Kissing the Opps (Hot Mic #3)

1. One Mic

One Mic

Romi

You only get one entrance.

That's the law in the industry. Nobody remembers the middle, just the opening and the exit. I reminded myself of that every time before the lights cut out. It was the only moment I allowed for nerves.

Tonight: the main festival stage, nine p.m. slot, three rows of screens stacked like an altar.

The crowd so thick it looked viscous. Still electric from whatever Cam Wolfe had thrown down on the stage earlier.

Security had set up a barrier thirty feet out, but the front-liners ignored it, already jostling for position, biceps flexed on barricades and cellphones out like holy relics.

Backstage, the dark was gluey and close.

Zaniyah tugged at the hem of my bodycon dress one more time.

My waist was snatched under the fabric, leaving just enough room for breath control.

That was the point. Louboutin boots, custom, because my thick ass calves would never fit off-the-rack, and I'd rather limp than wear anything that didn't look like it could slit your throat.

The crowd was still riding high from Cam's set. Perfect.

We crossed in the tunnel, and she didn't just nod.

She gave me that long, cocky look, eyes dragging over me like she had all the time in the world, and I wasn't the reason half these people bought tickets.

Taking inventory she hadn't earned the right to take.

Fresh off stage, sweat shining on broad shoulders and tan skin, that mess of tattoos blocking out the light, towel slung carelessly around her neck.

No respect. No gratitude. Just pure fuck you.

I reached for my mic pack to shut it off.

Cam saw it. "You good, Queen?" Her eyes dragged up, unhurried. "You look a little"—the corners of her mouth pulled—"pressed."

I cut my eyes at her. My gaze lingered anyway. Beat too long. The way she got right up in my space made my skin tighten. She smirked. I sneered back.

I turned to Zaniyah. "Who let fans back here?"

"Aww, come on. It's business. Never personal," Cam called out, as Z tugged at me.

The lights in the tunnel pulsed, pulling me forward. Playtime was over, and I wasn't here to babysit nobody's bratty-ass kids.

Cam had been everywhere this year, a full-on media blitz. Crowing about her new collab with Stacks, the luxury brand deal, her seat at the grown-up table.

The last interview, with Willa Sykes, was the one that really chafed my ass the more I watched it.

Cam, perched on a studio couch, blue-tinted glasses, legs spread wide, hands spelling out an alphabet only she understood.

A tattoo peeked out of a too-small band tee.

"Romi is solid. Her catalog speaks for itself.

But she's legacy, you know? I'm not here to pay homage.

I'm here to eat. It's like—she opened the door, but now she wants to act like she owns the house.

She came up where it was real quiet, now it's crowded but she's still calling for a crown she ain't have to fight for. "

People called it shade. But I knew the taste of it—acidic all the way through. That "opened the door" line made me want to snap every hinge on every gate I ever kicked open to prove I'd built it with my own goddamn hands. Ungrateful, just like all the others who took a swipe at the crown.

Like I ain't fight for scraps at a table I wasn't even supposed to eat at.

It was time to remind everyone how queens handle children who forget their place.

The stage manager did the final countdown on his fingers.

The MC, voice already cracking, hyping my name over the pre-set.

"Y'all ready for the Queen?" I didn't even need to look to know my face was up on the Jumbotrons, crowd filling in the hook before the intro played.

They loved a coronation. That was the problem.

First step: nothing. Just a silhouette, one hand on the mic, arm thrown up so you saw every ring, every flash of manicure.

I held it for a count of ten, watching the blue and white phone screens bloom across the sea.

The more you gave, the less they wanted.

So I gave them negative space. Let them eat their own anticipation.

When the bass dropped, it hit from under the stage. Eighty thousand watts straight into the breastbone. The LED screens shimmered with my logo—a single R, dripping crown—and the house lights did that thing where you could see the sweat on every forehead in the pit.

I walked out deliberate, not lazy. Each movement like it cost money. The mic was custom, too. Matte black, heavier than regulation, so my wrist tensed with every syllable. I liked the pain; it kept the flow precise.

First track: "Apex." Old hit, crowd-pleaser, simple bars but perfect for warming them up.

I let the background track do most of the chorus so I could scan the audience.

Third row, some thirsty influencer with more ring lights than sense.

Left pit, a cluster of lesbians in matching tees, probably flown in for the weekend.

Up front, the usual: six security guards and a kid in a Cam Wolfe crop top who looked like she'd murder her own mother for a retweet.

I hit every line with accuracy. Years of practice. Even when I closed my eyes—just to flex the vocal run—I still pictured the choreography down to the quarter-note. You can't lose your place if you never step out of line.

Next up: "Platinum Chains." I bent my knee, leaned into the front of the stage, close enough that some sweat flicked off my jaw.

They lost their minds. Felt it all the way through the boots, the tidal surge of bodies, the gasp when I let the words slide low and dirty at the end of each bar.

I'd spent so many years being too sharp, too cool, too fucking composed; now I let the voice dip, let it graze their ears. Give the illusion of intimacy.

At the bridge, I pulled the mic back, just enough, and watched eighty thousand people scream it back at me: Dulce, bitch/ain't shit sweet!

Like they'd been waiting their whole lives to say it out loud.

Maybe they had.

Halfway through, I clocked my team in the wings.

Zaniyah, hands folded tight, mouthing every lyric with me.

Jamel, a label A&R, pretending to check emails while nervously scanning for glitches.

There was one, though—a sound tech with their face half lit by the glow of their own phone, not even looking at me but texting with violent focus.

I made a note of it. Somebody always wanted the next viral fuck-up.

Next song: a debut. Nobody had heard it yet except the inner circle and the guy who mixed it in LA.

I almost smiled when the beat started because it was so crisp.

You heard every dollar the label sank into those horns, each snare hit slicing the air.

The first verse, I kept it subdued—no need to oversell when you already had heat.

Phones went up instantly, a glittering wall.

I saw my own face refracted in a thousand little rectangles.

I could tell who was really listening and who was getting content for Pixogram by the way they moved: the former swayed on the two and the four, the latter held their breath waiting for a memeable moment.

The bridge was always my favorite because I could show off rapid-fire delivery. I kept it going just past the point of comfort, watched the faces start to panic ("is she going to make it?"), then snapped the mic away for the last word. Precision. The only way to stay alive.

If you looked at me from the seats, all you'd see was poise.

Grace. Maybe a little ice. If you knew me—the real me—you'd see the math happening in my head the whole time: counting bars, calculating applause, gaming out the narrative for every camera angle.

Even when I leaned down and let a fan kiss my knuckles, I was already thinking about how to use that shot for the next round of promo.

At the end of the set, I paused center stage.

Not a bow—I didn't do bows—but a freeze-frame, holding the moment until it became uncomfortable.

The crowd screamed. You could taste the adrenaline in the air, like battery acid and hot popcorn.

I flicked the mic up, caught it by the head, and let it rest against my jaw as if it weighed nothing at all.

"Y'all good?" I asked, finally breaking character.

The house lights stuttered their 'get off the stage' warning.

But I figured by the way the crowd howled back, they weren't done.

The kid in the Cam shirt still screaming, tears running down her face.

I gave her a single eyebrow raise, half mercy, half warning.

I wasn't above gratitude. But I was above humility.

I cut the DJ off for the outro. My voice boomed over the mic, raw and bare, skipping the effects because I wasn't done and wasn't nobody 'bout to run me off this stage because nobody runs me.

The people who forgot? They needed a reminder that under all the armor, it was still me, still the girl who'd started in basement cyphers back in the BX, eating shit and selling hooks for rent money.

A runner handed me a bottle of Fiji, the condensation already pooling on my palm. Over the PA, the crowd was still chanting. Not "one more song," but my name, which meant they hadn't burned out yet. I drained half the bottle in one go, then checked the screen. Still trending. Top ten this time.

It was supposed to be over. Four songs, no encore. But I could taste the air outside—how it shifted, got rawer, almost dangerous, when you gave people a taste of something forbidden.

I ain't need a beat. All I ever needed was me and a mic. And I had some shit to get off my chest.

"Let's talk legacy," I said, calm but lethal. "Where fame's a receipt and ya soul is the prequel/Where you show up to claim what you bled for equal—"

The first row froze, as if the air got thick.

"Let's talk doors I kicked clean off the frame/So you could tiptoe in/screamin' my name/raised that roof 'til it cracked from the weight/now squatters want rights in the house I made!"

Phones shot into the air. They smelled drama.

I didn't rush. Every syllable, I sharpened and set loose. I watched the band from the corner of my eye—the drummer mouthing fuck, the bassist biting her lip.

"Let's talk about crowns and the price I paid/I walked through fire just to carve that braid/Big mouths make targets, that's how I was made/been dodging slugs since ya fave learned to shade…"

The crowd started to wake up, that weird frequency where the crowd knows a line is coming and they want to get it on camera.

"Let's talk value/the market adjusted the claim/Every year I built/a comma on my name/Now they quote me for clout while I bill 'em for game."

The verses flowed. I caught fragments of the crowd's energy.

Whispers, shifting bodies, someone in the front row actually gasping.

Each line built on the last, painting the picture of what it costs to be first, to break through, to survive long enough to watch others walk through doors you bled to open.

By the next line, the entire crowd was leaning forward.

Even the security guards were glancing over.

The final bar hit like a sledgehammer. Faces changed in real time. Confusion melting into recognition, recognition sharpening into shock. The phones that had been recording casually were now steady, focused, capturing what everyone suddenly realized was about to become legendary.

When I finished, the silence stretched like a held breath.

The mic swung from my hand like a pendulum. The temperature dropped. Some people gasped, some blinked, faces gone slack as the meaning percolated. The ones who knew, knew. The rest would be texting about it before the setlist even hit Genius.

I didn't wait for the ovation. I walked off stage. The crowd erupted anyway.

Back in the tunnel, Zaniyah caught me, face mid-frown. "You trying to start a war?"

I shrugged. "I'm just keeping receipts."

I still heard the crowd, but it was different now—softer, half in awe, half in terror.

You only get one entrance. But you can leave as many exit wounds as you want.

Tonight, I wanted them to bleed a little.

Cam would hit back, of course. That was the game. They'd package it up and sell it as empowerment, as feminist beef, as whatever the PR cycle demanded. But for once, I wanted to own the narrative, to be the one who swung first.

Because, yeah, maybe the door was open for Cam.

Maybe it was open for all of them. But I remembered what it was like to not even be let into the building.

I remembered fighting to spit my own rhymes, not the ones Peachtree's hit makers ghostwrote for me.

The one whose demo got left in the trash until some white boy on VTube sampled it and went viral.

I'd spent so long being careful, being cold, that I'd believed the mask was all I had. Tonight, I'd let it slip. I liked how it felt. I hated that I liked it.

Someone passed me a bottle of water.

The team pressed in, everyone grinning for the photos. I let them crowd around me, stood still while the flashes went off, even bared my teeth for a couple of the shots.

But I knew the real battle was waiting, somewhere backstage, with a phone screen burning blue into the dark and a girl plotting her revenge in 240 characters or less.

I drained the water, stood and stretched, every joint in my body complaining. I took off the boots, finally, and let my bare feet sink into the gross green room carpet. The cold prickled up my calves.

Somewhere inside me, a small voice whispered that I should have left it alone. That I should have let these new girls have their fun, let them crown whoever they wanted next. But I didn't know how to do that.

Never had.