Chapter 9
People could always tell what kind of mood I was in by the way I worked in the studio.
The second I walked in, and the soundproof door shut behind my back, I felt my shoulders drop as if I’d been holding my breath all day. Grind mode was activated, which meant I had a lot of shit to get off my chest.
The LED lights on the wall glowed with waveforms. Cables ran across the floor like veins. The booth lights were low, but the console lit up the room like the sun. The air inside smelled like cold A/C, cologne, and a lot of money that one shouldn’t have before they got a little attention.
Malik was at the studio again, but this time, we met at the label.
I wanted to show him what a professional set looked like.
That time, he came alone. I could tell he was smart in how he moved, but he was still from the East Side of Detroit.
I knew what he was about. He had to hustle the only way he knew how, the same way I had to fund the studio time and the gas to make it to gigs when I was on the rise.
I didn’t judge him for being a dope boy.
I understood that life all too well. I was proud of him for taking his talent seriously and how he stayed dedicated to the work we put in. I admired his progress.
Kam stood near the doorway with his arms folded and watched like he always did.
“Everything good?” I asked him without turning around as my fingers moved across the board. “Did Princess and Yana need a car today?”
Kam glanced at his phone. “Nah, Yana at the neighbor’s again.”
I huffed. “And Princess?”
“She at the house,” Kam replied.
I still hadn’t looked up, but I nodded my head. I never liked to lose my flow when I was focused. I pressed the microphone button down and spoke.
“Run it,” I told Malik.
The beat blasted through the speakers, full of heavy bass, with clean and crisp hi-hats.
Malik placed one hand over his headphones and leaned into the mic like he had something to prove.
He got halfway through his first verse, spilling like he was afraid the moment would disappear if he didn’t grab it fast enough.
I needed him to believe that shit. It didn’t sound hungry enough, so I cut the track.
“Again,” I said into the mic.
He scoffed. “Damn. Already?”
“Yeah, already,” I said. “You rushin’. I can’t tell if you tryna outrun the beat or your own thoughts.”
Malik rubbed the back of his neck and laughed nervously. “Sometimes, I feel like I gotta . . . you know . . . get it out before I lose it.”
“You ain’t gonna lose it,” I stated calmly. “You got time. You good.”
He stared through the glass at me as if he had heard the truth for the first time.
Kam silently continued to watch from the corner.
I hit the talkback button again. “Say it like you mean it. Don’t perform like you scared.”
Malik nodded, swallowed, and signaled to me that he was ready to go again.
He stood taller and put both his hands over his headphones. I hit play, and that time, he let the beat hold him instead of fighting it.
When he finished the first verse, I smiled proudly. I felt something in my chest loosen.
That was the part people never saw, the part that made me feel like I was worth something outside the charts and numbers. To help somebody catch themselves before the industry ate them alive, as it had almost done me, was the best part about this job.
We worked through three more takes. I moved him line by line, bar by bar. When he got it right, I nodded. When he didn’t, I made him do it again. For a while, everything else stopped existing, as it always had. Creating music was truly my solitude.
By the time we wrapped up, the room felt warmer. The energy shifted from work to relief. Malik leaned back in the chair with a grin on his face, like he couldn’t believe he made it through.
“Bro.” He shook his head. “I ain’t never been coached like that.”
“You ain’t never had nobody willing to tell you the truth,” I corrected. “A nigga like me gon’ make sure you get it right the first time, so all the extras is just extras. You feel me?”
He laughed. “Nah, for real. I ’preciate it. This . . . this different.”
“You earned it.” I stood and stretched my arms. “We can call this night a wrap.”
Malik laughed. “Aight, nigga. I’m gone.”
We dapped each other up, and Kam walked him out, talking about locking the next session in soon. I grabbed my jacket and followed behind them.
On the drive home, I remembered thinking about how much those L.A.
nights always tried to convince you that nothing bad could happen under those palm trees and string lights.
The freeway was packed, and headlights shone bright like the sun reflecting off the beach at Santa Monica.
Billboards flashed faces bigger than life and gave the impression that anyone could make it here.
My life looked like success from the outside, but inside, I always felt like a storm I didn’t know how to name.
I’d been avoiding my phone, so it was on silent. I only happened to know that it rang again because my music paused, and my sister’s name flashed across the screen on the dashboard.
I wasn’t really in the mood, but I answered it anyway with a sigh. “What’s up, Ken?”
“Well, damn,” she said immediately. “Hi to you too, famous.”
I grunted. “What’s up?”
Her voice was bright in that way it always was when she was excited about something. “So, are you coming to Detroit, or are you sending a cardboard cutout to walk me down the aisle?”
I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel. “Of course, I’m coming. Why you ask that?”
“Because.” She huffed. “I haven’t talked to you, or you haven’t talked to me about nothin’ wedding related. We have meetings, and Auntie Nita set up a website and—”
“I know,” I cut in. I knew she was right. I hadn’t reached out and checked in on her as much as I felt I could have. “I know. I apologize. I just been . . . I’m listening now, sis. What you need from me?”
“Just you,” she said. “And your tux situation.”
I frowned. “My tux situation?”
“Yes,” she said. “Have you gotten fitted yet, or are you waiting until the last second like you do with everything?”
“I been busy, Ken. I just said I was sorry.”
“Busy doing what?” she said. “Rappin’? Being rich? Avoiding love?”
I chuckled a little at that one. On a good day, we would’ve joked back and forth about it. But the news that I had gotten had occupied my mind so much those days that I didn’t feel like my regular self. Kennedy must’ve noticed it because her tone shifted into something a little more compassionate.
“Okay. What’s wrong, Brother?”
I stared into the traffic that I sat in. The quiet in the car pressed between us.
“I got some . . . shit going on,” I admitted.
“What kind of shit?” she asked.
I hesitated. I knew she would press me further and wouldn’t let it go, so I took a deep breath and just let it roll out.
“Amora claiming she got a baby that might be mine.”
Another pause fell between us. Then, I heard her sigh.
“What is it with you and these women and these secret babies?”
I didn’t laugh. My voice came out drier than I meant it to. “This ain’t funny.”
“I know,” she said softly. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just . . . Damn, Zay.”
I swallowed. “I can’t go through this again.”
“You scared?”
“Yeah,” I admitted. “I’m scared.”
“Of being a dad?” she asked.
“Of being a bad one. Of messing up the only thing that’s ever felt like it mattered.”
Kennedy went quiet for a second, then said, “It sounds more like you scared of losing your family. What did Princess say about it?”
My throat tightened. “I haven’t told her. She doesn’t know.”
“Zay!” Her voice boomed through the speaker. “You can’t do that.”
“I’m trying to handle it first.”
“When you gonna realize that you can’t fix everything?
” she shot back. “You always talk about handling something first, fix this first, figure out that. Then you don’t do a damn thing.
You just go to the studio and work and work, and then, when shit blows up, you gotta do damage control. Ain’t you tired, Zay?”
I clenched my jaw and swallowed. I didn’t have a comeback for that, because she was right.
The last time I tried to confront a problem that I had, I ended up in jail for beating my abusive stepfather’s ass.
Since then, instead of getting upset or handling an issue, I just went to work.
I thought that turning my pain into success would help.
Instead, someone always ended up hurt in the process.
“Princess has always been there for you,” Kennedy continued. “She kept a secret from you, yeah, true, but she has always had your back. But the least you can do to that girl is not have her find this out from a fuckin’ blog.”
“I know,” I muttered.
“I’m not trying to beat you down, Brother.” Kennedy’s voice lowered. “I just want to see you finally take charge of your life and stop hiding behind your work. You are an amazing artist. You proved that. Allow yourself to be an amazing man. And an amazing father.”
I didn’t respond. Tears welled in my eyes. Again, I knew she had been right. I hated to even think about confrontation, let alone deal with it.
She sighed. “Just . . . don’t be stubborn with this, okay? This is your family. Take control, take the lead. You got this. You are not my father.”
“I’m trying,” I quietly managed to get out. “I’m really trying.”
Just as I pulled into my driveway and cut the engine, Kam texted. I grabbed my phone and opened the message.
Kam: You seen this?
Under his text was a link to Amora’s Instagram page. My heart pounded inside my chest. I knew that whatever it was wasn’t going to be good.
The link directed me to a post of a baby’s face. The background was white, as if that baby were lying on a plush pillow. I saw little chubby cheeks with big, brown, innocent eyes. The blue cap on top of his head let me know it was a boy.
With my heart racing, I scrolled to the caption.
Written directly under the photo was a quote.
I read the words, and my stomach twisted.
It wasn’t just any quote; it was one of my lyrics.
What caused my lungs to press into my rib cage as I sighed deeply was when I noticed it was not a random one either.
It was a clear indication that it was directed toward me.
“I wasn’t ready for it. I was stuck in my ways. But God knew what I needed, sent you straight through the haze. You heaven sent 4real, like my brightest days. Everybody, please help me welcome into the world, Zayn Cash. Isn’t he the cutest?”
The comments were going crazy.
“A boy? I knew it! Congrats!”
“GNZ about to eat this up!”
But the ones that stuck out the most to me read:
“That’s Zay baby.”
“Looks just like Zay!”
“His name is Zayn, why not just Zay Jr.?”
“Fuck!” I pounded my hands on the dashboard. She knew what she was doing when she decided to post that caption. She did it because I didn’t agree to speak to her.
“What? What’s wrong?” Kennedy gasped. I had forgotten she was still on the line.
“She slick hinting! She knows what she’s doing!” I shouted.
“Who? What . . . what happened?”
“Amora!” I snapped. “She posted this picture online of the baby with a caption to my song. She know what the fuck she doing!”
“Oh my God, what?” she replied. “I’m ’bout to go look now. She messy as fuck, for real!”
I wrapped my fingers tighter around the phone as I continued to scroll through the comments. That shit got real, then.
“Ken, I’ll call you back.”
“Zay—”
I hung up before she could protest.
I stared at the post again and felt the anger steam from my head.
Princess hated social media, and she hated mess. She did not like strangers who had opinions about her life as if they paid rent in it.
And here we were. Again.
A text from Kam flashed across my screen. I tapped it and read.
Kam: You need to tell Princess before she sees it.
Me: I know
Then, I spoke out loud. “I know.”
Kam sent another message.
Kam: What you want to do now?
I just stared at it with my fingers hovering like I could press the right button and undo everything. Before I could reply, another message popped up. This time, it was from Amora.
I opened it.
Amora: You ready to talk?
I stared at the words until they blurred.