30. Spotted #2
I laughed. Too fast, too high. It's a hoodie, not a sex tape.
Except ten a.m. at the Sheraton meant paparazzi had been camped outside since who knows when, and if they'd been there at ten, someone could've been there at midnight, in that hallway, with a phone trained on my hand doing magic tricks up her dress.
She snorted. "Honey, it's the best thing that's ever happened to your personal brand, but we need to get out in front of it before the blogs invent a secret engagement and a wellness line."
I pictured her alone in her penthouse, or maybe on a call with her sister.
Her stories hadn't been updated at all today.
And I knew, same way you feel a bruise before it darkens, that this was hitting her harder than it hit me.
I'd been out since before the bars and the deals, because I couldn't hide me for nothing.
I came up about that life already. Romi didn't have that.
Romi had a whole brand, a whole life, built on a version of herself that the internet was currently rewriting in real time.
Whatever she was feeling in that penthouse, it wasn't just "the blogs are wilding. " It was the floor moving.
My publicist barreled on. "Here's what we do: We say nothing for twelve hours, let it cook, then—if she doesn't shut it down—we post a meme. Not a denial, a meme. It needs to say, 'I see what you see, and I'm not mad at it.'"
A pause as she caught her breath. "Also.
Complex wants you and Stacks for a cover.
The Advocate is asking for a joint interview.
Someone at GQ is floating a dual shoot with Shi.ctrl.
I don't want to over-promise but if this keeps up, you will be the biggest artist in the country for a week at minimum.
Maybe more if you keep wearing each other's clothes in public. "
My legs felt like pudding. I slumped onto the vinyl couch, hugging my knees to my chest. "They don't even care about the music," I said, because it was true.
She didn't argue. "Of course they don't. This is how the industry works. The story's everything. But if we play it smart, you get to set the tone. Not them."
I tried to laugh, but it came out sick. "You think I should…what, lean into it?"
She hesitated. "I think if you want to cross over—if you want the kind of stardom you've always said you did—then yeah, you ride the wave. Because they're going to talk about it either way. And honestly, it could be a lot worse than 'slept with a legend and lived to tell about it.'"
The logic was sound. It always was. But something in me bucked at it, the same part that wanted to be loved for my art, not my body count. "What about Romi? What if she—"
"Cam. Let me handle Romi's publicist. If she wants to shut it down, I'll shut it down. But if you want to own this moment, you need to start acting like you believe you're worthy of it. Because if you don't, they'll eat you alive."
I stared at my slides on the scratchy rug, thinking about how just a year ago I'd have killed for this kind of attention. Now it tasted like battery acid.
My phone buzzed again, this time with a screenshot from the publicist. It was a fan account, zoomed in on the hoodie, with a split-screen showing me wearing it in a promo shoot from months ago. The replies were already climbing into the thousands. There was a poll: "Is this the ship we deserve?"
Options: YES / YES BUT MAKE IT GAY / NO (liar).
My heart would not slow down. "What if I just post a pic of the hoodie on a hanger and say 'lost and found'?"
The publicist shrieked with joy and then dropped the call.
I sat there in the lounge, alone, watching light sprawl across the muted art on the walls. The building was so still I heard the slap of Stacks' sandals from the studio down the hall, the faint rumble of her ad-libs bleeding through the insulation.
Stacks was back in the booth when I slunk back into the studio, but she knew the vibe was off the minute I closed the door. She pulled her headphones halfway off and gave me the side-eye. "You look like someone just stole your Maserati and set it on fire."
"I don't have a Maserati," I said, dropping my notebook onto the console. My fingers shook as I uncapped a Sharpie, but I pretended not to notice.
Stacks squinted. "That's a metaphor, bitch! What's wrong?"
I shook my head and started doodling in the margins of my lyric sheet, drawing little knives with wings and then stabbing them through cartoon hearts. "Media's wilding. You see the blogs yet?"
She rolled her eyes so hard they about fell out. "Girl, please. They been wilding. That's not new."
I shrugged, and for a minute all you could hear was the whisper of the booth mic and the soft click of Stacks scrolling her phone. I tried to focus on my lines, but they swam on the page, breaking apart and reforming into nothing that made sense.
Every time I glanced at my phone, a new notification glowed at the top: a group chat meme, a news push alert about "RAP'S NEW POWER COUPLE," or a polite but urgent email from my publicist, subject: URGENT - PRESS WINDOW 4PM PST.
I looked at the clock. It was 1:51. There was no way to be ready by then.
Stacks caught the look, put down her phone, and leaned into the talkback. "Cut it. We're taking a break." She left the booth and planted herself on the engineer's chair, spinning in slow circles until she lined up with my face.
"What's up," she said, not a question but a command.
I ran my tongue across my teeth, trying to get the words to stick. "They got a picture of Romi leaving my hotel. Hoodie and all. It's everywhere."
Stacks smirked. "You hitting legend status already. Nice."
I stared at her, hard. "It's not nice. It's gonna get ugly."
She shrugged, unbothered. "So? You scared of being famous now?"
"No, I'm scared of being famous for this." I jabbed at the air with the marker. "For who I'm dating. Not for the bars, not for the albums. You remember what it was like with Skye."
She pressed her lips together at that. Her voice was gentle, not mocking. "You thought this was gonna be different? You spend your whole life wanting to be the next big thing, and now you are. Except it's messier than you planned. Welcome to the club."
I sank lower in my seat. "I don't want it if it means fucking up her life. Or mine."
Stacks raised an eyebrow. "Cammie. Her life was fucked the second she went platinum. Yours too. And don't act like this ain't what you wanted. The attention, the hype, even the drama. I been watching you chase her shadow for years. You finally catch it, and now you want to let go?"
I tried to argue, but nothing came out. The marker slipped from my hand and rolled under the console.
Stacks rolled her chair closer, knees knocking against mine. "Look. You can say no. You can shut it down and disappear, or you can ride it out and see where it goes. But if you want to play in this league, you gotta eat shit and smile. Otherwise, you're just another SoundCloud dropout."
The words hit harder than they should've. Stacks wasn't judging, just calling it as she saw it.
I slumped and rested my forehead on the edge of the console. "I don't know what Romi wants. I don't know what I want."
Stacks clicked her tongue. "You want her. That's clear. And you want the bag. So you figure out how to have both."
Someone cleared their throat behind us. King Ash was posted up against the doorframe, MacBook tucked under one arm, looking like she'd been wrestling with whether to say something. Her whole vibe was different than usual. Less boss energy, more like remembering some shit she didn't want to.
"Yo," she said, catching my eye. "I'm not trying to be in y'all business, but…" She shifted, rolled her shoulders. "If I'm overstepping, tell me to shut up."
I looked at Stacks, then back at Ash. Something in her voice told me she wasn't being polite, she had something real to say. And honestly? I could use all the perspective I could get right now.
"Nah, you good," I said. "What's up?"
Ash nodded, like she'd been waiting for permission. "I been where you at right now. Same publicist calls, same Rolling Stone bullshit, same 'strike while the iron's hot' speech when me and Bardot first got together."
Stacks perked up. "Mhm. After all that mess with Dev's bitch ass calling y'all a PR stunt, too."
Ash flinched when Dev's name came up. "Yeah, but that wasn't the worst part.
The worst part was watching everyone around Bardot start making decisions about us like we were a business move.
Clay was her manager then, and he got so caught up in 'protecting her brand' that he forgot he was supposed to be protecting her, you know? "
I felt something twist in my stomach. "What happened?"
"Well, Clay quit," Ash said simply. "Had to choose between being her manager and being her brother.
And you know what? Soon as he stepped back, everything got better.
He was happier. Met someone nice. Bardot was happier, the music was better, and the opportunities that came after were worth taking. "
Stacks leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "But y'all made it work. You and B are solid now."
Ash smiled, the first real one since she'd walked over. "We are. But not because we figured out how to play the game. Because we figured out what game we wanted to play."
She looked at me directly. "So before y'all make any moves, before you take any meetings or sign any contracts, figure out what's important to you. Not what your publicists wants, the label wants, or what the blogs want. What do you want?"
The question hit different than I expected. I opened my mouth to answer, then closed it again.
"I…" I started, then stopped. "I don't know."
Ash nodded like that was the right answer. "Then that's where you start."