19. A Long Walk
A Long Walk
Cam
White parties are hell for my kind. Not "my kind" as in Black, or queer, or even "woman with skeletons." I mean the kind of person who sweats through linen in the sun and can't cross a lawn without running into someone from the summer I got newly single and earned the nickname Community Strap.
Allegedly. I don't confirm or deny.
The tribute concert brunch was at some country club up the 405, built in the seventies but renovated within an inch of its life.
Every surface gleamed, from the fake marble fountains to the slate-tiled walkways lined with hydrangeas.
The event had a strict white dress code—presumably to keep out the riffraff, but in practice it just made everyone look like a cult.
The place was crawling with PR reps in matching jumpsuits, camera crews with gimbals for arms, and the entire top tier of industry parasites.
I'd barely slept after we wrapped rehearsal, and my head was full of all the words I hadn't said to Romi in that hall. Even the garden air felt heavy, pressing me down. I kept one hand on my sunglasses at all times, mostly so nobody could read my expression.
Stacks was easy to spot: Pamela Anderson blonde bombshell wig, perfect brows, rocking a white pantsuit that moved like pajamas.
She'd posted about the outfit last night and was currently trending as "Most Likely to Spike the Punch Bowl.
" She sat at our assigned table, legs crossed and phone held like a weapon, absolutely unbothered by the crowd.
When she saw me, she held up her mimosa in a silent salute.
I cut through the garden and dropped into the chair next to her. The seat was still warm from the sun, and the tablecloth was so starched it squeaked. I kept my hands in my lap, waiting for my heart rate to hit human again.
Stacks put her phone down, eyed me over the rim of her sunglasses, and said, "Vintage Chanel? Somebody's feeling herself today."
I looked down at myself: white silk slip dress, vintage textured Chanel blazer, gold jewelry that caught the light. Tall sandaled heels because they vetoed my Force 1s. My stylist insisted on a blowout to 'set off' my cheekbones. "I wear what they tell me to," I said.
"Damn, they really said 'make her irresistible' and delivered." She leaned in for air kisses, dropped her voice to a growl. "I see you, though. You got that 'about to spill a secret' energy."
She wasn't wrong. I felt coiled, like my bones were made of copper wire.
I flagged down a passing server for coffee, then leaned over the table. "We got the audio forensics back," I whispered. "It's real."
Stacks's eyes went wide. "Already? Shit."
I nodded. "They ran it three different ways. The leak came from a studio copy. Inside job, for sure. It got passed to MikkiLeaks through a burner, but the trace hit Skye's account. Not even a good burner, just some Gmail with her cat's name in it."
Stacks snorted so hard she choked on her mimosa. "I KNEW that raggedy hoe was up to something! Last week she kept texting like 'let's catch up' but every time I asked why, it was all 'no reason, just vibes.'" She wiped her lip with a napkin. "I told you. Never trust a bitch with two first names."
I had to fight a smile. "You said it, not me."
"Louder for the back row," Stacks said, but she dropped her voice the second a PR rep floated by. "So what's the plan? They gonna nuke her contract, or what?"
I shook my head. "Not until after the show. Nobody wants to make it a headline before the main event." I picked up my coffee, letting the heat settle my hands. "She doesn't know we know yet. So be cool."
Stacks tipped her glass. "Copy that." She eyed me for a second, something softer behind the usual shade. "You alright?"
I shrugged. "Not really."
"Did you talk to Romi?"
My whole body tensed up though I tried to play it off. "Yeah. She gave me the heads up about Skye, actually."
Stacks's eyebrows shot up. "Wait, Romi? As in the woman who blocked you?"
"She unblocked me." The words came out so quiet, Stacks pressed in. "Like, recently. I checked this morning and just…noticed."
"Oh, you noticed." Stacks grinned, sly as a trash panda in a dumpster. "So you were checking. Multiple times, I'm guessing?"
My face got hot. "I wasn't—it's not like I was refreshing her profile every five minutes or some shit."
"Uh-huh. Sure." She leaned back, studying me with that look that said she could see right through me.
"Damn. You got her on your side now? Y'all been circling each other like pro wrestlers for a minute.
Thought it was about to turn into a cage match, but now I'm thinking y'all about to start a tag team instead. "
I rolled my eyes, but turned my face away. "It's not like that."
She shook her head. "Cammie. I love you like flesh and blood, but you are the worst liar in three counties. It is exactly like that."
I wanted to protest, but my brain was fried from lack of sleep and too many bad feelings. So I shrugged, which was its own confession.
Stacks smiled, big and toothy. "You know what? Good for you. I always thought Romi was playing hardass, but she's got real soft-girl energy under all that hard-femme exterior. It'd be a crime to let that go to waste."
I stared at the water carafe, trying to think of a comeback. "I don't know what we are now."
Stacks shook her head. "That's the point, dummy. Y'all finally stopped pretending to be enemies. Now you get to figure out what you actually are."
The words hit deeper than I wanted to admit.
I nodded, fighting the urge to sigh. It was all too much, but in a way that felt lighter now that I'd said it out loud.
We sat in silence for a minute, watching the crowd.
The air had that weird, dusty blue glow that always hit before noon in Southern California, and the ocean wind kept the sweat from turning us into puddles.
The tables filled up: label execs, washed-up influencers, a couple of crossover R&B girls who were bored and scrolling their phones.
Stacks poured herself another mimosa, then lifted the glass in my direction. "Here's to drama, bitches, and the real ones who survive both."
I clinked my coffee against her glass, and for the first time all day, I smiled.
Romi Dulce never entered a space so much as she reconfigured it. The hush rippled from the back garden to the front gate, and I didn't have to turn around to know she'd arrived. All I had to do was look at Stacks, who immediately straightened up and checked her lipstick in with a knife.
Romi wore a white dress that fit her like an accusation: clean lines, a deep bunched hem that dipped low on her back, just enough skin to make it obvious that she wasn't hiding from anyone.
Her braids were looped up in a crown, with a handful of silver pins glinting through the front.
She had a scarf draped over one arm and a pair of oversized sunglasses that made her look ten feet tall, though I knew she barely cleared five-six.
She scanned the party once, clocking every guest, every threat, every possible angle.
Then she made her way to our table, never breaking stride, never giving anyone the satisfaction of a second glance.
The sun hit her at an angle that turned the whole courtyard into a set piece from a whispered perfume ad.
Half the people at the brunch turned to stare.
She sat between me and Stacks, cool and casual, but I peeped the tension in her jaw. She held up a flute, and a server rushed to fill it with mimosa from the carafe. She turned to Stacks first. "Love the look," she said. "You almost make linen look dangerous."
Stacks preened. "I know, right? I was going for 'brunch ready but make it threatening.'"
Her eyes found me next. Stayed longer than they should have, then moved upward. The white silk. The blazer falling open at my chest. The gold jewelry catching the light. Her throat moved when she swallowed.
"You look—" She stopped. Glanced away. Took a long sip of her mimosa, like she needed the distraction.
"What?" I couldn't help myself.
She shook her head, almost laughing. "Nothing."
"No, what?"
"You look good, Cam." Said it quiet.
My pulse was straight up snitching on me.
"Do I?"
"Don't." She cut me off quick. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Act like you don't know." She was looking at me again, and there was something frantic in it. Then she seemed to remember where we were. Her eyes flicked to Stacks, who was studying the menu like it held state secrets. "You're really gonna make this difficult, huh?"
"Difficult would be me not asking." I held her stare. "So yeah. I'm asking."
" You look good." Clipped now. Final. She turned to signal the server.
"Y'all done flirting, or should I get a room card?"
Romi rolled her eyes. "Nobody's flirting. We're having a conversation." She reached for the fruit tray, grabbed a strawberry, and bit it clean off the stem.
I was not watching the pull of her lips around it. Not watching her devour it, lick the juice off with a dart of her tongue. Not at all.
Lips. Tongue. Juice. Stem. Do not react. Don't stare. Don't speak. Certainly don't make any comments about juiciness. You're in public, damn, have some decorum.
I squirmed. Crossed my legs. Had to look away before I did something extraordinarily stupid.
Stacks's eyebrows hit her hairline, and she let out a bark of laughter. "Keep telling yourself that."
We all had work to do. I drifted through the garden, stopping to chat with a journalist near the fountain, laughing with a producer by the hydrangeas. The usual dance.
Romi was doing the same on the other side of the terrace—air-kisses for executives, calculated small talk with influencers.
But I noticed things. The way she kept to the shaded pergola, angling herself so the sun never touched her face.
The way she'd pause at the bar between conversations, pouring three fingers of juice into her flute. No more, no less.
She was playing chess while everyone else was just here for brunch.