2. The People are Starving
The People are Starving
Cam
There's always this moment when you step into a room and you know down in your bones that people were talking about you just seconds before.
You can smell it: the hot air left behind by a flash fire of gossip.
I hit the afterparty alone, full face, Knicks cap low, custom button-down rolled to the elbow, opened just enough for the chain, but I didn't bother with my usual battery of handlers or hype people.
Didn't need them. Tonight wasn't for peacocking; it was for watching.
The music had bass thumping so hard it chewed the corners off every conversation.
Place was wall-to-wall with bodies: A she played the long game with industry schmoozes, always managed to find a real contact even in a crowd of bloodsuckers.
The only person who'd catch my eye tonight would be—no, not thinking about that yet.
Somewhere near the mini-bar, I caught a glimpse of a video looping on someone's phone.
For a second, it looked like a crowd shot from the festival, but when the person rotated the screen, I recognized myself: blurred, strobe-lit, mic pressed to my mouth and head tilted back in that way I practiced enough to make it look natural.
Whoever filmed it added a stupid filter, as if my skin needed the extra shine.
Someone else was watching the same video and offered a single raised eyebrow in my direction. I shrugged, nothing more. No point playing coy. If you're not feeding the beast, the beast makes a meal out of your bones.
I scooped a glass of something cold and orange off a passing tray, mostly to have a prop for my hands. The flavor was melted Starburst with a hint of vodka, but at least it took the edge off my tongue. I paced the perimeter again, catching more fragments.
I'd spent most of my life tuning out bullshit, but tonight every little hum felt like it was pressing directly against the back of my neck. It was almost a physical sensation, a finger poking into your vertebrae.
Someone brushed by me, not quite a bump but a definite "I coulda bumped you but chose not to." I looked, caught the sunglasses, the heavy chain, and the gap-toothed smile. Fucking Bishop.
A couple kids in last year's merch were huddled on the corner, phones out, faces lit up from underneath.
"—Romi's verse, though. Aired her the entire fuck out—"
"It was, like, a murder but with words. I can't believe they let her do that onstage."
"I'm obsessed. Honestly, I think they're both faking the beef. It's gotta be a promo thing, right?"
The first kid made a face, leaned in. "Nah, I heard she really hates her. It's old-school, like some East Coast–West Coast shit. Except, you know. Gayer."
Gayer. Right. Because apparently we can't just be two artists who happen to be women without someone making it about who we're sleeping with. Revolutionary thinking from the peanut gallery.
After the first hour, people forgot I was even there. That was how I liked it—less pressure, more data. I listened to who said what, filed away which names got dropped and which got erased. It was the same game I'd played in green rooms my whole career. Only the faces changed.
What kept humming at the edge of every laugh, every gesture, was my name.
Not shouted. Not even always spoken, but it was there, rippling through the room like a hidden track on a record you didn't ask for.
Sometimes it was the flick of an eyebrow or a micro-pause in someone's sentence, but you knew.
I knew. The afterparty had a thousand little satellites, all tuning in for the same headline.
"That verse."
It didn't matter if they said it or just nodded in the direction of the DJ. Everyone in the room ran a gravity assist around those two words. That verse. Like the rest of the set had been prologue, and now nobody remembered who else had even performed tonight.
I knew exactly which verse they meant.
I'd watched it happen, even from backstage, with the stage manager hissing cues into a walkie after we walked past each other.
When Romi hit the first line, the entire front row leaned in like they were about to catch something fragile.
Then the second line—all shade, no apology.
It didn't burn; it froze. Even the staff by the exit stopped pretending to work and just stared.
And now, the room was full of it. People dissecting, recombining, searching for the next angle. The bloggers were DMing their sources, the A I could tell by the constant glow from every wrist, every clutch bag.
In an hour, there'd be a meme; by sunrise, there'd be a think piece.
"Romi Dulce: Back to Battle Rap Roots?" or "Cam Wolfe: Canceled at the Afterparty? "
Not that I cared. Not that I'd ever show it.
The conversations wrapped around me like bad weather. People had opinions, but nobody had the balls to say them to my face. Even the ones who approached me came with compliments first, softening the ground before they tried to get a reaction.
I found a dead spot near the bar and let the night glaze over me. There was freedom in pretending not to care. If you acted like it was beneath you, sometimes it was. I kept my posture easy, let my face run on autopilot.
Someone touched my arm, a manicured finger light as a bug. Familiar dragon fruit body spray. I turned. The phone-glow caught the golden brown of her skin, nude lip, curled edges laid flat. That same face I'd have known anywhere.
"Wow, so this is where the losers hang out," Skye said, nudging my foot with hers under the table.
She dropped onto the seat next to me, legs crossed high enough to be a problem.
Slanted eyes, button nose wrinkled up, a grin those full lips were built for.
She'd always known exactly what her face could get away with.
"You tracked me down just to call me a loser?" I flicked at her honey-blonde ponytail that landed on my arm.
"Nah, figured you'd appreciate the company," she said. Her voice was the same as always. Like chewing Pop Rocks, all snap and sugar, but you might chip a tooth if you weren't careful. "You're taking it like a champ, though, gotta give you that. Most people would be hiding in the bathroom by now."
"I don't run from verses," I said, and she grinned, satisfied. I wondered if she'd be retelling that line tomorrow. Maybe. I didn't care.
Every so often, I'd catch a stray word: "Cam," "diss," "legend," "petty." My name and hers, flickering together. Sometimes you could see people running the math, calculating who came out on top, who'd be first to flinch.
Spoiler: It wouldn't be me.
She glanced around, making sure she had an audience, then leaned in, elbows on knees. "So, let's talk about that little show you put on tonight."
"Wasn't a little show," I said. "It was the whole headliner."
Skye smirked, fake-slow clap. "There she is. Miss Modesty." She tilted her head, long lashes batting, but her eyes were laser-focused. "But let's be honest: you didn't expect that verse, did you?"
"I don't expect anything from Romi except what she did—striking first when she feels cornered."
Skye laughed, a quick, rude bark that turned a couple heads nearby. She tossed her hair and fished a gum pack out of her purse, popping two at once. "Oh my God, you are so full of shit. Your mean Scorpio ass lives for this!"