Page 4 of What the Leos Burned (BLP Signs of Love #6)
Leo’s Don’t Fold
Zavier Woods was a star, and he carried himself like one.
Diamond chains rested just right on his chest. Dreads freshly retwisted. A tailored bomber jacket zipped halfway, just enough to show the fitted tee that clung to his chest and arms. His energy was quiet and cool, but when he stepped into a room, people noticed. Even if he didn’t say a word.
He was successful. Wealthy. Respected.
And completely disconnected from everything that once made him feel alive.
His Downtown L.A. loft overlooked the skyline, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows and cluttered with studio gear, plaques, and luxury sneakers. On the couch was a woman he barely remembered the name of, wearing one of his T-shirts, scrolling through his TV like it was hers.
“You want breakfast?” she asked, eyes never leaving the screen.
“Nah,” he replied, adjusting his watch. “I got a meeting.”
She started to pout, but he was already gone from the living room. He grabbed his keys and texted his manager, Kam, as he walked out the door.
Zay:
Call this bitch a Uber.
He wasn’t mean, just efficient. He knew the game all too well and mastered the art of giving just enough conversation, attention, and the occasional smile if it felt earned, but nothing more.
He learned to guard his heart like the money in his safe, because that was all it was now.
Too many women played the role to a tee.
They had stroked his ego, told him he inspired them, and loved him, but then when the cameras came out, the bags they carried suddenly came with invoices and rent payment requests.
They didn’t love him; they loved the access.
By the time he reached his thirties, his feelings became a locked room in a house no one visited anymore.
He took the glass elevator down to the parking garage as the sun dipped low across the skyline. The trees were dipped in gold, and a quiet pride settled in his chest.
He stepped into his Hellcat, his engine quietly purring as he cranked it and pressed the button on his screen that was connected through Bluetooth to open his garage door. He pulled out into traffic, one hand on the wheel and the other under his chin as his diamond earring shined in the sunlight.
He didn’t rush. He never did. The label could wait. He passed by a billboard with a twenty-something-year-old rapper’s face plastered across it. He recalled what it was like being young, fast, and flashier. He smiled as the memories of his group, his boys, The Ether Division, popped into his mind.
Man, . . . those days.
Late studio nights, early flights to different countries, sleeping in luxury hotels, and all the women throwing themselves at their feet. They felt unstoppable for a while. That was, until the group dismantled.
No one left bitter, there wasn’t any drama.
There was Tone, who started a vegan restaurant in Los Angeles and promoted all things health.
He kept his head down but still hit up Zay every Christmas.
Deuce, unfortunately, never made it out of those Detroit streets.
He slipped back in after one bad tour and never slipped back out.
Zay had visited him in rehab once. His skin was pale, voice quiet like the beat left his body.
Then, there was Marcellus, the family man now.
Married with three kids and a house back home in Southfield, Michigan.
Zay’s success was so prominent because he was the only one who never stopped chasing it.
He never settled like Tone or lost himself like Deuce.
Although he and Marcellus were still the closest—he visited his boy and the family every time he went back home—he never took the time to build a family like him.
The truth was, Zay didn’t know how to build a family. His mama died before he could even learn how to love a woman fully. Her death took everything warm with him.
After growing up in a house where fists spoke louder than love, his stepfather taught him early that fatherhood could be violent with a wedding ring on.
That man used to tell him “You ain’t even mine” like it was a curse.
Like Zay was something anyone could throw away, so he just beat everybody to it.
When he got out of jail for beating his stepfather senseless, he made a promise to himself. No kids. No family. No chance of becoming that man or dying like his mama, leaving behind those who depended on him.
As if on cue, his sister, Kennedy, now grown and with a family herself, called him. He hit the green “Answer Call” button on the screen before merging onto the I-10.
“Big Ken Ken. Waddup doe?” he called out playfully.
“Hey, big brother. What you got goin’ on?” she answered.
“Shit, the same shit, out here just being that nigga . Ain’t nothin’ new.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, with your old ass! I swear the ego of a male Leo is unmatched!” she responded playfully.
“Old, male Leo, and still that nigga. So what’s the word, bird?”
Kennedy sucked her teeth and ignored her brother’s antics. “I’ll be in L.A. next week. Just wanted to let you know so you can pull up on your baby sister.”
“Oh yeah? L.A. for what?”
“I have a meeting with this black-owned restaurant owner, seeing if we can take it over. They are having management problems but really just want to retire.”
Zay was proud of his little sister. Along with starting her own family, she also had a very successful career in business management. He wasn’t too sure on what exactly she did, but she was always being called across the country to different businesses for her expertise.
“Oh yeah? That’s dope, baby sis,” Zay replied. “How long you gon’ be out here for?”
“From Monday to Wednesday, maybe not that long. You know I hate L.A.”
“It ain’t so bad. You just gotta know where to go and what to do. Can’t move wrong here.”
“Yeah, and you out there all by yourself. No woman, no girlfriend, nothin’!”
She was right. He’d always kept in touch with Kennedy over the years. She was not only his sister but his only tether to who he used to be. Anything beyond that, he cut off before it could grow. Including love.
Especially that love shit.
“Yeah, I hear you.” Zay responded and pulled off the exit into downtown toward the record label.
“But, aye, I’ll get with you next week. I’m pulling into the studio right now.”
He ended the call and wrapped his car around to the front of the tall glass building of his record label. He hopped out the car, threw his keys to valet, and walked into the building.
His thoughts raced as he pressed the elevator button.
His sister’s words stung him a bit. No matter how many women came and gone, none of them ever touched the part of him that still remembered a winter night in Detroit.
A pretty girl with a ponytail and a smile that could melt the ice beneath them.
The only girl who he ever gave his full heart to.
The only girl who he’d never fully bounced back from.
Zay sat across from his A&R, Simone, and manager Kam, at a sleek, black conference table. They were mid-meeting, surrounded by data projections and streaming analytics he didn’t care about.
“You’re still hot,” Simone said, fingers tapping her iPad, “but the story’s getting stale.”
Zay raised a brow and replied dryly, “I drop hits.”
“You drop polished hits,” Kam clarified. “But they’re starting to feel like luxury wallpaper. Looks good, sounds good—but people ain’t feeling it anymore.”
Zay chuckled. “So you want me to cry on the track now? I’m supposed to be Summer Walker or some shit?”
“The label is saying they don’t see any growth in your music, man,” Kam said. “You can’t keep rapping about the same stuff you were at twenty-four. You pushing thirty-five. Your fans grew up. They want more from you now.”
Zay leaned back in his chair. He remained quiet.
He knew they weren’t wrong. Deep down, he’d felt it too. The music came fast, but it didn’t sit in his heart like it used to. He hadn’t written anything that made him feel anything in years.
Everything since her had been hollow.
“You ever think about doing a film score?” Kam asked.
Zay looked up. “A score?”
“Yeah. I got a connect. There’s this big creative arts festival happening in Atlanta. The Culture Circuit. It’s like The Roots Picnic and Essence Fest had a baby. It’s major. Black excellence everywhere. They’re looking for artists who can cross over into film and TV.”
Zay hesitated. “You trying to retire me?”
“I’m trying to elevate you, bruh.”
Zay exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know, man. I got sessions lined up. And I hate all the fake mingling. Shit’s too industry.”
“Then go for the real ones. The bag. The exposure. It’s one weekend. You need this reset.”
There was a long pause. Kam and Simone stared at one another before looking back to Zay.
Then, Zay grabbed his phone. “Fine. Book the flight.”
He boarded the jet just after midnight the same night, hoodie pulled low, headphones in but no music playing.
The cabin was quiet—just him, his thoughts, and the steady buzz of the engines.
He stared out the window and watched the city lights of L.A. shrink beneath him, thinking about what Kam said in that meeting.
“It’s all polished, Zay, but there’s no growth. No heart.”
That stung.
No matter how many platinum plaques hung in his studio, no matter how many women called him brilliant between verses and pillow talk—those words stuck.
He knew how to make a hit. He knew how to make it sound good.
But make people feel something? That required letting them see him. He wasn’t sure he wanted to do that.
He’d held out this long. Kept his trauma tucked behind metaphors and punchlines. Gave just enough to look honest, never enough to be real. Once you started writing from the heart, people didn’t just consume your art. They thought they were entitled to you.
Your scars.
Your story.
Your voice.
Zay leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes.
“I’m not broken,” he muttered to himself. “I’m not lost.”
He was just tired. Tired of chasing new sounds that didn’t say anything. Tired of everyone demanding more. Tired of trying to reinvent without revealing. The game had changed. Maybe he was getting left behind.
The jet soared into the dark sky and cut through clouds like it had something to prove.
He folded his arms across his chest.
He didn’t know what he was going to find in Atlanta.
But it sure as hell wasn’t his heart.