16. Grass Cut Low
Grass Cut Low
Romi
There are three rules to surviving in this business: be early, be unbreakable, and never let them see you sweat.
I arrived at Studio A twelve minutes ahead of call, but found myself the last one in the room. Typical. The rehearsal space was a repurposed soundstage with floor-to-ceiling mirrors and black risers built for the tribute. I slipped off my hoodie and surveyed the room.
Stacks wore sweats and a vintage Dipset tee, practicing her strut in tall heels.
Hair up in a bonnet. Skye Bella stretched on a yoga mat, legs splayed in a split that would rupture most spines, watching her own reflection with laser precision.
Cam Wolfe—always the show pony—had gone full "off-duty pop star": neon joggers, tank top slashed to the navel, hair in a topknot that showed off her tatts.
She was perched on the lowest riser, one foot up, texting with her face set in a smirk.
She didn't look up when I walked in, but the shoulders tensed, like she could feel the air change. Good.
The stage manager clapped his hands. "Alright, ladies, let's warm up and run the opener."
We fell into formation for "Juiced"—Cam and Skye handling the call-and-response, tossing verses back and forth like Red and Meth. With their history of sharing stages for years, it made for seamless handoffs.
We reconvened at the risers for the next number: "Earned It," Stacks's big solo. She stepped up with zero hesitation, killed the verses, and ended with this fierce kick-step combo that looked like she was kicking in a door. The cameras would eat it up.
For "Devil's Detail," I took the high riser, mic in hand.
The first verse was a blur of vocal acrobatics and speed, a technical showcase that made sense if you'd grown up worshipping Liora's early catalog.
I channeled the monster energy that had made Liora unfuckwithable.
Every syllable hit like I was punching holes in a wall.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Cam nodding along and grinning.
Then came the group finale—"Game On." All four of us, scattered across the stage, trading verses around the center riser. The choreography was tight, but the transitions felt clunky.
That's when it happened.
Halfway through the first run, Cam broke rank and cut left, crossing in front of Skye. It was a small move, but it shifted the whole balance. For half a measure, we hesitated, then recalibrated around her. The energy doubled.
At the break, Cam turned, breathless. "What if we lead with a rotating front? Like, I cross here, Stacks swings through on the second, Romi on the third. It'll give more momentum." She looked at me, eyes bright, expectant. Was she waiting for me to tell her she'd overstepped?
For a split second, I considered shutting it down on principle. Then I realized it would make the number twice as hot. But I wasn't going to tell her that.
"Let's try it," I said, keeping my voice dead even. "It's good."
Her mouth twitched. Had she expected me to throw a fit, or something?
We ran it again with the new blocking. By the end, the whole room buzzed with the energy that comes from knowing you made a thing better.
The stage manager beamed. "That's the one. Run it again for the camera, then take five."
Cam caught my eye as she toweled off. Looked at me a second longer, then turned her head, giving me back the space I'd asked for. I felt something move and refused to follow it. Looked away.
In the mirror, I saw Skye whisper something to Stacks. Both looked at me, then at Cam, then away. The vibe was different now. I don't know if I liked that.
The adrenaline didn't wear off until I was halfway home, heels off, hoodie draped over the armrest of my backseat.
We moved through Koreatown at an even forty, the city's night face flickering through the tinted glass.
My driver kept the stereo at a respectful hum, some playlist of lo-fi bangers that sounded like it had been designed in a laboratory for maximum chill.
I had treated myself to a ride to and from just to relax and turn my brain off for a bit.
I thumbed at my phone, the tips of my fingers still tingling from rehearsal, and flicked through the text barrage. Three from Zaniyah, two from my agent, a half-dozen missed calls from various PR hangers-on. I ignored all except the one that mattered.
Z:
How did it go?
I texted Z back:
Fine. Better than fine.
Her response was instant:
Liar.
You should come watch tomorrow, I really think it's going to eat.
The bubbles appeared and disappeared twice before she asked,
How's the group dynamic? Everyone playing nice?
I hesitated, then sent back,
Surprisingly, yeah. Even Skye.
Her next message came through immediately:
Don't get too chummy with Skye. For real. Watch what you say around her.
The words were blunt, and I bristled at the condescension. I was older, smarter, and meaner than most of the chicks in this city. I ain't need a warning from my own flesh and blood. But that was the trick, wasn't it? You think you're immune until you aren't.
The phone buzzed again, vibrating against the vinyl seat.
Bloggers talk to each other more than you think. I'm not saying she a mole, sis, but she a mole.
The phone rested in my lap, words burning a slow hole through the leather.
Z had been right about Niko too, and I'd had to take that one on the chin because I didn't want to listen.
And what was the first thing Niko did when she tried to make her comeback?
Linked up with Skye for that sorry-ass collab that MikkiLeaks pushed hard as hell, even though it flopped everywhere else.
Niko spent her time these days in hospitality suites with Skye and pop stars at hockey games, because she was an opportunist above everything else. They got clout, the pop star got to be seen hanging with accepted rap girlies. Win/win.
Mind you, this was the same Skye who used to take slick shots at Niko on tracks just months before, just fighting for crumbs they couldn't snatch with both hands, even with MikkiLeaks hyping them up on every post.
Now that Z said it, though, the whole day started looking real funny. Skye's questions during breaks—casual shit like "You think Cam's really over the whole beef thing?"
I didn't look up from my phone. "She's over a lot of things. You'd know more about that than me."
Then I'd shut that shit down with my blankest stare until she found somewhere else to be, but maybe I should've paid more attention to why she was asking in the first place.
And, come to think of it, wasn't she at that photoshoot where me and Cam had it out?
Fucking snake. I guess the pink-haired chick was smarter than I thought after all.
The city slipped by, blocks of lights and cheap signs, but the warning stuck.
I replayed the rehearsal in my mind, every smile, every fake laugh.
Skye, floating between me and Cam like a referee, always keeping enough distance to avoid getting clipped by shrapnel.
The Balenciaga bag she'd walked in with like it ain't cost her a few bands.
Retail on that was three grand, easy. The custom grills she'd been flashing in her Stories all week.
The way she name-dropped expensive restaurants like she ate there every night.
It fit now that I thought about it. None of it matched her streaming numbers, which I knew because my A&R team checked everyone's numbers.
Industry habit. So where did the money come from?
Apparently, spilling tea was quite lucrative. Who knew?
The car was silent for a beat, except for the city hissing past. My driver, Mike, was at the wheel, not talking. That was his best quality. He'd driven every rapper, actor, and socialite in Los Angeles, and he'd mastered the art of never speaking unless spoken to.
Which was fine, because my head was loud enough for three MFs.
We glided up the 405, the skyline scrubbing itself clean in the rearview.
My hands were folded, but the nails dug into my own thigh.
The phone in my bag vibrated every few seconds, each buzz a reminder that the world had not, in fact, ended with tonight's rehearsal.
It would take a bigger bomb to end this one.
I stared at the window, watched my own face reflected in the city lights.
The glass was cold and warped, so the Romi looking back at me was sharp, hard-edged, mouth fixed in a line you could measure with a micrometer.
The "untouchable" look, according to Billboard. A pose I'd perfected—until lately.
Underneath it, a headache pulsed on the inside of my skull.
I closed my eyes and the last hour started replaying without my permission.
Cam, sweating through her rehearsal tee until her tatts were almost visible, holding her own in choreography.
Cam, avoiding my gaze, then going for it anyway.
Cam, who I'd spent the last year unable to ignore, no matter how much I fucking wanted to.
Motherfucking Cam, who'd aimed her best bars at me in months, then tried to walk them back like a coward.
I opened my eyes. I hadn't asked for any of this footage, and my brain kept playing it anyway.
It shouldn't have bothered me. But it did. It burrowed in deep, left a mark. Fuck.
For a moment I let myself remember the way she looked when she saw me in the hallway: off-guard, like she didn't know where to look or how to stand. That was a new one. Usually she came at me with teeth, or at least the snarl.
Was that progress? Was it a trap?
I opened my eyes, watched the city flick by in five-second intervals.
If I'd had a therapist—ha, as if—I could already hear the analysis.
Projection. Guilt. Something about cycles of violence, of hazing, of wanting the next girl to suffer just enough to deserve her success.
All true. But there was one read I wouldn't let even a made-up therapist say out loud, so I didn't.