22. Its An Honor To Be Nominated
It's An Honor To Be Nominated
Cam
It always starts with the lights.
Roll up in an armored black SUV, windows tinted so deep you could run a whole trafficking ring in the back seat and no one would know.
But the second that door opens, before you swing your leg out, there's a thousand-point flare waiting to sear your corneas.
Paparazzi have faster reflexes than houseflies.
The first flash blinds, the second erases your edges, and by the time you plant both feet on the curb, the world's just a hot-white blur and a wall of sound.
Shara hissed the script as she dragged me from the car. "Stay to the runner, left shoulder forward, don't squint. If you see the E! cam, hit the catchphrase."
"'Feral, not docile'?" I said, dry as sidewalk gum. The catchphrase had been my idea, but hearing it out loud made me want to eat my own hand.
She ignored me, eyes glued to the red carpet's lane divider like we'd get shot if we missed a single spike tape. Her hand found my elbow, applying enough pressure to remind me of her proximity but not enough to photograph as controlling.
My hair barely dusted my neck, just how I like it.
The dress was a loaner from some upstart designer whose name I kept tripping over.
Asymmetrical, Grecian, made me feel like I was wearing a long, high-thread count bedsheet with heels, a fully exposed back and hip dips.
You could lie down in the middle of the step-and-repeat in this dress and take a nap. Boring.
My choice, a funky young Japanese designer, was vetoed.
But the paparazzi demanded I look over my shoulder in it to show off my tatts, the round curve of my ass poking out of the drape of the dress and my arms. The entertainment vans with the 360-degree glamor mirrors ate it up.
Cameras flashed so fast they turned into one continuous strobe.
The press line started aggressive and escalated from there. First volley: "Cam! Are you nervous for tonight? First nomination, third attempt!"
I shot them the patented side smile. "I'm happy to have something out that everyone can listen to. I had to drag myself out of hibernation."
Flash. I let the smile tick up, just enough shade in the edge.
The publicist squeezed my arm, signaling to keep moving, but the next reporter slid in fast. "Any comment on the leaked DMs with Skye?"
God, people were desperate. "I'll comment when she stops subbing me," I deadpanned, then kept it moving.
A step, then another, and suddenly I was facing the real camera—the one they'd warned me about, the one with the wireless mic and the three-person crew. The host had a face so sharp you could exfoliate with it, and she did not blink when she aimed her questions.
"So, Cam, you're nominated for Best Female Rap Artist tonight. That's a first for you, though you've been on the scene for years. What does that mean to you?"
She said it like a compliment, but I heard the shade. Always the bridesmaid. I straightened my spine, went for earnest with a twist. "It means we're finally in an era where you don't have to be anyone but yourself. I'm not here to fill a lane. I am the lane."
Her eyes glittered. "There's been talk online about your rivalry with Romi Dulce—"
"Rivalry?" I blinked, all innocence. "Romi's keeping me sharp. Very generous of her, honestly."
Sharp wasn't the word for what happened in that rose maze, but the reporter didn't need to know that. It seemed to land, though. The camera guy smiled behind the lens. The host signed off with a "Good luck, and we hope you take it home!" as if we both didn't know she was rooting for the other team.
The publicist nudged me out of range. "Perfect. You're through."
But I wasn't. Not even close.
Because fifty feet ahead, the whole block lost its air around one person: Romi, stepping down out of her black SUV like she owned the concrete under it.
Her dress was the color of blood oranges.
One shoulder bare, the other sleeve long and dramatic.
The fabric clung like it'd been built for her body, all of it, but especially the hips. Lord, the hips.
Her braids were long and intricate, swaying as if each step had its own bass line. Her sister three steps back, always.
The whole press line snapped toward her like she'd called them by name. You could feel it, the recalibration, the room rearranging itself around her. Every other celebrity turned to wallpaper. She held it a full second—no smile, no pose—then cocked her head and looked dead at me.
A look like a dare with no safe answer. Ten thousand people in that frame and all I could see was the up-down flick of her eyes as they clocked me, paused, lingered.
My cheeks went hot fast. Not a blush. A burn.
The publicist tugged at my arm again, but I locked eyes with Romi. Her face didn't move, she kept that cool, bored, haughty look, chin tipped aimed at me like I was beneath her schedule. God, I loved when she did that. Wanted to wipe it right off her face. Preferably with my mouth.
We stared each other down for a half-breath. Long enough to feed the blind items. Security pulling us apart before the catfight, round two after that performance, the whole bit. They had it backward, like always. Nobody was pulling us apart to stop a fight.
Inside, the air changed. Sound was replaced by velvet, sweat by the perfume of sponsorship activations, and the subtle whine of LED spots.
They'd covered the floors with deep plum, so everyone's shoes made no sound, leaving the padded thud of fashion against foam.
I had a minute to breathe before the inner press gauntlet, and that's where Stacks found me.
She arrived with a whoop, nearly tackling me into a row of branded photo walls. "You made it!" she yelled, giving me a bear hug that pressed all the air out of my lungs.
"You look like a million bucks," she said, eyeing my dress. "Designer loaner?"
"Yeah, girl. Don't ask me to fish out the name. I don't remember. You?"
"Custom. Obviously." She grinned, then her face shifted. "But for real, you okay? You look…tense. Not like nervous, like you're at a funeral."
I tried to laugh it off, but my voice cracked. "I'm hangry as fuck."
She side-eyed me, like she knew a lie when she heard one. "Okay, but if you need to bounce after, just say the word. I got a flask in my clutch and two edibles in my pocket."
"You the MVP," I told her, and met her with a fistbump. A camera flash went off.
Stacks laughed, then pulled back to scan the crowd. "They put Romi right up front. Of course. She loves a moment."
I tried not to look in that direction. Lost that fight in about two seconds, same as everybody else in the room.
I thought about the way she'd stared me down on the carpet and ignored every other camera, just for a second, to focus on me.
The lights in the auditorium flicked twice. A signal. Time to find our seats. I followed the current, my shoes barely whispering on the carpet.
Stacks walked me up the aisle, her arm slung casual over my shoulder. She did a bit about tripping on the steps, about how she'd sue the network if they put it in the edit, and it made me snort even if my jaw was still locked.
We hit our row. Right before we split, she squeezed my shoulder. "Good luck, Cammie. For real."
I knew she meant it.
"You too, Bree."
I took my seat, smoothed my dress, tried not to think about Romi or the way my chest felt like it was filling up with smoke.
The first hour of the show dragged. Tribute montages, performances, commercials.
I kept my posture camera-ready, smiled when I was supposed to, clapped when everyone else did.
The lights were too bright, the applause too loud.
Every sound scraped against my nerves. Someone's perfume two seats over gave me a headache.
Every stitch of fabric on this dress pressed into my skin.
But my brain was stuck on one thing: Best Female Rap Artist.
I'd wanted this for years. Watched Romi take it year after year.
The one award that mattered, the one that said you were real.
I'd left the group for this—walked away from Skye and the group and went solo.
Took the risk. And now I was sitting here in borrowed couture, waiting to find out if any of it was worth it.
Stacks killed her performance. The crowd went wild. I clapped until my hands hurt.
When the host announced a break, I bolted. Didn't wait for cameras, didn't check my makeup. I needed air, space, anything that wasn't this auditorium full of people waiting to watch me lose.
The hall was empty except for security guards on their phones and a cleaning crew packing up behind a curtain. I headed toward the bathroom, hands shaking just enough to notice.
Then I heard heels. Sharp, fast, closing in. I turned the corner and nearly ran straight into her.
Romi.
She wore the same dress, same hair, but up close the effect was even more intense. Her face was set, but her eyes flashed wild, like the inside of a fuse box. She stopped, dead center of the hall, less than three feet away.
Neither of us said a word. For a heartbeat, we stood there, breathing the same air.
I was the first to crack. "You following me now?"
"You wish." Her voice went up as she turned to look behind her.
I laughed, breathless. "So what are you doing out here?"
She stepped closer, and I caught her perfume—something warm and sharp at the same time. This time her voice was softer. "You looked like you were about to bolt."
Warmth rose up the back of my neck. "I'm fine."
"Sure you are." Her eyes scanned my face, lingering. "You always fidget like that when you're fine?"
I shoved my hands behind my back, a little desperate for her to stop reading me, but telling a half-truth anyway. "I'm not fidgeting. I'm really trying not to grab you."
"Cam." Her eyes went wide, and she scanned the hall again. Then her expression shifted, guarded again. "You ready for tonight?"
"Are you?"
She laughed, low. "I've won this five times. I know what it feels like."