13. How To Aim #2
Did I have a minute? I almost choked on a laugh.
They talked through options, none of which mattered.
The post was already everywhere, every burner account had a copy, and by the time legal finished typing their letterhead, the remix would be viral.
But I let them go through the motions: "Brand risk," "IP concerns," "audio forensic," "potential damages. " Like you could trademark dignity.
At some point, my manager chimed in with her usual hustle, "We need a counter narrative, Cam. Not just legal. If you want us to prep a statement—"
"I got it," I said, already thumbing a note on my phone. "Don't worry."
"The label is doing an investigation. We'll keep in touch."
"Got it, thanks."
All I wanted was to make music that didn't get turned into ammunition the second it left my mouth. Not this. Not any of this. This shit was annoying.
My hands unclenched as I set the phone down again. I wiped my eyes with the balls of my fists. I paced the apartment, trying to shake the feeling that I'd just fumbled someone important, and there was nobody left to blame but myself.
The morning sun cut through the window, lighting up the dust on the floor and the mess on the table. I watched the shadows move, tried to breathe, and wondered how long it would take for the city to forget about me if I just disappeared.
Not long, probably. But maybe, just maybe, long enough for me to get my head right before the next wave of bullshit started.
I stared at the cover of Billboard and decided I would go down swinging.
I drafted the statement in four seconds and typed:
That track was private, y'all. Never meant for release. Not authorized by me.
I hit post, no edits. The timeline snatched it up—supportive replies mixed with Just drop the full version, queen. I didn't answer.
Shower. Moisturizer. Basketball shorts and a sports bra. I grabbed the gray hoodie draped over the kitchen chair, then my phone and keys off the counter.
Outside, the heat was weaponized. I slid into my Civic, cranked the AC, and pulled into traffic.
The city was alive and ugly. Everywhere I looked, there were reminders of the story: billboards for perfumes, posters for the next awards show with my own face blown up to Godzilla size, a bus ad for Stacks's single, all grills and chaos. The world didn't let you forget.
I hit a red light at La Brea and queued up my playlist—the one I used for cardio at the gym, all four-on-the-floor and nothing above eighty BPM.
It was the only thing that calmed my brain: the dumb rumble of a bass line louder than the rest of the city.
I rolled the window down and let the air claw at my face.
I punched in the code and let myself in, bracing for the look. The we need to talk. The quiet look that said she was still deciding how mad to be.
Nope, instead, Shiloh was at the board, headphones on, adjusting levels on a track that wasn't mine. She glanced up, nodded once, went back to work.
Riiight. Shiloh didn't fuck with the internet. The one person in this city who treated Pixogram like a rumor she'd heard once and chose not to believe.
I settled into the corner, set up a new session, and started scrolling beats. Wasn't listening for the next hit, just looking for a sound that could kill the noise in my chest.
The first track was garbage—trap knockoff with hi-hats you'd hear in a diet commercial.
The second was better, but still not right.
I flipped through half a dozen more, faster and faster, until I found one I didn't remember loading.
Heavy bass, skittering hats, a hook that hit like a sucker punch.
Labeled "Wolfepack01," dated back to the year I started.
I let it play.
My bravado has wine-red lips and a head wrap, past me said, neither rapping nor singing. Both? The beat looped, and I bit back a cringe.
It was the demo I'd made in my old apartment when my studio was a closet with a towel over the mic and a neighbor who banged on the wall. The track I'd sent to Romi's A&R, desperate for a co-sign.
I remembered the day I made it. Three hours straight, no breaks, voice raw from straining. I'd poured every good part of myself into those verses, hoping someone would see it.
They did. But Romi said "nah."
My hands went clammy. I let the loop ride for a minute, then another until the memory chewed a hole in my chest. Twenty-five, hungry, believing for one stupid minute that I could be something more than another name on a playlist.
I hit stop. Hard. The silence came back, doubled.
Through the glass, Shiloh was on the phone, watching me. Not intrusive. Aware. The way she used to, back before things got weird between us. She turned back to her screen, gave me space.
I sat there for a good minute, hands in my lap, stopped pretending to work. Didn't curse or crash out, because none of that would fix the fact that the one person who could have changed everything had already decided what I was worth.
It worked out without the feature anyway, just took longer.
My phone buzzed. I didn't answer.
I shut down the session, closed the laptop, and sat. The darkness piled up in the corners. The soundproof walls pressed in, turning the city's noise into a vacuum.
Shiloh's voice came through the talkback, quiet. "I heard. Are you okay?"
I nodded, even though I wasn't sure she could see me in the dark. "Yeah, yeah. Need a minute."
She didn't push. Never did anymore. Just went back to her work, letting the silence hold. Comfortable in it, the way most people aren't.
Now put Bishop's ass in a quiet room and she'd start narrating her own life just to break it. Never could figure out what Shiloh heard in all that noise. But Shi? She let it sit. I was grateful.
Six hours later, my throat was raw, my back ached from hunching over the board, and I was starving in that specific way where your body's mad at you. Twelve-forty in the morning. If I hurried, I could hit up In-N-Out before they closed.
I grabbed my stuff. Shiloh was packing up, eyes half-closed. I mumbled something like "good session" and pushed through the heavy door into the parking lot.
The air outside hit different. Caught something smoky and sweet from a passing car. LA at midnight was the only version of itself I could stand. I pulled out of the lot and took surface streets, windows down until the wind messed up my edges. Didn't care. Nobody was gonna see me.
The In-N-Out on Sunset had the drive-through lights still on. Thank God. I pulled up to the speaker, ordered a Double-Double animal style with a lemonade and animal fries. The worker's voice crackled back at me, chipper even at this hour, and I pulled forward.
Paid at the first window. Grabbed the bag at the second. The bag smelled of grilled onions, beef, fries and melted cheese. Exactly what I needed. I set it on the passenger seat, wedged the drink in the cupholder, and pulled back onto Sunset.
I unwrapped the burger one-handed at a red light, took a bite. Grease and Thousand Island and pickles and that perfect crunch of fresh lettuce. My shoulders dropped. My jaw relaxed. For the first time all day, I felt like a person instead of a product.
Then I checked my rearview.
Two cars. Sedans. Close. Too close.
My stomach dropped.
I took the next right, casual, testing it. They followed.
Shit.
I sped up. Unlocked my phone with my thumb, thought about calling someone—Stacks, my manager, anyone—but my hands were shaking and the cars were still there, right on my bumper now. I tossed the burger back in the bag and gripped the wheel with both hands.
Paparazzi.
One of them pulled up beside me at the next light, window down, camera flashing. I didn't look. I stared straight ahead, jaw locked, counting the seconds until the light changed.
"Cam! Cam, what's your response to the leak?"
I didn't answer. The light turned green, and I punched it.
They stayed on me.