The silence in the suite, which had felt like a sanctuary only moments ago, now felt like a vacuum. Aubrey stood by the bed, his heart hammering a slow, heavy rhythm against his ribs. The glowing screen of Jasmine's phone seemed to sear the image of V-Strap's text into his retinas.
"Is the Canadian still in there? Tell me when he's heading to the garage. We're waiting."
He looked down at Jasmine. She was draped across the silk pillows, her hair a dark, tangled mess against the white linen. She looked peaceful, almost innocent, with the golden Texas sun kissing the curve of her shoulder. But the phone in his hand told a different story. To her, he wasn't a soulmate or a lover; he was a target. He was a paycheck or a play for power in the Houston hierarchy.
Aubrey felt a sickening twist in his gut—a mix of the lingering heat from their lovemaking and a new, icy layer of paranoia. He carefully placed the phone back on the nightstand, exactly where it had been. He didn't wake her. Not yet.
He moved silently to the bathroom, the cold marble floor a harsh wake-up call to his feet. He closed the door softly and leaned against the sink, staring at his reflection in the oversized mirror. His eyes looked darker, older. He pulled out his own BlackBerry. His fingers flew across the trackpad.
To: Jas Prince
Garage is hot. V-Strap and his crew are waiting for me. Jasmine is the setup. Don't come alone.
The reply was instant, as if Jas had been waiting for the signal.
From: Jas Prince
I'm three minutes away. Stay in the room until I text you. I'm bringing the 'iron.' Don't panic, Aubrey. This is just how the game tests the new guys.
Aubrey tucked the phone into his pocket. He turned on the shower, letting the steam fill the room to mask the sound of his movements. He dressed slowly, with a mechanical precision. He pulled on his jeans, laced his sneakers tight, and threw on his hoodie. He felt like he was putting on armor.
He walked back into the bedroom. Jasmine was stirring now, the sound of the shower having woken her. She sat up, the sheet falling away, her eyes sleepy and hooded.
"Going somewhere so soon?" she asked, her voice a sultry purr. She reached out for him, her fingers grazing the fabric of his jeans. "Stay for breakfast. The studio can wait another hour."
Aubrey looked at her. He really looked at her. He saw the beauty, but he also saw the lie. He felt a sudden, sharp urge to confront her, to scream, to ask how she could go from the intensity of their sex to setting him up for a beating—or worse—in a parking garage. But he held it in. He channeled the hurt into a cold, distant mask.
"I can't," he said, his voice flat. "Wayne doesn't like to wait."
He walked over to his notebook on the nightstand, right next to her phone. He picked it up and flipped to the list. He took a pen and, right under her name, he wrote: "The setup."
Jasmine noticed the shift. Her expression sharpened, the sleepiness evaporating. "You're acting weird, Aubrey. What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he said, his eyes locking onto hers. He felt the power shift in the room. "Just realized I left something downstairs. I'll call you."
He didn't wait for her to respond. He walked out of the suite, the heavy door clicking shut with a finality that felt like a bridge burning.
The Descent
The elevator ride down to the garage felt like it took an eternity. Aubrey watched the numbers descend—12, 11, 10. Every floor was a step closer to a confrontation he wasn't sure he was ready for. He gripped the notebook in his hand until his knuckles turned white.
Ding.
The doors slid open to the P2 level. The parking garage was dim, lit by flickering fluorescent tubes that cast long, jagged shadows across the concrete. It smelled of damp cement and exhaust.
Aubrey stepped out, his sneakers squeaking softly. He didn't see anyone at first. Then, from behind a massive concrete pillar near his SUV, three figures emerged.
V-Strap was in the lead, his hands tucked into the front pockets of his oversized hoodie. He was grinning—a jagged, ugly look. Behind him were two guys who looked like they hadn't slept in days, their eyes twitching with an aggressive energy.
"Leaving so soon, Star Boy?" V-Strap called out, his voice echoing off the low ceiling. "We figured you'd be tired after the workout Jasmine gave you. She's real good at keeping people occupied, ain't she?"
Aubrey stopped ten feet away. He felt the fear, a cold knot in his stomach, but he also felt something else: a cold, hard anger. "I'm not in the mood, V. Move the car."
"Or what?" V-Strap laughed, stepping closer. He pulled a heavy, matte-black handgun from his waistband, not pointing it yet, but letting it hang at his side. A clear message. "You gonna rap me to death? This ain't Toronto, kid. In this city, we don't care how many songs you got. We care about respect. And you owe a tax for coming into my house and acting like a king."
Aubrey looked at the gun. His life flashed before him—the basement, Kiki, the flight, the look on his mother's face. He realized how close the dream was to turning into a nightmare.
"The tax is paid," a new voice boomed from the darkness.
A set of high-beams cut through the shadows, blinding V-Strap and his crew. A heavy black Suburban roared around the corner, screeching to a halt inches from Aubrey.
The doors flew open. Jas Prince stepped out, but he wasn't alone. Two massive men in tactical vests—Wayne's personal security—stepped out behind him. They didn't say a word. They just pulled out their own "iron," much bigger and much more professional than V-Strap's.
The silence that followed was deafening. V-Strap's grin vanished. His hand began to shake.
"Jas... man, we was just... just talking to the homie," V-Strap stammered, the same pathetic line he'd used in the studio.
Jas walked up to V-Strap, ignoring the gun in the rapper's hand. He got right in his face. "If I see you within a mile of this kid again, it won't be a conversation. You're banned from every club, every studio, and every street Wayne touches. You're done, V. Go back to the gutter."
Jas turned to Aubrey. "Get in the car."
Aubrey didn't look back. He climbed into the back of the Suburban. As they peeled out of the garage, he looked out the window. He saw the Hotel Derek shrinking in the distance. He thought about Jasmine, probably still sitting in that bed, wondering where it all went wrong.
"You okay, kid?" Jas asked, looking at him through the rearview mirror.
Aubrey leaned back into the leather seat. He felt the coldness settling in, a permanent part of his soul now.
"I'm fine," Aubrey said, his voice sounding like gravel. "Let's go to the studio.