Page 5

ROYAL

T he door slammed shut, leaving nothing but silence and the low hum of the beat still playing through the speakers. I sat there, jaw clenched, chest tight, still irritated as hell.

Who the fuck did she think she was, talking to me crazy? And also, who the fuck did Logan think he was demanding I work with that bitch.

Before I could process that any further, Logan’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

I exhaled sharply, refusing to turn toward him. Here we go . “Man, don’t start,” I muttered, rubbing my hands together, still heated.

"Nah, fuck that," Logan snapped, stepping closer. "You gon' ruin your whole career ‘cause you too fuckin’’ hardheaded to listen?!"

I turned my head slowly, finally looking at him. “Nigga, that bitch was disrespectful as fuck. I don’t need her help.”

"You don't need her?" Logan barked out a humorless laugh. "These charts say otherwise."

I glared, nostrils flaring. “Man, fuck you.”

“Bet,” Logan shot back, unbothered. “Then fuck your project too.”

“Whoa, whoa.” King stood. “We ain’t gotta go that route. Royal already got a lot of time invested in this shit.”

“So do I King.” Logan replied. “Yo’ client don’t fuckin’’ listen. So you know what? I’m done.”

The words hit different. I sat up straight. “The fuck that mean?”

“It means,” Logan said, voice tight, “that if you don’t stop actin’ like a bitch and learn to fuckin’’ listen, your shit is done. I’ll shelve this whole album, Royal. Good luck getting another deal anywhere else."

My fingers flexed at my sides, my breathing slow, controlled.

Logan and I had been cool for years, but that don’t mean I liked niggas talking down to me—especially not in my own studio.

I wanted to beat his ass, but what would that solve?

LA Records had so much pull in this industry that I knew if they wanted to they could blackball me and I didn’t need that shit.

I gritted my teeth, standing to my full height. “Man, fuck outta here. You ain’t about to do no dumb shit like that. I’m literally one of the top artists on the whole label. Besides me, only other people makin money are Heaven and Reese.”

Logan’s bored expression was even more annoying.

“I don’t give a fuck about how much money you make me.

I make my own damn money. Yo fuckin’ ego and yo’ pride gon keep preventing you from doing big shit.

If you think for one fuckin’ second that I won’t cancel all this shit you got another thing comin. ”

“Royal, stop fuckin’ playin.” King said shaking his head. “It’s too much money to be made.”

I stayed quiet for a second. I didn’t have a choice. My jaw ticked, my fists curling, but before Logan could walk out, I muttered the words I hated more than anything.

“Wait, white ass nigga, damn.”

Logan turned back, arms crossed. “Say that again?”

I gritted my teeth, my pride damn near choking me. I hated this shit. “I said wait.”

He smirked. “Thought so.”

I rolled my eyes, cracking my neck. “Nigga, what you want me to do?”

“Go apologize to that girl and get her ass back in this room.”

I stared at him like he had lost his whole fuckin’’ mind.

“You gotta be out yo rabbit ass mind. I ain’t apologizing to that bitch.”

Logan shrugged. “Fine, don’t apologize. But good luck gettin’ her back in this room and without her, this shit dead.”

I inhaled deep through my nose, trying to keep from flipping something over. Logan wasn’t playin'. Which meant I had to do something I never did. I had to go apologize.

“Fuck…” I mumbled pushing past him to leave out of Studio C, down the long hallway, past reception and out the front door. She was damn near to her car, moving like a woman who had already written me off. “Ayo, Shawty!” I called, jogging up behind her.

She stopped, turning slowly, arms crossed over her chest, eyes full of annoyance and zero patience.

“The fuck you want?” there was that smart ass mouth. I let out a breath, hating that I was even doing this.

“Look man… my bad.”

Her brows lifted. “Your bad?”

I exhaled sharply. “Yeah. My bad. I came at you wrong.” She studied me, waiting; eyes squinted, head cocked to the side.

“Okay? Is that it?”

I waited too. Because obviously, this is where she apologizes too, right? …Right? But she didn’t say shit. Didn’t even blink.

“Oh, so that’s it?” I frowned. “You ain’t got nothin’ to say back besides okay?”

She shrugged. “I accepted your apology.”

I blinked. “Bitch, where?! You ain’t say shit.”

“Here we go with this disrespectful shit. Nigga you got life fucked up. Fuck you and goodbye.” She put her hand on the door handle but I stopped her.

“Chill, chill… fuck, my bad. I ain’t mean to call you out ya name, it’s a fuckin’ habit.”

“Not with me it won’t be. I don’t tolerate disrespect from no fuckin’ body. Who the fuck raised you?”

“My mama, the fuck?”

“She did a shit job at it.”

“Aye, watch yo mouth. I just came out here to apologize. But let’s be real, I’m owed an apology too.”

She scoffed folding her arms across her chest. Her lips quirked. “Oh sure… what was it you said? My bad.”

I stared at her, face blank, annoyed as fuck. She was enjoying this. And I hated her for it. I inhaled deep, forcing myself to stay cool.

“Just… come back inside,” I muttered. “I’ll play you some more tracks.”

She tilted her head. “Oh you need my help now? Are you going to actually listen to my input?”

I ground my teeth before scratching the back of my head. “Mannnn, we’ll see.”

She exhaled dramatically, but after a beat, she walked back inside. I followed, already knowing this shit was about to be painful as hell.

Nearly an hour later, Averi sat at the console, notebook open, pen tapping against the paper, her expression cool but observant as she listened to another track. Meanwhile, I sat on the couch, legs spread, arms resting over the back, acting like I wasn’t watching her every move.

She was fine, I’d give her that. Pretty-ass face, deep brown skin, full lips, body on point, the kind of woman who walked into a room and demanded attention.

But she had a bad fuckin’’ attitude, and that shit was pissin me off.

She wasn’t starstruck like most females were when they met me, wasn’t impressed by me, and that shit irked my fuckin’’ soul.

“So,” I said lazily, “what’s the verdict, Ms. Grammy Winner?”

She didn’t look at me. “It’s good.”

I smirked. “That’s it?”

Her pen tapped against the notebook. “It could be better, the lyrics need some work.”

I scoffed, shaking my head. “Man, fuck outta here.”

Her eyes snapped to mine. “You just asked me for my opinion. Now you don’t wanna hear it?”

“I don’t need no help with my lyrics,” I muttered.

Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, you need all the help you can get.”

I clenched my jaw. “Says who?”

“Says me,” she shot back. “The hit making songwriter/producer who just spent the last forty-five minutes rewriting your weak-ass bars.”

I frowned. “The fuck you mean?” Without another word, she tore out a sheet of paper and slid it across the console. I stared at it, then at her, then back at it. “You rewrote my shit?”

She leaned back, arms crossed, daring me to say something. I exhaled slowly, grabbing the paper, reading the lyrics she’d changed. And fuck, they were good. Better than I wanted to admit. But I wasn’t about to tell her that.

Before I could respond, King walked in, grabbing a water bottle from the mini fridge. He paused, glanced between me and Averi, then looked down at the lyrics in my hand. He leaned over my shoulder, reading them. Then, without missing a beat— "Shit sound better than what you had."

I flipped him the bird without looking up. Averi just smirked. I hated her. But worse than that? I kinda liked her lyrics.

And I really fuckin’ hated that.

The beat played back through the state-of-the-art speakers, filling the room with the newly adjusted version of my new track Westlake Ave .

I sat back on the leather couch, legs spread, blunt in my hand, my eyes closed as I listened. I was tired as fuck, but the energy in the studio was still electric.

Momma workin’ doubles, tryna stretch that check out,

Lights off, heat low, had to thug that shit out,

Pops on collect calls, tellin’ me to stand tall,

But how the fuck I’m ‘posed to when my stomach feelin’ dead raw?

OGs at the store, told me move when it’s risky,

I was ten, watchin’ niggas cookin’ dope like it’s Jiffy,

Fourteen, seen my first homie laid stiffly,

Lost too many brothers, now the reaper out to get me.

Same Ave where my cousin caught a bullet, left leakin’,

Same Ave where my brother did a bid, mom weepin’,

Same Ave where we split a pack of noodles on the stove,

Same Ave where I prayed for a way up out this hole.

I hated to admit it—really hated to admit it—but the shit was running smoother than before. Not because I needed her help. But because—maybe—her input wasn’t completely trash.

We had kept some of my original lyrics, but there were key places where hers had filled in the gaps, making the flow cleaner, the storytelling sharper. And I wasn’t the only one who noticed.

King sat at the console, nodding his head to the track, a deep frown of concentration on his face. Zay stood off to the side, arms folded, his usual unimpressed expression betraying the fact that he was actually feeling it.

Malachi, my engineer, leaned forward, listening intently. When the song ended, there was a beat of silence. Then Malachi let out a low whistle. “Yeah… that shit right there? That’s it.”

Zay smirked, nodding. “That shit do sound better, bruh.”

King finally exhaled, shaking his head. “Yup. You should’ve listened the first time.”

I cracked my neck, annoyed. “Man, shut the fuck up.”

Zay snickered. “Nigga mad ‘cause she was right.”

I flipped him the bird, agitated. Because they weren’t wrong. The shit did sound better. Averi had even adjusted the beat, tweaking certain drum patterns, adding some depth to the 808s, making the production hit harder without changing the core of the track.

She sat at the console, tapping her freshly manicured fingers against her notebook, expression unreadable as she studied the waveforms on the screen. I watched her, still trying to figure out what it was about her that pissed me off so much.

She was fine as fuck, not gonna lie. The kind of fine that was effortless like she woke up looking like that—skin deep brown, sharp cheekbones, full lips, thick ass hair. If it wasn’t for that damn attitude, I would have liked her.

She had this air of confidence, like she just knew she was that bitch, and I hated how unimpressed she was with me.

Most people walked into a room with me and automatically respected my presence.

Averi? She walked into the room like she was the main event.

And that got under my skin in a way I didn’t like.

Finally, she closed her notebook and stood up, grabbing her bag. “Alright, I’m out.”

I frowned. “Damn, just like that?”

She shot me a look. “Yeah, just like that. I got a flight in the morning.”

I leaned back, studying her. “When you comin’ back?”

“I don’t know,” she said, shrugging. “I’ll send you some tracks tonight—ones I produced—so you can listen and see if anything fits your vibe.”

I hesitated before nodding. “Bet.”

She pulled out her phone, opening her contacts.

“What’s your number?” I rattled it off, watching as she entered it and sent me a text with a simple link—probably to a drive with the tracks.

Before she tucked her phone away, she leveled me with a sharp look.

“Only use that number for music purposes.”

I smirked. “Don’t nobody want yo weird ass.” She rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath as she slung her bag over her shoulder. “What was that lil’ ugly?” I challenged.

She turned, already walking toward the door. “I said I’m making a mistake working with a fuck boy like you. I know I’m going to regret this shit.”

I let out a low laugh, watching her leave. “Too late now, Shawty.”

She didn’t look back. Instead, she flipped me the bird and walked out of the studio. I laughed, shaking my head. She really couldn’t stand me.

The second she was gone, King and Zay both turned to me, wearing matching smirks. I already knew what they were about to say. And I was not in the mood.

“Bruh,” King started, shaking his head. “You really think we can’t see the way you lookin’ at her?”

I scowled. “The fuck that mean?”

Zay chuckled. “It means that shit is written all over your face, nigga. You been starin’ at her hard as hell this whole time.”

I sucked my teeth. “Man, fuck outta here, y’all got me fucked up.”

King leaned back, arms crossed. “You might have her fooled, but you ain’t got us fooled.”

Zay nodded. “Nigga, you want her ass. Real Bad. And I don’t even blame you, she was fine as hell.”

I laughed, genuinely amused. “Y’all niggas sound stupid.”

King ignored me. “I don’t give a fuck if you do or don’t, but you better not fuck this up.”

I frowned. “What?”

“You heard me,” King said, expression dead serious now. “This project? We need this to happen. We done put too much into this album for you to let your ego and your temper get in the way.”

Zay nodded. “And you already know Logan ain't playin’ with your ass.”

I inhaled slow, letting their words settle. They weren’t wrong. We’d been working toward this album for months—the rollout, the singles, the features. Averi being brought in was a last-minute move, and I still wasn’t sure if it was the right one.

But if this shit didn’t work? It wouldn’t just be me that suffered. It’d be King, Zay, my mama and my little sister. The whole damn team.

I exhaled through my nose. “I hear you,” I muttered.

King gave me a long look before nodding.

Zay smirked, slapping my back. “Try not to fuck this up, lover boy.”

“And aye, don’t fuck that girl. She here to work, that’s it, that’s all.” King added.

“I ain’t tryna fuck that girl. It’s badder bitches out here, fuck I look like downgrading.”

“Nigga, who you tryna convince of that shit; us or yourself?” That was Zay, always tryna call me out.

I flipped him the bird. They had no idea what they were talking about. Averi St. Claire? She wasn’t my type. She was too damn bossy. Too opinionated. Thought she was always the smartest person in the room.

And yet…

I couldn’t stop thinking about the way she carried herself. The way she didn’t back down. The way she didn’t give a fuck about who I was or how many people worshipped me outside this studio.

I didn’t want her. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.