31. Aggressive Romantic Poetry
Aggressive Romantic Poetry
Romi
Traffic on Laurel Canyon moved like molasses, every light a forty-five second eternity, every brake check a personal insult from the universe.
'Romi Dulce's Mystery Morning Exit.' 'Enemies to Lovers?
' The photo made me look guilty of something I never admitted to.
Thankfully, the Rich Wild Syndicate venue?
They played no games about scrubbing that hallway footage.
One call from the lawyer waving a few bands and poof, me and Cam didn't just have a whole moment against that wall because money and connections bought peace.
So, the leak of Cam's hoodie hanging loose on my body, my hair a mess, that stupid satisfied smirk you could see under dark oversized glasses that I couldn't have hidden even if I tried? A blessing.
But there was still Skye Bella's little media tour.
She'd gone on Spill the Tea last week, voice soft and measured.
"Look, I'll always have love for Cam. We had our time, you know?
Beautiful while it lasted. But honestly?
I saw this coming. The obsession, the beef, all that tension.
It was always there. At that event, I could tell her focus was elsewhere.
And that's okay! Growth, right? I guess I was the placeholder until she figured out how to get who she really wanted.
And look, I get it. Who wouldn't want to say they bagged her?
I'm happy for her if she found what she's looking for.
I hope—and I say this with genuine care—I hope she knows what she's signing up for.
Cam's got this way of making it all about her journey, her narrative, her feelings.
It's intense. But hey, maybe that's what works for them. Good luck with that energy, babe."
The comments section was a battlefield I refused to scroll through, but my team's group chat had been pinging non-stop since Monday.
My phone, bolted to the dash, flashed a CarPlay notification: another group text from my team, number four today.
I declined it without reading the preview.
If that chat was firing off, it wasn't because anything had improved.
It spent the week so hot it kept auto-dimming until I turned off notifications on every platform and finally understood what 'post, don't scroll' meant.
So I posted my Pixogram story after Skye got her little twenty-four hours of fame: a selfie in my silk robe, hair perfect, captioned 'love to see everyone finding their voice!
Some are learning to speak up, while others been had the mic.
Growth is beautiful to watch' with the peace emoji.
Cam had been next to me, just out of view.
And I knew Skye would recognize the background.
The fan response was immediate and brutal. They dragged Skye through seventeen different mentions before I'd pulled out of the parking garage.
I ain't never in my life needed a hitta to fight battles for me. I've always taken the killshot for myself. Skye, though? She was learning real-time what happens when you come for somebody the Wolfepack claims as theirs.
But this wasn't a battle I'd called. They were fighting for their life in the comments for a version of me I never signed off on, deciding what I was before I'd found it myself. For once, the story was ahead of me. And I can't stand being behind.
My inbox was a mess of unhinged emails, most of which boiled down to, "Are you dating Cam Wolfe?
" or, "Will you please do a sponsored joint interview for Fizzr?
" My label's new favorite phrase was "cross-platform synergy.
" Apparently, the one thing cooler than a chart-topping queer rapper was two of them in matching sweats, feeding each other takeout while trying to out-twerk each other on Fizzr Live. Blech.
Nobody cared how I felt about it. Not my problem, technically. This is what I paid my PR team for.
The red light bled into a green arrow. I made the left to the complex where Cam lived, and pulled into the visitor lane.
The sun was setting behind the hills, tinting everything with a rose gold that made LA look decent for five minutes.
I punched in the gate code—she'd texted it with a smiley face, a secret only I got to know.
The gate opened slow and I waited, thumbs drumming on the steering wheel. The car behind me honked, then two seconds later, honked again. I waited out of spite.
Inside, the parking lot was a tight grid of overpriced sedans and dented Civics, half the spaces marked with angry little "reserved" plaques. I cruised until I found an open guest spot, backed in careful, and idled the engine a moment before shutting it off.
The quiet inside the car was instantly overwhelming.
My hands were clamped on the wheel, the takeout bags on the passenger seat perfuming the Escalade with chili, lemongrass, and a sizzle of burned sugar.
I stared at my reflection in the darkened window: perfect hair, minimal makeup, not a molecule out of place.
Lip gloss that wouldn't stay on long. But tired.
I put my head against the rest, closed my eyes, and inhaled the scent of basil fried rice and sheer exhaustion.
Nothing I could do was going to change the internet or the next news cycle, or my team's "collab" agenda.
All I could do was show up, food in hand, and try not to fuck up the only good thing I'd managed to salvage from this mess.
I took the key out, killed the lights, and gathered up the food. The paper bags sweated grease against my palm, heavy and awkward. I balanced them, straightened my chain, and stepped into the LA night like it was just another gig.
The courtyard was cleaner than I'd expected, fake grass and succulents arranged in a pattern of maximum try-hard. Cam's building was near the back, up a half-flight of concrete stairs, and I saw her shadow on the landing.
Cam buzzed me in before I even reached the call box. The door to her building swung wide with a satisfying chunk, and I took the stairs, ignoring the elevator entirely.
Her door was halfway open. I caught a slice of her through the gap—white tank with dark nipples peeking through the shirt, mesh basketball shorts and slides, short hair freshly washed.
With those sleeve, neck and leg tattoos, she looked like a tomboy.
I was used to seeing her in couture dresses and suits.
Wild costumes. Chanel dresses. It was never the packaging.
It was her. She caught my eye no matter how she showed up.
Her face was clear, no filter, but the eyes weren't smiling.
It was giving very "will drive around your car all day, pick you up from work and not fill up the tank. "
I gave a knock, more habit than necessity. "Your food's here. Consider me the premium delivery experience."
"Food and jokes? Damn, Romi, you really branching out from dropping bars to delivering meals."
"Wait til you see my tip," I said, and she slapped her forehead. No comeback. She was growing out her hair wavy and long and didn't straighten it. I mussed up her hair on purpose, just to make her smile. "This is cute on you."
I followed her inside. The first time I saw it, her apartment had been smaller than I'd pictured—two bedrooms, one bath, scattered art on the walls.
The air was heavy with the smell of detergent and incense.
An empty bowl sat in the sink, and her laptop glowed on the coffee table, playing an endless loop of music.
I set the food down on the counter, arranging the bags so the logos were all facing out. Cam didn't say anything, just hovered at the fridge, hands braced on the door, eyes fixed on some invisible spot on the linoleum.
"You want a drink? I got water, Coke Zero, tea, or kombucha. Pick your poison."
I took a tea, just to keep my hands busy. The can was cold, stung my fingers.
Cam brought out plates and forks. No napkins, because of course not. She tore open the bag, fished out a carton of pad Thai, and stabbed at it like it owed her money.
For a second, I let the silence do the work. I watched her fork up noodles so quickly I wondered if she tasted them. Her knee bounced under the table. Every few moments, she'd look at me, then away, as if she was recalibrating something in her head.
Finally, I asked, "You okay?"
She didn't look up. "Why wouldn't I be?"
I shrugged, careful not to sound annoyed. "You just seem…off." I tried to unpack "off" as not grabbing at me the minute I entered the door, but that was my issue and not hers.
She exhaled, a long, slow drag. "Long week."
"Same," I said, even though that was a lie. My week had been an endless parade of the same three phone calls, the same dumb arguments with my A&R, and the same cold comfort of sleeping alone. Nothing "long" about it. Redundant AF.
Cam set her fork down and met my eyes. "You get a lot of calls today?"
I almost laughed. "You have no idea."
She pushed her hair back, then tucked it behind her ear. "I told them not to use your name in the press. That it was a misunderstanding, not a—" She broke off, shook her head. "But they don't care. People love a good story."
I thought about my publicist's latest email, about the line, "If you're not in control of the narrative, someone else is." I wondered if that was true, or PR fantasy.
I wanted to reach out, to take her hand across the table, but I didn't. Instead, I sipped my tea and waited her out.
She looked at me, building up to something. Then, instead of saying it, she got up, walked around the table, and tugged me to my feet until she was kissing me.
It wasn't careful or soft. She pulled my face to hers and crashed in like a wave, lips hungry, hands around my waist, holding it back too long. When she broke away, she stayed close, forehead pressed to mine.
"I needed that," she said, eyes closed.
"Not mad about it," I whispered. Might have been a little flushed, too.