24. Losers Lounge
Losers' Lounge
Cam
This afterparty was a pop-up hell dimension themed around "post-race Kentucky Derby for billionaires."
I'd been to enough of these to know the rules: be gracious, keep moving, and for fuck's sake, don't bleed where the sharks can see.
The win had gone to Stacks. Obviously. I was supposed to smile and be happy for my friend, but the moment the envelope was opened, I felt the crash of it, a wave of cold saltwater hitting too hard and too fast. I had the next record, still had the push, but for tonight I could fade into the crowd and drink overpriced liquor while the world celebrated somebody else's dream.
Stacks found me within ten minutes because Stacks always knew where I'd hide.
She came in hot, fake-tossing her newly engraved trophy from one hand to the other and flashing a hundred-watt smile for every phone camera that pinged within range.
She'd changed into an outfit I'd never seen before—a neon pink silk two-piece with matching thigh-highs, a look so loud it almost shorted out my rods and cones.
She barreled up, grabbed me by the arm, and stage-whispered, "You see when they announced it? I damn near fell out. Like, for real. Did you see? I think I zoned out for a second."
"You played it cool, though," I said, letting her drag me into a side booth with a half-dozen other bodies. "Didn't trip on the stairs."
She flopped down next to me, trophy balanced on her knee. "Girl, I almost did. I was shaking. My butt was legit jiggling."
Somebody on the other side of the table handed her a flute of champagne and, not to be outdone, passed one to me as well. "To the Queen and her Court," he toasted, and Stacks laughed so hard she snorted.
Once the initial noise faded and Stacks had worked the entire table, she bent toward me, voice dropping to the register of true friends.
"Real talk." She cocked her head at me. "I know you wanted it, Cam. Don't fake."
The truth was an elephant sitting on my chest. Yeah, I did want it. Badly. Had been picturing my speech, my outfit, how it would feel to have something tangible that said I'd made it. And watching Stacks get called instead—
I loved my friend. I was happy for my friend. And I still wanted to scream.
I nearly said I didn't care, but the truth was closer to: "I'm okay. Grateful to avoid the circuit for a minute." I took a sip, grimaced at the fizz. "You're better at it. You'll make the tour fun."
It wasn't a lie. The whole truth was that I wanted all my things—the award, the recognition, the proof that I wasn't just the "weird Black girl" novelty act. That I was good enough.
She looked at me like I'd recited my own eulogy. "Girl, I know!" Dramatic hand to heart. "I get to fake humble in eight interviews tomorrow, do a bad photo shoot, maybe end up a meme. Bless up." She smiled, then softened. "You wanna do shots later? Or is it a 'lie low and smoke' night?"
"Maybe both." I meant it. My eyes scanned the room, beyond Stacks's shoulder.
Stacks rolled her eyes. "You know I love you, Cammie, right? Like, if I could've split the trophy, I would've, but then I'd have to tape it back together before anyone noticed."
"I know, and I love you, too, Bree." I said, and I did.
There was nothing fake about Stacks's affection.
When she bullied the world, she protected her own.
And that made it worse, somehow. That I could love her this much and feel that ugly twist of envy underneath the genuine joy. Both things could be true.
I knocked our glasses together, the gold rims making a perfect clink.
She shifted, head on a swivel, then looked back at me with a wicked squint. "Don't think I don't peep you checking for Romi. Look atcha. Not even trying to hide it."
"Shut up," I hissed, but my eyes whipped back to neutral so fast I almost got whiplash.
"Don't 'shut up' me," Stacks said, grinning. "You checked out twice while we were talking. I saw the count." She flicked her wrist, miming a timer. "Between you and me, if I'm not standing off to the side when y'all get to the altar, we're gonna have problems. K?"
"Marriage?! Girl, I'm just trying to survive this afterparty without making headlines." I gestured around the room. "One crisis at a time."
"Uh huh. Heads up, those gossip blog 'sources' are all up in this party, so mind your Ps and Qs. Y'all don't want to end up tomorrow's 'secret industry hookup' blind item. Especially not after your little friend leaked your track."
"We're being so careful, I don't even know where she is. There's nothing to report."
Stacks cocked her head, eyes narrowing like she could see all the way through me. "Yet," she said, drawing out the word. "But the second you get three more drinks and two less fucks, you're gonna find yourself talking to her about metaphysics or anime or some other weird thing you love."
"She doesn't even like anime," I paused. Did she? "I can't see that."
Stacks gave me a look of pure pity. "Cam, chile, you know these types don't know Goku from Naruto. That don't stop you from yapping about it."
I bit my lip to keep from smiling. "Girl, go on."
"I'm just saying: if you want her, go apply that pressure.
" She sipped the champagne, then did a little dance in her seat.
"You know the real tea? The babies picked up that y'all are following each other, and they are deeply unwell.
The Dulcitos and the Wolfepack have formed a truce. Wall-to-wall crying emojis. No notes."
My face heated up, but before I could fire back, a handler with a black headset appeared behind Stacks and whispered in her ear.
She stood up, trophy in hand, and wiggled her fingers at me.
"That's my cue. Off to the next. Don't do anything I wouldn't do!
" She winked, then bolted off in a flash of pink.
I watched her go, feeling a swirl of relief and longing and dread.
The crowd pulsed and shifted, new faces taking the place of old, the soundscape never quiet for more than half a breath.
People were dancing, people were fighting, people were staging moments for the livestream cameras that zipped around on invisible wires above our heads.
Every once in a while, a shout would go up, or a mini-controversy would ignite and fade in the span of a single song.
I let my head drop back, feeling the rush of air from the HVAC and the fizz of the champagne in my blood.
There was an ache in my feet from the shoes and an ache in my heart from…
everything else. But mostly, I felt exposed.
Like, even if I tried to keep my eyes off Romi, the memory of her would crawl right behind my eyelids and live there rent-free.
I tried to ignore it. Tried to focus on the noise, the food, the little glimpses of other people's happiness.
I pretended to be busy on my phone, liking random posts from fans and responding to DMs with the bare minimum of emojis.
But every five minutes, my eyes would be trying to spot her in the mass of bodies.
Wild thing is, I didn't know what I wanted from her in the moment. Just that not getting it was making me insane. I wanted to flip a table, or drag her into the nearest stairwell for five godforsaken minutes alone together. Both. Definitely both.
I scanned the crowd. Romi stood by the DJ booth, flanked by a different pair of industry execs—one old, one dangerously young. They talked fast, hands sharp in the air, but Romi barely paid attention. She kept glancing my way, then away.
Romi held herself perfectly, spine straight, chin up, every gesture so precise that you'd think she'd practiced it in a mirror.
Her dress was golden, skin-tight up top with a dramatic train, a slit up one thick ass thigh that should have been illegal.
Even from thirty yards away, you could spot the play of muscle along her leg when she shifted her weight.
A tiny coil of desire twisted in my stomach, so sharp I had to take a breath. There was no point denying it: I wanted her, even if it was a dumb idea. Even if it meant getting burned again.
I took a cautious sip of champagne. Dry, bitter, a little mean. Like Romi, if you squinted.
And then I had an idea so stupid it was almost good.
I stood, drink in hand, and made for the DJ booth like I had business there. The execs saw me coming first—you could watch the recognition land, the little ripple of oh, this should be interesting. Romi turned last, brow already arching.
"Aye, your highness," I said, loud enough to carry. Loud enough that the nearest camera crew perked up like dogs at a can opener. "Take a picture. Or better yet, say it to my face. You've been mugging me all night like you actually want that smoke."
It was the right move and the wrong words and exactly the kind of thing the room wanted from us. The execs melted back. And Romi—God bless her quick, cold mind—caught the play in about half a second. Her face hardened into something photogenic and furious.
"Girl, have you lost your goddamn mind? You want a problem?" Loud, even, lethal. "Keep walking. I'll give you one!"
To the room, it looked like she was hauling me off to handle me. To me, it was the only invitation I'd wanted all night.
Champagne warmed on my tongue and I debated the risks: my manager's wrath, Stacks's "I told you so," the perpetual horde of gossip bloggers waiting for a whiff of real drama.
Fuck it. Modern problems, modern solutions, right?
I left the glass, picked up my bag, and fell into step a pace behind her, close enough to look like I was being marched off, far enough that nobody could say we were together together. The crowd parted for the spectacle. Heads turned now. Not for me, but for the promise of a scene.
The second we cleared the worst of the cameras, Romi's shoulders dropped and she laughed under her breath, low and wicked. "A staring problem," she said, barely moving her mouth. "That's what you went with. In front of a camera crew."
"It worked, didn't it? You're walking, I'm walking."