13. How To Aim #3
I took side streets, cutting through neighborhoods I barely knew, trying to shake them. Every turn I made, they were right on my ass, headlights burning into my rearview like they were hunting me. At the next stoplight, the second car pulled up on my passenger side.
"Cam! Did you approve the MikkiLeaks drop?"
"Cam, is it true you're trying to take Romi's spot?"
"Are you scared of her response?"
My chest was hella tight. My hands were slick on the wheel. I didn't say a single fucking word.
The light changed. I made a hard left, cutting off a Tesla. Horns blared. I didn't care. I needed to get home.
I hit the freeway on-ramp going twenty over, weaving through the late-night traffic. They were still there. One of them nearly clipped my bumper trying to get a better angle.
I took the exit too fast, tires squealing, flying down residential streets now. Past darkened houses and sleeping trees and locked gates. My heart was in my throat. I tasted metal.
Finally—fucking finally—my community gates were dead ahead. The barrier went up after a delay, and the gate started rolling open, too slow for my patience. I didn't wait. I squeezed through the gap the second it was wide enough, hitting the garage door button as I pulled in.
The gates closed behind me. The headlights went faint in my rearview.
Silence.
I sat there in the driver's seat, engine still running, hands still gripping the wheel. My breath was a stutter beat. I forced myself to count. One. Two. Three. Four.
Slowly, the adrenaline started to drain. My hands stopped shaking. I turned off the engine.
The In-N-Out bag sat on the passenger seat, half-open. Animal fries spilling out. The burger unwrapped and cold. The lemonade sweating condensation onto the leather.
I pulled out my phone.
The screen lit up with notifications—hundreds of them. I took a breath and started scrolling.
Chattr was on fire. My name, trending. Romi's name, trending. MikkiLeaks trending because nothing else was happening anywhere else in the world apparently.
The leaked track was everywhere, ripped and reposted and quoted and dissected. People had made lyric breakdowns, reaction videos, conspiracy threads.
nah this is disrespectful. Romi paved the way for girls like Cam and this is how she gets thanked?
the way Cam called her a gatekeeper…she's not wrong tho
I kept scrolling. My throat felt tight.
Someone had screenshotted my verse and highlighted the lines: Queen with no subjects, just subjects to change/built your whole throne on keeping subjects in chains.
I remembered writing that line. I remembered being so angry I couldn't see straight, couldn't breathe, couldn't think about anything except how badly I wanted to be seen and how Romi kept all the doors locked.
I wasn't going to release it unless she dropped. Just me talking shit because I was about to crash out.
But now it was out there, permanent, and everyone thought I'd done it on purpose. A calculated strike. A declaration of war.
I scrolled further. A blog had posted a side-by-side: Romi's last post (the photoshoot, face cold and perfect) next to a screenshot of my leaked bars. The headline: Cam Wolfe Goes Nuclear: The Diss Track Romi Dulce Didn't See Coming.
Except she probably had seen it coming. And now she thought I'd leaked it myself for clout.
That's not—that's not who I am. I didn't do snake shit. She had to know that.
I switched to Pixogram. My comments were a war zone. Half the people were hyping me up, calling me brave, saying I "said what everyone was thinking." The other half were eviscerating me, calling me ungrateful, disrespectful, a clout chaser riding Romi's name for streams.
Didn't want any of it.
I opened DMs.
Romi's profile. Last seen two hours ago.
I hovered over the message box, thumb itching to type something true.
That went out without my permission. I never signed off on the release.
I stared at it. Before I could overthink it, I hit send.
The message went to "seen" almost instantly.
My heart kicked.
A minute passed. Then two. Then a reply:
Business, never personal.
I read it three times. Four. I knew exactly when I'd said that. Standing inches from her in the tunnel, running my mouth to see if she'd run hers back.
It was nothing. It was everything.
I typed back fast before I lost my nerve:
We could actually be friends if everyone would let us. This goofy ass label shit, the media—we get it in ways nobody else does. We talked about that, right? But I can only get close to you when we're beefing. I don't want it to be like that.
I hit send.
The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Then the screen changed.
You can no longer reply to this conversation.
Blocked.
I stared at the phone. The words didn't make sense at first.
Then they did, and all the air got sucked out of the car.
The phone dropped into my lap.
The garage was so quiet. Just me and the cooling engine and the faint smell of cold fries and sauce.
I stared at the In-N-Out bag. Grease soaking through the bottom. The burger sitting there, one bite gone, congealing.
I wasn't hungry anymore.