3. Keep It Cute #2
I watched how she moved across that stage like it was built for her. Not performing for the crowd—becoming the crowd. The magnetic pull that made people lean forward without knowing why. Made them scream louder, hold their phones steadier, quote her bars in their bios like scripture.
Her fans weren't just fans. They were disciples. Young, hungry, unafraid to tear down anyone who came for their girl. That kind of loyalty that couldn't be bought, only earned. The kind I used to have, before success made everyone more careful with their worship.
And the way they stared at her, like she was speaking directly to their souls, telling them secrets I'd never learned the language for.
Funny how she found her voice. Used to be the token rapper in some girl group, spitting cute feminism-for-beginners bars between the real singers, including her partner-in-mess, Skye Bella.
Back when I was the only woman in the room who could go bar-for-bar with the men, she was sing-rapping in the back, waiting for her eight counts.
Then one day her little rap verses weren't enough anymore.
She wanted the whole spotlight. Wanted to be taken seriously.
Can't even be mad at the ambition. I just wished she'd earned it without a whole pop group to practice on first.
Then Shi.ctrl flipped that Sleigh Bells sample and Cam rode it like she'd been waiting her whole career for a beat that unhinged.
The song went everywhere. Not slow-burn viral, not algorithm viral.
Overnight, everybody-and-their-mama's favorite talk show host viral.
You heard it leaking out of car windows and nail salons in the same week.
Cam's delivery that made it stick—this feral ass energy that shouldn't have worked over that much distortion but did.
I hated how much it worked, especially because I had dropped heat not even two days before.
That sat wrong with me. Not just that, but how much the so-called Wolfepack loved her.
Like she was giving them permission to be something I'd never thought to offer.
She had the weird Black girlies on lock ever since she showed up a festival wearing some outfit Z called cosplay.
Whatever that was. They pulled up in my comments with their hashtags and wolf emojis and pastel-colored hair.
The ones with dyed hair and nose piercings who'd never seen themselves in my music, who needed someone to tell them their strangeness was a superpower.
Smart market, honestly. Untapped demographic. She aimed for the girls who thought I was talking over them.
Zaniyah caught my gaze, waiting for the reaction.
I gave her nothing.
"You ready to go?" she said.
"Always," I said, and this time, it sounded true.
The plan was to take the back stairs to the car, avoid any more "fan encounters," and get the fuck out before the next shift of bloggers showed up. If you think handlers are paid for their discretion, you've never seen one try to power-walk a diva through a service tunnel in head to toe black.
We left the alternate lounge and hit the hallway, where the carpet died and exposed concrete took over.
The cold hit my dress in a way the main hall's air conditioning never could, like the building itself was rooting against you.
Pipes overhead, mystery stains on the walls, the hum of something industrial somewhere down the line.
Every step echoed, even though I tried to land them soft.
Handler led the way, her bun now a little frayed, probably from stress or from fielding a hundred texts since we last saw her. She kept glancing over her shoulder, like she expected a camera crew to burst out of the ceiling at any minute.
Zaniyah followed right behind me, arms crossed tight over her chest.
We took two turns, one stairwell, then hit a dead end. Metal door, painted gray, locked tight. Handler fished out a ring of keys so big it could've choked a python and started trying them all, one after the other.
Behind us, the hallway stretched, empty except for a busted cleaning cart and a pile of broken-down boxes. The only light came from a bulb overhead, which made the whole scene feel like the part of the movie where someone gets jumped.
I tried not to imagine who might wait on the other side of the door. But tonight, I could feel something heavier pressing against my back.
The lock clicked. Handler pushed the door open, sticking her head in first, and then motioned us forward. "Quick," she said, voice low. "It's clear."
It wasn't.
I made it two steps past the threshold and stopped dead. Cam Wolfe was walking toward the door. We both froze at the same moment, like we'd walked into an invisible wall.
Her mouth opened slightly, then snapped shut. For a heartbeat, neither of us moved—just two people who'd spent the last weeks throwing shots in the press, now face-to-face in a hallway with nowhere to duck.
She didn't move. Neither did I.
We were about three feet apart. If I'd stuck my hand out, I could've mushed her face. Nobody breathed. The air hung so thick you could slice it into cubes.
Cam stared me down like I was a test she'd been studying for all semester.
Handler hovered in the doorway, accidentally blocking the escape route. Zaniyah tensed next to me, as if she was about to launch into a flying tackle, or something.
I straightened my back, rolled my shoulders, and gave Cam the best unblinking stare in my arsenal. Chin up. Jaw locked.
She gave it right back, but with a smirk.
Cam didn't want no smoke, not from me. But, baby, she was about to get it.