, eyes glittering, as I swig from the bottle with large gulps that immediately settle me, balancing my mind. ‘Feeling better?’

‘I didn’t need anything to feel better from, but thanks.’ I pass him back the bottle, but his pinky and ring finger overlap my hand and a shock of heat flings my eyes up to his, already burning.

I snatch my hand back, but it’s too late. He feels it, I feel it, and it’s undeniable that the energy between us will forever be undead, immune to anger, heartbreak, sparking obnoxiously. One touch and I’m reminded of my pleasure in being at his mercy. Of his being at mine. It means I just have to work harder to fight it, because clearly Malakai does not want all of me. He may not even be capable of it any more. I know this. I’m so sure I know this. What was I meant to know again? Malakai untwists the cap of the bottle and sips from it. His mouth where my mouth has been feels nakedly intimate. It feels obscene.

‘So how we doing, gang?’ Malakai and I jerk in our seats as Taré swishes in, blunt in hand, and settles back into the seat between us. ‘What do we think? It will be intense. It will be long hours. It’s one thing for me to want to collaborate, it’s another thing for you to want to. I require commitment, all hands on deck. I’m trying to keep this team intimate.’

Malakai’s gaze drifts to mine and snags so firmly that it tugs at my core. I wonder how the ventilation works in this basement because suddenly it’s a feat to breathe. Taré continues with her rallying speech.

‘. . . So while–if you both say yes–you’ll meet the rest of the crew soon, you two will be working closest together. I want the film to be stripped back. Naked. Raw.’

She looks at both of us with all the seriousness of a head of state talking to her cabinet. ‘Are you both prepared to do that?’

Malakai and I look at each other, and the glister in his eyes is made sharper against the one I know is in mine. It’s a challenge. This is twisted, profoundly complicated and risky, but it could also, potentially, be pivotal. I’m not going to let some pesky tension–sexual or murderous–get in the way of me and my bag. We’re going to have to somehow make this work for the sake of our careers, and we have to manage to separate the personal and professional for the smoothness of our best friends’ wedding.

Malakai shrugs. ‘I’m ready.’ He tilts his head to the side and I see its shadow–the Jodeci smile, the Ginuwine grin, that D’Angelo ‘How Does It Feel’. ‘You ready?’ The flame in his eye is like a flicker of a lighter. I won’t burn this time, can’t burn this time.

To prove my point, I gesture at Taré to pass the blunt. Malakai’s brows tick up and the corners of his mouth flick down as he does a tiny nod, like he’s saying, ‘Oh, yeah? That how you’re feeling?’

I inhale from the burning, narrow tube even though I (in)famously do not smoke due to aforementioned incident in Amsterdam where I thought I needed an exorcism.

‘Been ready.’ I level his gaze with watery eyes and fail to swallow a violent cough.

Chapter 10

You Only Live Once or Twice

‘Cut– Taré, you’re doing great– hey, Kiki, can I have a word with you quickly—’ Malakai is frowning at the monitor, his hands hitched on his waist, headset on. Irritation at the interruption surges alongside– perhaps, God help me, because of– the acknowledgement that he looks distractingly attractive. He’s grumpy, focused and exhausted after several hours of shooting Taré’s recording sessions and interviews with me. There’s something quite sick about someone looking that good whilst overworked. After two weeks of balancingPhoenix,Aminah’s increasingly frenetic energy and the sporadic restaurant shifts, it’s taken a skincare overhaul guided by the strict and expensive counsel of Shanti to push the baggage carousel from under my eyes. But, on the other hand, Malakai gets to look alluringly dishevelled, like he’s the hero of a new Ryan Coogler action movie, sweating slightly in the warmth of the studio, navy T-shirt slightly creased and displaying a hefty bicep that I kind of feel the urge to bite. Arsehole. I hold on tighter to the irritation. It’s useful, regardless of reasoning. It helps maintain professional boundaries, keeping rabid thirst at bay, while reminding me that there can never be a future here– that I don’twanta future here.

‘Why?’ I sit back on the low maroon leather couch of the attic studio and glare at him. ‘I was in the zone.We–’ I gesture to Taré, sat next to me while genteelly sipping a cup of hot water and lemon– ‘were in the zone. You can’t just disrupt the flow of two people in conversation like that—’

Malakai’s mouth slants humourlessly at this. ‘Yeah, thing is, Kiki, I can, actually. It’s my job—’

‘Well, it’smyjob to make sure the overall vision is achieved and I don’t think that—’

‘Guys, is everything OK?’ Taré enquires absent-mindedly– in three seconds she’s found time to slightly detach herself, pick up her phone and start scrolling.

Malakai maintains my stare for a few seconds, eyes like granite. Unfortunately, since we’ve started working together, I’ve discovered that some residual telepathy has remained from our relationship. Turns out even when you consciously uncouple, some of you remains unconsciously coupled. Right now, in the flash of his eyes and the twitch of his sharp jaw, he’s asking me if I really want to get into it with him in front of Taré. Since the ‘decent rate’ that Taré is paying me is twice what I got whilst working on The Heartbeat, I decide to suck up my ire, and indulge Malakai’s tyrannical directorial whims.

I throw a smile at Taré. ‘Totally. Everything’s cool.’

Smoothing down the suede of my mini skirt, I rise to cross the chevron hardwood of the studio to meet Malakai by the monitor. He shifts slightly to make space for me, and my arm brushes his, the static of his skin and light smattering of hair sending spindles of flames up my skin. Thankfully, he’s too busy being Spike Up His Ass Lee to notice.