12. INTERLUDE - RideDie Shit
INTERLUDE - Ride or Die Shit
Stacks
The gym smelled like rubber mats and that fake-ass lavender spray they used to cover up sweat. I was in the back corner by the free weights, the camera crew scattered around like they were shooting a whole documentary instead of a thirty-second ad spot for some protein powder I didn't even drink.
"Okay, Stacks, one more set!" The director had that voice that was doing entirely too much for six in the morning, but I guessed that was the job. "Give us power, give us strength, make it look effortless!"
I wrapped my hands tighter around the barbell.
Effortless. Gotcha. I lifted, controlled, and my shoulders burned the way they should.
The camera guy circled like a vulture, looking for the perfect angle.
I counted in my head—one, two, three—trying not to think about how I could be in the studio right now instead of playing fitness model for a brand that was gonna make my ass smaller in print ads.
No, we were being good. We were being professional. Stacks Monroe was a brand, baby, and brands showed up on time and smiled for the camera.
"Beautiful! Now give me that Stacks smile—yeah, there it is!"
I flashed teeth, even though my delts were screaming.
They got their shot. I set the bar down, rolled my shoulders back, and the crew started packing up lights and reflectors and all that equipment that would've been somebody's entire budget back when I was still shooting music videos in parking lots.
"That's a wrap! You were amazing, thank you so much!"
I nodded, grabbed the towel off the bench, wiped my face. My phone was across the room in my duffel, and I could see it from there—screen lit up like a whole Christmas tree. That was weird. I rarely got that many notifications unless—
Oh, maybe that was Dre's fine ass. We'd been texting back and forth all week, and Dre said they had a game in LA this weekend.
Six-foot-three baller, grin that made a bitch want to pull up in a jersey and nothing else.
I was just saying, if Dre was blowing up my phone right then, that was a whole different kind of emergency that might need my attention.
Had me ready to live my best courtside WAG life.
Okay, no, I wasn't gonna sprint across the gym like a crazy person in front of all these people. We were walking. Calmly. Like a bitch that has some sense.
I reached into my bag, fished out my phone, and the screen was…chaotic AF.
Hundred-and-something notifications. Group chats blowing up. Pixogram alerts stacked on top of each other like a car pileup. And right at the top, the headline that made my stomach drop.
"Oh, shit."
I tapped it. The post loaded: audio clip, waveform graphic, that smug-ass MikkiLeaks watermark in the corner. I pressed play, volume low, and Cam's voice came through my phone speaker, raw and unfinished:
Queenpin, is you really the blueprint?/Cuz I seen the threads at the seams, shit is translucent…
I stopped it. Scrolled down. The comments were already at two thousand, and it had only been up for—I checked the timestamp—forty-three minutes.
I was about to text Cam, but—no, wait. Let me think. Lord, let me not be the messy friend for once in my life. Let me actually think before I—
Too late. My thumbs were already moving.
Ayo! You straight?
I stared at the screen. The message stayed on Delivered. Not even read.
I tried calling. Straight to voicemail.
"Cam, it's me. I just saw—look, call me back. I'm here. Okay?"
I hung up. Stared at my phone. Scrolled through Pixogram and it was a whole wildfire. Stan accounts going slap ass off. Blogs already writing think pieces. Someone had made a poll: Who Won: Romi or Cam? and I wanted to yeet my phone into the sun.
Cam ain't release this. I knew my girl. She wasn't dirty like that. Cam wouldn't drop something this raw, this unfinished, not without clearing it first. Shi.ctrl wouldn't have let her. At least she wouldn't have dropped it without letting my messy ass hear it first. This was a leak-leak.
Somebody had done this to her.
And the thing was—okay, I'd been there at the label with them.
Saw Cam and Romi in the lobby, and I wasn't saying they were flirting, but…
nah, you know what, they were definitely giving each other these soft-ass looks.
Cam had been all nervous energy and too many of her little New York hand gestures, and Romi had been doing that thing where she acted like she wasn't paying attention but she was zoomed in on every word, face card insane the whole time.
There was this dude in the lobby hanging off every word, that's how locked in she'd been.
They both had been.
So now Cam was dropping a diss track? After that? Nah. That shit didn't add up. Not even a little bit.
And now the whole internet thought she was out here starting wars on purpose.
I should post something. I should—no, that would make it worse, and Cam would kill me. If I rode for her, they'd say I was picking sides. If I stayed quiet, they'd say I was on some fake shit. There was no right move here except to just wait.
Except waiting made me feel like I was gonna vibrate out of my own skin.
I texted her again.
I know you didn't do this. Call me when you're ready.
Still nothing.
The makeup artist waved me over to her station, and I sat while she wiped down my face with those cold wipes that smelled like chemicals and coconut. I was checking my phone between every swipe, but Cam was not answering.
"All done, babe," the MUA said, and I thanked her, headed to the back where they had my clothes hanging. I peeled off the sports bra and leggings they'd had me in—all branded, all tight as hell—and pulled on my stuff.
I grabbed my duffel, slung it over my shoulder, and headed for the exit. The director waved at me on my way out, all smiles, probably already uploading the footage. I waved back, but my brain wasn't even in the room.
Outside, the heat hit me like a wall. LA in the morning was a different type of sticky, the kind that made your sports bra cling to your ribs and your edges start curling before you even made it to the car. I beeped the locks on my Benz, tossed my bag in the back, and slid into the driver's seat.
Phone still in my hand. Still nothing from Cam.
I pulled up Pixogram, scrolled through my timeline.
Every third post was about the leak. People dissecting bars, making memes, arguing in the comments about who was "real" and who was "planted.
" Romi's name trending. Cam's name trending.
My name started popping up in threads—people asking what I thought, if I was Team Romi or Team Cam, like this was some reality show and not my friends' actual lives.
No matter how long I was in this game, I would never get used to that weird ass shit.
I was about to close the app when I saw a post from one of those messy blog accounts:
DEVELOPING: Sources say Cam Wolfe's team lawyering up over MikkiLeaks breach. Cease and desist in the works?
And that was when I knew: she wasn't answering because she couldn't. She had photographers camped outside her building, waiting for her to make a move they could turn into content.
I started the car. Put it in drive.
I knew where she lived—had been there a handful of times for after-studio sessions, late-night hangs when we were both too wired to sleep. Gated community off Laurel Canyon, real bougie, a place where the security guards checked IDs.
I made it there in fifteen minutes, maybe less. The gate was closed when I pulled up, but I saw them from the street: two cars parked on the shoulder, windows down, cameras ready. Paps. Waiting like hyenas.
I slowed down as I approached the gates. Two cars parked on the shoulder, cameras ready, waiting for Cam to slip up.
And that was when it hit me.
They weren't gonna leave. Not until they got something. And as long as they were sitting there, Cam was trapped in there, couldn't even run to the store for Flaming Hot Cheetos without it becoming a whole thing.
But if they had a different story to chase…
I pulled over about twenty feet from where they were parked. Rolled down my window. Pulled out my phone and dialed no damn body—let it ring to voicemail—and then I started talking.
"No, you know what? I'm TIRED of this!" My voice carried, loud enough that I saw one of the paps look up. "You said you were gonna handle it, and now I'm out here looking dumb as fuck!"
I wasn't trying to be subtle. I threw my hand up, let my voice get louder, more animated.
"Don't 'babe' me right now! You think I don't see what you're doing?!"
Both paps were paying attention now. One of them had his camera up.
Good.
"You know what? We're DONE. I'm done!" I hit the steering wheel for effect. "Lose my number!"
I hung up, made a big show of tossing my phone into the passenger seat, and then I just sat there, hands on the wheel, breathing hard like I was really going through it.
One pap crept toward my car, camera up.
"Stacks! Stacks Monroe! Everything okay? Who was that?"
I looked at him, and almost laughed—because this was exactly the kind of mess Old Stacks would've gotten into for real. Except this time, I was doing it on purpose.
"I'm good," I said, dabbing at dry eyes. "Just…handling some personal business, you know?"
"Was that about Cam? About the leak?"
"Nah, this ain't even about Cam." I shook my head. My hair hung in front of my face, which allowed me to really cut up. Someone run me my Oscar. "This is about me finally standing up for myself. Y'all can quote me on that."
The second pap was filming now, both of them focused on me instead of Cam's gate.
I put the car in drive, slow, giving them time to get their shots.
"Y'all have a good day now," I said, and I pulled off.
In my rearview, I watched them. They were looking at each other, at their footage, probably texting their editors. One hopped into his car. I gave it ten minutes before Stacks Monroe brEAKDOWN started trending.
But that was fine. They could talk about me and spin it into a whole thing.
At least they weren't camped outside Cam's gate anymore.