The recording booth had been a vacuum, a place where only the music existed. But when Aubrey stepped out into the main lounge of the Houston studio, the "real world" rushed back in with a sensory violence that made his head spin. The air was a thick, hazy soup of high-grade kush, expensive cognac, and the electric hum of a dozen conversations happening at once.
Aubrey felt the shift in the room's temperature immediately. He wasn't the "Canadian kid" anymore; he was the man who had just earned a nod from the King.
Jasmine didn't give him a chance to process it. She was a fixture in this world—a woman who moved with the calculated, predatory elegance of someone who knew exactly where the power sat in any room. She slid through the crowd, her hand locking onto Aubrey's forearm. Her skin was warm, almost feverish, and she smelled like a mix of vanilla bean and a sharp, expensive musk that cut through the heavy smoke.
"You're shaking, Toronto," she whispered, her voice a low, melodic vibration that he felt in his chest. She didn't let go of his arm; instead, she leaned in, her breasts grazing his bicep through the fabric of his hoodie. "That wasn't just a verse. That was a declaration. But you look like you need to breathe."
"It's a lot," Aubrey admitted, his voice still a bit ragged from the booth. "I'm used to a basement and a cracked BlackBerry. This... this is a different planet."
"Come with me," she said, her eyes darkening with a look that was half-invitation, half-command. "I know a place where the air is a little thinner."
She led him through a set of heavy, soundproofed doors and behind a thick, velvet indigo curtain. The transition was instant. The roar of the studio faded to a low, rhythmic throb, like a heartbeat heard through a wall. The private lounge was bathed in a deep, moody blue light that made the shadows long and the atmosphere intimate. A massive, circular velvet sofa dominated the center of the room, and the air here was cooler, smelling faintly of cedar and cold gin.
Jasmine didn't wait for him to sit. As soon as the curtain fell shut, she turned into him, her hands sliding up under his hoodie. Her palms were flat against his chest, feeling the frantic rhythm of his heart. She pushed him back until he hit the soft velvet of the sofa, then she climbed onto his lap, her silk dress riding up to reveal the smooth, amber curve of her thighs.
The erotic tension in the room was suffocating. Aubrey reached up, his fingers tangling in her hair, pulling her face down to his. When their lips met, it wasn't the soft, tentative kiss of a first date. It was a collision. She tasted like honey and the dark liquor they had been drinking, and she moved with a confidence that Aubrey found both intoxicating and terrifying.
He slid his hands down her back, tracing the dip of her spine until his fingers found the hem of her dress. Every touch felt amplified in the quiet of the lounge. He could hear the soft friction of her skin against his denim, the hitch in her breath as he pulled her closer, and the distant, muffled bass of a Wayne track that seemed to time itself to their movements.
"Everyone out there wants a piece of you now," she murmured against his lips, her hands wandering down to the waistband of his jeans. "But right here? Right now? You're just Aubrey. And I want to see if the man is as good as the music."
She began to trail her lips down his neck, her teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below his jaw. Aubrey felt the world outside—the contracts, the mother he'd left in Toronto, the girl he'd walked out on—evaporate. He was losing himself in the heat of her, in the sheer, unadulterated power of being the man of the hour.
The Intrusion
The moment was shattered by a violent rip of the velvet curtain. Light from the hallway flooded the room, blindingly white and jarring.
Aubrey jerked back, his hand instinctively gripping Jasmine's waist to steady her as she turned around, her expression snapping from desire to pure venom. Standing in the doorway was V-Strap, a local Houston rapper whose career had been stuck in neutral for years. He was flanked by two guys who looked like they were looking for a reason to bleed someone.
"Aww, look at the star boy," V-Strap sneered, his voice thick with a menacing, slow-rolling Texas drawl. He stepped into the room, the smell of cheap weed and aggression following him like a cloud. "Think you can just hop off a plane, take the mic, and then take the baddest girl in the room? You're a long way from the suburbs, boy."
Aubrey felt a cold, familiar stone settle in his stomach. This was the part of the dream they didn't show on TV. This was the envy.
"V, get the hell out," Jasmine snapped, trying to smooth her dress while still perched on Aubrey's lap. "You're embarrassing yourself."
"I ain't talking to you, Jasmine," V-Strap barked, his eyes locked on Aubrey. "I've been putting in work in this city for ten years. Blood, sweat, and tears on these streets. Then some kid who used to be a teen actor comes in here, does one little song, and Wayne acts like he's the Prince of the South? I don't think so. You ain't built for this, Aubrey. You're soft. You're a guest. And guests eventually have to leave."
Aubrey felt the heat of the anger rising, but he kept his voice low, steady—the same tone he used when he was about to drop a line that would end a career. He slowly shifted Jasmine off his lap and stood up. He was taller than V-Strap, his frame filled out by years of trying to look tougher than he felt.
"I didn't ask for any of this," Aubrey said, his voice ringing out in the small lounge. "I didn't ask Wayne to like me. I just showed up and did what I do. If you got a problem with that, it's not with me—it's with the fact that you've had ten years and you're still standing in the hallway while I'm in the lounge."
V-Strap's face contorted. He moved forward, his hand reaching for a heavy bulge in his waistband. The air in the room turned electric, the kind of tension that usually ends in a headline. Aubrey didn't flinch, though his heart was screaming. He realized in that moment that if he backed down now, his career would be over before the first single dropped.
"Is there a problem in my house?"
The voice was like a gunshot. Lil Wayne was standing in the doorway, a Styrofoam cup in one hand, his dreadlocks draped over his shoulders like a shroud. He looked bored, but his eyes were sharp, calculating, and cold as ice.
The power dynamic in the room did a 180-degree turn. V-Strap's shoulders slumped, his hand coming away from his waist as he tried to find a way to look like he hadn't just been checking the "new kid."
"Nah, Wayne... we was just... just talking to the homie," V-Strap stammered, his bravado leaking out of him like air from a balloon.
"You weren't talking," Wayne said, stepping into the room. He didn't even look at V-Strap; he looked at Aubrey, a small, knowing grin playing on his lips. "And he ain't your homie. He's my artist. Which means if you got a problem with him, you got a problem with the check. And nobody wants a problem with the check."
Wayne gestured toward the door. "Move. Now."
V-Strap and his crew slunk out of the room, the sound of their boots retreating down the hallway the only noise left. Wayne turned to Aubrey.
"Welcome to the life," Wayne said, taking a slow sip from his cup. "Everyone wants the crown until they realize how heavy it is. Don't let the girls or the haters distract you from the pen. If you let them in your head, they win. If you put them in the music, you win."
Wayne looked at Jasmine, then back at Aubrey. "Get your bag. We're going to Dreams. The night hasn't even started yet."
As Wayne walked away, Jasmine turned to Aubrey, her eyes filled with a new kind of intensity. She reached out and straightened his hoodie, her fingers lingering on his chest.
"You didn't blink," she whispered. "Most people would have folded when he reached for his hip. You've got more of the South in you than I thought, Aubrey."
Aubrey grabbed his notebook from the velvet table. He felt the weight of it—the weight of his future. He looked at the page he had started on the plane, the list of girls he'd known. He took a pen and pressed it to the paper, the ink bleeding slightly into the page.
Jasmine - Houston. The one who showed me that every beautiful night has a price.
"Let's go," Aubrey said, his voice sounding different—older, harder. He walked out of the indigo lounge and back into the purple smoke. He was leaving the "actor" behind. He was becoming the legend.