30. Spotted
Spotted
Cam
Seventh Circle's studio wasn't much to look at but I loved it.
I loved the way the subwoofer made the desk rumble when you hit the right note, and the ceiling tile over the couch was still water-stained from the last time they poured a bottle of prosecco on each other in celebration.
I loved the busted-out window AC unit that never quite killed the smell of old smoke and patch cables.
It was early, not even ten, and I was on my second coffee, FaceTiming with the woman who had ruined every other flavor for me.
Romi looked good, which, duh. Her skin was flawless even with no makeup and a teal silk robe.
She was in her living room. More than that, there was a whole-ass professional braider working on her head, quickly taking down a month's worth of boho box braids into a loose, glossy tumble that made my fingers itch to get tangled in it.
Her hair was just as dark and coiled underneath. She kinda looked like a mermaid.
"Hold still, please," the braider murmured, hands moving quickly.
"I am holding still," Romi said, but her eyes flicked to the phone every third second, to make sure I hadn't gotten bored and left. The effect was stupidly flattering.
The braider made a face, pretending not to listen, but I caught the hint of a smirk.
I set my coffee down on a half-stack of lyric notebooks and leaned in, resting my chin on my fist so I could take in every pixel. "What's on deck today?"
Romi glanced off-camera, then back. "Meetings until four. Zaniyah's got me doing a call with some brand rep at two, then a photo thing at five. After that, I'm free." Her voice softened a notch. "You?"
"Locked in the lab until I have a verse worth hearing," I said. "Stacks is coming in a few. If we don't get this mix down by then, she threatened to lock me the studio and throw away the key."
Romi made a thoughtful sound. "You want to do takeout for dinner? I can swing by after the shoot. We could try that place you liked."
My stomach flipped. "You're really going to come all the way to Laurel Canyon just for my company?"
She didn't flinch. "I would fly cross-country to see you rock those shorts you like to wear in those gym videos."
The braider raised her eyebrows, but otherwise said nothing. She had to have been under an NDA. There's no way she wasn't.
Romi shot her a look that could have shattered glass, but the corner of her mouth quirked up in the smile I'd started to believe was only for me.
I played it off, but my face was already hot. "You're corny," I said.
She rolled her eyes. "And you love it."
She wasn't wrong.
We talked about nothing for another minute—weather, music, the impending doom of the next award cycle—and it was all so easy that I nearly forgot we'd ever been anything but this: two tired girls trading soft insults and softer plans, pretending the rest of the world didn't exist. The comfort of it snuck up on me, warm as a weighted blanket.
I thought about how we'd seen each other more in the weeks we'd spent fighting our feelings than we did now, in the so-called honeymoon phase.
I scrolled past a video message from my very excited mother, who wanted to know when I was bringing "my lady friend" Romi for dinner. Mostly Pops just looked awkward in the background, and I knew that video wasn't his idea.
Stacks always announced herself like the SWAT team—loud, decisive, and never subtle.
The studio door banged open at 10:03, hitting the stop so hard it shook my monitors, and in she came with a venti iced almond milk something, phone in one hand and a tote bag crammed with what looked like an entire Target end cap in the other.
She wore a Raging Dramatics World Tour tee with the sleeves hacked off and bike shorts with a psychedelic swirl.
Every time she moved, her gold hoop earrings clashed with her headphones and made a sound like wind chimes in a hurricane.
She noticed the FaceTime on my desk before even setting down her coffee. "Not y'all caking first thing in the morning?" she crowed, grinning so wide I could see all her teeth.
I tried to mute the screen with my palm, failed, and just owned it. "I'm not caking. It's called multitasking."
Stacks leaned in, tumbler perched perfectly between her fingers. "You got the Queen herself up this early? I know she don't even open one eye before noon unless there's a check attached."
From the phone, Romi's voice floated out, low and easy. "I don't sleep in when there's work to do."
Stacks did a double take, then waggled her eyebrows at me. "Damn. You gonna let her talk to me like that?"
I shrugged. "Not my circus."
Stacks slid into the producer's chair beside me and leaned into the phone's camera. "Hey, Romi! Don't keep my girl too long. We got work to do. Some of us have an album to drop before the world ends."
From across the studio, I caught a glimpse of King Ash at the back workstation, headphones on, fingers moving across her MPC. She glanced up at the mention of Romi's name but didn't say anything, just gave a small nod before going back to her beats.
Romi rolled her eyes, but even through the screen I could tell it was with love. "You two have a good session. Cam, don't let her derail your day with Fizzr again."
I snorted. "She loves it. Secretly, she's obsessed with the algorithm."
"Bye, boo," Stacks called, a hand up in a little wave, and Romi shot her a look that would have shut down most mortals. Then she looked at me, held the gaze for a second longer, and hung up.
I watched the call fade to black, and for a beat my whole chest felt lighter, like she'd exhaled all the air out of the room. Stacks fluttered long lashes obnoxiously and grinned.
"Look at Cammie Cam all in looooove," she crooned, not trying to whisper it.
I heard a quiet snort from Ash's corner, but when I looked over, she was focused on her screen, fronting like she hadn't been listening.
"Focus," I shot back, but my cheeks were still hot.
"'Focus,'" she mimicked, but she opened her laptop and pulled up our latest session, fingers flying over the keys. "Aiight, maestro. What you got?"
I slid over to the mic, slipped on my headphones, and let the beat Ash cooked last night fill the room.
It was dirty, weird, heavy on the 808s with this nasty flute loop she'd sampled from a Dorothy Ashby track.
I loved it. From her corner, Ash nodded approval and started layering in some percussion, her fingers dancing across the MPC pads.
I rapped a few bars, then doubled back to rewrite a clumsy line. Stacks kept the energy up, tossing in ad-libs and wild vocal effects just to make me laugh, while Ash dropped in bass line stabs that made the track knock harder.
For an hour, nothing else existed. We built the song from scratch, trading insults and punchlines, all three of us sometimes singing so loud it set off the compression warning on the DAW.
Stacks was a menace, always trying to slide in one more joke or meme reference, but it worked.
Ash would occasionally shake her head at our antics but kept the beats tight underneath our chaos.
By the end of the session, we had the skeleton of a single, a track that could go viral or live in the SoundCloud wilds for a million years.
I was in the middle of a first take, mouth close to the pop filter, when my phone started vibrating against the mixing console. Once, then twice, then in a constant staccato burst. I tried to ignore it, but it kept going.
Stacks raised an eyebrow. "You gonna get that, superstar? Or you want me to answer and pretend to be your manager again?"
I flipped her off, but inside I was already reaching for the phone. Something in the back of my mind told me this wasn't the call you let go to voicemail.
I glanced at the screen. It was my publicist. Which meant either a win, a crisis, or both.
The last bar I'd recorded echoed in my headphones: Every headline say they want me next/but they ain't ready for the side effects.
Stacks was still waiting, eyes bright and curious. "You okay?"
I nodded, but my gut was trying to tie itself into knots. "Yeah. I gotta…take this."
She threw up her hands. "Don't mind me. I'll be over here, making us rich."
Finally, I snapped. I grabbed the phone and stepped out into the empty lounge, still clutching my notebook like a shield. The instant I clicked answer, I didn't even get a hello.
"I need you to breathe," said my publicist, the words delivered at bullet speed and with the careful, syrupy cadence of someone who'd just mainlined six shots of cold brew.
"First of all: everything is fine. Second, do not reply to anyone directly.
Third, I'm about to forward you a list of media contacts who have already called me, and it will seem like a joke but it is not a joke. Are you breathing?"
I blinked, then inhaled through my nose for effect. "Barely. What happened?"
"Two things happened." Clack-clack-clack.
Typing, cartoonish and fake-sounding, cutting through from somewhere.
"One, you absolutely killed at the tribute.
Two—" Her voice jumped up a register, not with panic but the twisted excitement of a publicist in her element.
"There is a photo of Romi Dulce—" cue my soul leaving my entire body "—leaving the Sheraton at ten a.m., with, I kid you not, your ratty gray hoodie and the dress she apparently wore at an afterparty.
Some fan posted a video on Fizzr. It is currently the top trending post on three, wait, no, four different platforms and by lunchtime it will be everywhere. "
Last week, the tea was me and Skye getting back together, based off that picture at Rich Wild Syndicate. Before that, the live feed of the afterparty that cut out before I approached Romi. Now this.
"Does Romi know?"
"Not yet, but—" Clack-clack-clack. "Relax, it's a hoodie, not a sex tape."