7. Direct Hit
Direct Hit
Romi
This was about to get ugly.
It was one thing to expect a confrontation; it was another to feel the entire studio coil with anticipation, every pair of eyes on me and Cam like we were about to start windmilling each other with our actual fists, with someone yelling "WORLDSTAR!
" in the background. The only thing louder than the tension was the high-pitched whine of a charging strobe, somewhere behind the main softbox.
Cam didn't move. She stared at me with a look like she wanted me to say something wild just so she could snap it off and eat it raw.
"Now that is a very good question," I said, careful not to let my inner Bronx out. "Cause I could ask you the same thing. You got a problem, or what? What seems to be the issue?"
She tilted her head, jaw flexing, and for a second I almost laughed. It was like arguing with your own shadow: every time you cut, it cut you back.
We stood there, silent, while some pink-haired chick at the other end of the makeup table froze with her lashes half-glued, eyes wide enough to see the whites all the way around.
The photographer—who had the energy of a man who'd been disappointed by every woman in his life—lost patience. He raised his voice, a controlled bark, "Ladies, I need you both to step into the back room and work this out, right this second. I'm not shooting until you can be professional."
It would've been funny if I hadn't seen it coming.
The set producer, clipboard clutched so tight it might shatter, echoed, "Everyone else, take fifteen. Now."
You never seen people clear out so fast. Stacks Monroe scooped her phone and bolted like she was late for court.
The makeup girls all found new things to sterilize in the hallway.
Even the stylist abandoned her tray of hairpins on the floor and made a break for it.
I watched, half-impressed, as the chaos vaporized in less than ten seconds.
The only one left was the pink-haired chick, who immediately busied herself with her own reflection, dabbing a lip brush back and forth while not even pretending not to listen.
Cam's handler appeared, trying to do the "diplomatic" routine, but Cam ignored her.
I barely noticed my handler until she appeared at my elbow, squeezing down on my arm like I was a balloon about to pop.
"Let's go," she hissed in my ear, her whole jaw clenched so tight I wondered if she'd need surgery to open it again.
She started ushering me toward the side door, fingers digging into the sleeve of my jacket. I let her for exactly three steps, then twisted free with a smile that said, I am absolutely going to make your life hell for the next hour.
Cam followed, close behind, shoulders so squared she looked like she'd been born angry. I caught her in the reflection in a mirror: nostrils flared, mouth set hard, eyes flicking to me with every step.
The break room was windowless, maybe twelve feet square, lit by a single panel of cold, flickering fluorescent.
Someone had set up a folding table and four of those plastic chairs that snap under you if you weigh more than a hundred and ten.
The floor was linoleum, stained with something brown near the trash can.
Cam's handler got there first and held the door, gesturing for us to enter like we were being sent to the principal's office. My own handler made a big show of checking her phone, probably DMing the PR team to get a head start on whatever damage this meeting was about to cause.
"Out," I said, not looking at either of them.
My handler's head snapped up. "Romi, I don't think—"
"Girl, I wasn't asking. Go!"
They exchanged glances, but they knew better than to argue. The door shut behind them.
No one spoke until they left. The hum of the light overhead filled every empty space.
It was a standoff.
She went first. Of course she did.
"You really did that," Cam said, jaw tight, like the words were fighting to get out faster than she could manage them.
"In front of everybody. You really just—" She stopped.
Something moved across her face, there and gone.
"You know what? Fine. But don't act brand new when people react to every little thing you post. Like you didn't start this. "
I arched a brow. "It wasn't me giving sound bites and subtweets about how I don't deserve what I have because nobody could touch me. Instead of admitting I earned my spot. The fuck?"
She whirled, jaw set. "I don't have to subtweet. I got bars, I got fans, I got platinum in three countries. Why would I need to ride your name for press?"
"You tell me," I said. "You're the one who couldn't get a single on the charts last year without mentioning me. You wanna talk about fans? Yours only found out you existed because mine kept dragging you."
The fluorescent light buzzed like it was as pissed off as she was.
Her nostrils flared. "Yeah, well, at least mine don't treat me like a fucking god. I'm allowed to mess up. Yours eat each other alive every time you sneeze."
"Messing up is one thing," I said. "Building your entire fucking brand out of 'I'm not like other girls' is another."
She laughed, no joy in it. "Right, 'cause you invented being a bitch on the internet."
I laughed. Like, she really thought that was an insult. "That's what this is about. Got it. Cam, you're not mad at me. You're still crashing out because I said no to your little feature request and now you can't let it go. It's not a good look, babes."
That stopped her. She went silent, eyes narrowing. "Girl, what?"
"You heard me," I said, almost gentle. "You slid into my DMs, you begged for a verse—"
"I did not beg—"
"—and when I told you no, because it didn't make sense for my brand, not because you're not talented, but because your style is a whole different zip code—you ran straight to the timeline with it."
She stood there, and for one unguarded second I saw it. Not anger. Something rawer than that. Then her face closed back up.
A muscle jumped in her neck.
Cam stepped closer. She smelled different from what I expected. Better. I didn't think about that, or any other annoying information my brain noted at the moment.
I took a step back.
"You really wanna play it that way? Fine. Let's get into it."
She jabbed a finger at my chest, but knew not to touch me, or we were gonna have problems. "You act like you're above the drama, but all you do is stir it up.
You're terrified of being irrelevant, so you keep everyone on a string—hype them up, ice them out, then pretend you're the only one doing it for the culture.
I used to respect you, but all you ever taught me was how to keep receipts. "
I let her finish. I waited for the echo to die in the shitty fluorescent light.
"And how does that make you feel," I asked, stepping closer, eye level, "saying that to someone other than your mirror? Feel better now you got your shit off?"
She set her jaw, rocking back on her heels, hands fidgeting like she needed to snap a pencil in half. "Honestly? Yeah. Actually, yeah, it fucking does."
Her eyes didn't leave mine. I could count every lash, every micro-flinch at the edge of her mouth.
A vein fluttered at her throat, and for one stupid second, I wanted to press my thumb to it—just to feel how hard her pulse thumped there.
I wondered if I'd ever looked at someone that way: ready to break something, but listening for the line that would make it worth it.
I answered the look as honest as I could. "If you want me to apologize for not collabing, I'm gonna tell you right now, you can keep waiting. Your come-up had nothing to do with my brand—"
She scoffed. "I don't want your apology. I want you to stop acting like you're doing the culture some favor by existing."
"But it's you that keeps talking about the culture like you built something! What have you built besides a cult following that thinks being weird is the same as being deep?"
"At least I didn't build my whole personality around being untouchable. Must be exhausting being that paranoid about everyone who comes up behind you."
"Cam, you came into this industry with your whole heart on your sleeve, begging for a co-sign, and when I didn't give it to you, you decided the problem was me." I held her eyes, made sure she heard every single word. "It was never me. You just weren't ready."
The second it left my mouth, I knew I'd gone somewhere I didn't mean to. Not because it wasn't true. Because it was.
Her eyes flashed.
Time to take it to hell. "Oh, and paranoid? Baby, you're the one who can't stop talking about me! I'm not worried about who's coming up behind me. I'm annoyed by who won't stop following me around!"
"Following you?" Cam's voice went flat. "You're not a queen, Romi. You're a prison warden. Every girl who comes up under you is waiting for parole, let you tell it."
That one was good. I'll give her credit. "Funny how all my 'prisoners' keep begging for visits. You included."
"Ain't nobody begging. I'm just trying to understand when you started confusing fear with respect."
I shrugged, letting the barb graze off. "If you want to get out the yard so bad, then stop name-dropping me in interviews. Since you don't need me to help you do numbers."
She laughed, raw and scraping. "If you want to keep your throne, maybe try making a record that isn't just you recycling the same three themes and a Chanel reference."
"Ha! Better than sampling my entire catalog and acting you ate off anything but the scraps at my table. Keep pushing me and you'll hear exactly what I think of you."
"Keep dreaming I came up hungry for you." She came closer, voice dropping. "You got bars in the studio with my name on it? Drop it. I'll wait." Her jaw lifted, eyes steady. "You don't scare me. Not even a little."
"Listen to you," I said. "Be for fucking real, I'm the only reason anyone knows your name. Because, facts? If I left the game tomorrow, you'd starve without me."
"Make it make sense, Romi. One breath I don't need you, the next I'm starving at your table. Pick a lie."
We stood nose to nose in a stand-off that would've gone viral if anyone had the balls to record it. And then I made the mistake of actually looking at her.
Not the competitor, not the clickbait villain eating off shading me. I saw the sweat on her lip, the way her hands wouldn't stay still, how her eyes kept flicking down, then back up. And seeing all of it, up way too close like this, made me cut my words short.
I could've moved. But stepping back first would mean losing, and stepping forward again would mean something I didn't have the vocab for. So I stayed exactly where I was.
My pulse did something I didn't like. Shit.
The room was silent. The handlers had disappeared, probably to smoke or text their bosses that a homicide was brewing.
"There's no lie. There's just you, needing me to be one thing so you can sleep at night."
It felt like we'd already thrown every punch. Beef doesn't end when you run out of shots to fire. It ends when you run out of reasons to keep blasting. We weren't there yet.
Cam squared her shoulders, and something about the way she did it, defiant as fuck, made me notice how she crossed her arms and leaned forward, crowding my space like she was daring me to back down.
Like all that anger was looking for somewhere to go.
Her jaw was set tight, teeth gritted like she was biting back more than just words.
"Yeah? At least I'm real. You're so busy protecting your crown, you don't realize half your kingdom hates your guts.
Hell, even the ones you supposedly built up from nothing.
Ask Niko how that big sister thing went! "
She was right, but not in the way she thought.
I blinked once, waiting for the right words.
"Better to be hated than forgotten," I said, and heard my voice for the first time. It sounded old. Tired. Like I was already reading my own obituary.
Another one for the list, I guess. At least I was consistent.
"Yeah?" Cam's voice dropped, sharper now. More precise. "How's that working out for you? Must be real quiet at night with nobody left."
The words hit clean. Center mass.
My spine went rigid. Automatic. "I sleep fine."
In a California King-size bed. Egyptian cotton. Alone.
But I didn't say that part. Didn't need to give her the satisfaction of knowing she'd landed it. I kept my face smooth, bored even, reciting someone else's tired material.
The fight lost steam, both of us running out of fresh ammo. The air stank of old sweat and the plastic off-gassing from the chairs.
Through the thin drywall, you could hear the studio ramping up again: the whir of strobes, someone giving a breathy laugh, the fake-excited instructions of that pissed-off photographer trying to reset the room.
It was like we were two ghosts, trapped in a utility closet while the world kept moving outside.
I looked at Cam. She'd stopped trying to win. Her mouth was flat, shoulders relaxed. The anger wasn't gone, but it had nowhere to go.
We stood there in silence, both of us too stubborn to admit we were both out of pocket.
Part of me actually wanted to ask what the hell she thought was gonna happen here. Like, genuinely wanted to know. Which was dumb as fuck, so I didn't.
She spoke first, voice clipped. "So. Good talk. You got your shit off, I got mine. Is this the part where we hug it out?"
"Not a chance in hell," I said, but my lips curled, just a little.
She snorted. "Didn't think so."
We both headed for the door, then caught ourselves. Last thing either of us needed was to walk out looking like we were on some kumbaya shit. I adjusted my tracksuit. The velour had gotten twisted during all that gesturing.
"After you, Your Highness," Cam said with a fake sweetness that made me want to start round two.
I looked her dead in the eye. Got all up in her space to show her I wasn't scared of her either. "Nah. Subjects go first." I let my lips curl slow and mean, too. Not quite a smile, sharper than that.
Cam's eyes flicked down to my mouth before she could stop them. She caught herself, jaw clenching, and took a deliberate step back. Her sleeve caught mine as she passed, velour on velour, that specific drag and then the crack, small and sharp and electric. We both went still.
I was breathing like I'd just finished a set. I had not just finished a set.
Cam stormed off hard like I had put her in time out.
The hallway went quiet. Pink hair clicked past in her heels, phone already out, pretending she wasn't about to make bank off this mess.
Whatever. People loved mess, and she was going to get her coins off that no matter what.
The damage was done anyway.