16. Grass Cut Low #2
You could respect someone's talent and want to crush them under your heel. This was the lesson Niko Savage taught me years ago. Then she had the nerve to spin a mean girl tale to the same press that now circled Cam Wolfe like flies.
I should have learned. But every time I saw Cam's name, heard the bars, I wondered what it would've been like if things had gone different. If we'd ever been on the same side.
The phone vibrated again. I glanced at it and flicked it away.
It would be easy, so easy, to let the industry eat her alive.
That's how it went: the second a girl started trending, the second she showed a hint of personality or hunger, they turned on her.
The cycle was a matter of months, not years because attention spans were short unless your money was long.
Cam thought she was next up, and for now, she was—but in a season she'd be "over" and replaced with a new girl hungrier, dumber and newer than her.
Wasn't that what she deserved? After the leak, after the diss? If she wanted to play with the wolves, she could bleed too.
I tried to mean it. Really, I did.
But I kept flashing back to her looking at me, scared but still trying to say something real. And then: her message, the one I'd blocked but never deleted. I can only get close to you when we're beefing. I don't want it to be like that.
And that was the real question, wasn't it? Did I even want her getting close? What did close look like to her? What did it look like to me?
Because if I did—if I let her in—then what? Then I'd have to admit I was lonely. That the crown was heavy. That sometimes I woke up at three a.m. and didn't recognize the person in the mirror.
Safer to keep her at arm's length. Safer to let the industry chew her up. Safer to pretend I didn't care.
Except I did, a bit too much. And that was the fucking problem, wasn't it?
Mike pulled onto the offramp without a word. He never judged, never tried to yap my ear off. Once, after an especially ugly breakup, he drove me in circles for three hours while I cussed out my ex, and he didn't crack the window once.
He pulled up to my building, braked to a gentle stop. I didn't move. Just stared at my own hands until the nails left white crescents in my skin.
"You want me to walk you up?" he asked, voice soft as lint.
I shook my head. "No need. Thanks, Mike."
He nodded and stayed behind the wheel. He knew the drill.
I stepped out, slides biting the curb, and watched the car's taillights until they disappeared around the corner. The air was sharper up here, cleaner
I keyed in and let the elevator carry me up, the silence thick enough to chew.
Upstairs, the apartment was dark except for the clock on the range and the city outside. I kicked off the slides, dumped the phone and bag on the counter, and poured a glass of water. I set it down untouched.
I wandered to the window, pulled the robe tighter, and let my eyes go unfocused on the city. That's how I liked it best—color and blur, all the hard lines washed away.
If I had a lick of sense, I'd call Zaniyah, let her yap in my ear until I forgot what was getting under my skin. But I didn't. I stood there, counting the distant headlights, one after the other, until my vision fuzzed out with exhaustion.
Why did I give a single fuck about what happened to Cam Wolfe?
Because she had bars, sure, but plenty of talented people came and went in this industry without leaving a dent.
Because she was fearless, maybe, but so were most of the girls I'd buried over the years.
Because she was honest, even when it made her look weak, and I hadn't been honest with anyone—especially myself—for a very long time.
Or because every time I looked at her, I saw the version of myself I used to want to be. Before the industry ground it out, before I learned to weaponize every kindness, every impulse, every weakness. Cam still had that hunger, the raw need to be seen and understood.
Na?ve as hell, but I envied it.
The diss track leaked back into my thoughts. About how she never said my name, but stuck the knife in just right. How she could have cut me a thousand different ways, but chose the one that would sting. The one that would make me think.
Course it fucking worked. I was still thinking.
I paced the living room, round and round, feet soundless on the carpet. LA refused to sleep, and so did I.
If the roles were reversed, would Cam do the same for me?
No idea. But that wasn't the point. The point was, I'd already allowed myself to care, and now I had to live with it. That was my fuck-up.
The next morning, rehearsal felt like a brine tank, all salt and pressure and floating things that used to be alive.
I got there even earlier than yesterday to see if anyone would bother to clock it.
But Cam and Skye were already in the middle of some hilarious conspiracy, heads bent together over one of those giant tumblers decorated with iridescent stickers and a pink straw.
Cam's laugh rang out, bright and sharp, like she'd never lost a night's sleep in her life.
Skye grinned at her with a mean, sweet energy I'd almost admired.
They barely paused when I walked in. Cam glanced up, flashed me a smile—polite, soft, nothing behind it—and then turned her entire body back toward Skye. Shoulders angled away. Attention gone. Like I was the damn caterer.
I'd cut her off, and now I had the nerve to miss the noise.
I didn't look away, but let myself stand there a minute too long. Hadn't realized I was staring until Stacks hit me with an elbow, peeling a banana.
"You're creeping," she said, voice low. "Hydration ain't that interesting."
"I'm not creeping," I said, turning away from the craft table. "I'm making sure everyone's ready for the next run."
Stacks raised an eyebrow but didn't push it. "Speaking of which, you think they're gonna let us keep that flow change in the final verse? The one from yesterday?"
"Should," I said, grateful for the topic shift. "It's tighter than the original arrangement."
"Definitely. The way Cam slides into that pocket…" Stacks trailed off, following my gaze across the room.
She didn't say anything else. Nodded toward the craft table where Cam and Skye were still chatting, then looked back at me with narrowed eyes. "Y'all are weird."
Whatever.