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THREE
kyir
Brooke was an interesting dilemma.
Not to minimize all the other things she was to other people and hell, evenme. But at the moment, the mental chaos she brought to my life, effortlessly, was most prevalent.
Most… pressing.
The girl was fucking confusing.
Before she left my apartment to go back to her own, separate world, she’d dropped to her knees in front of me in my living room, seemingly intent on slurping the consciousness from my body through my dick.
Just… an otherworldly level with her.
But then, when I offered to walk her downstairs—or better yet, to her brownstone—she’d looked at me like I had a third head, just as misguided as the other two.
Confusing.
“You think we need to go through it one more time?”
Noble’s voice in my headset startled me a little, forcing my thoughts back to the matter at hand. A quick glance around the room told me he and the couple other people with us—Vaughn, the sound engineer, Dean, the producer—were all looking at me, waiting for my thoughts.
Truthfully… I hadn’t heard shit.
I’d been tuned out, trying to solve theBrookepuzzle embedded in my brain.
Still, I shook my head. “Nah, I think we’re good,” I bluffed, banking on Dean’s perfectionism to balance my ignorance.
Instead, the three men exchanged a look and Noble started laughing.
“What?” I asked as Vaughn gestured to Dean to give him something.
“I told you this nigga wasn’t paying a lick of attention.” He cackled, smirking as Dean slapped a twenty in his hand. “Easy money.”
“Damn, it’s like that?” I asked, tossing my hands up.
“Ay,Iwas rooting for you,” Dean spoke up. “Being distracted in the studio ain’t really your vibe.” He waved a hand around the space to emphasize his point. There was no one here that wasn’t actively a part of the music. Even my security and assistant waited upstairs in the record store.
“The fuckboy music has him going down memory lane,” Noble called from inside the booth, laughing, and hell… I laughed at his designation of the song we were collaborating on too.
“Breathe”was absolutely fuckboy music adjacent: rapper and a singer, raunchy lyrics, a beat designed to be mimicked with the hips on the dancefloor or just the floor, period. It was part of a trio of songs creating a short story arc on my upcoming album. There was “Wait”,then “Listen”,then “Breathe”—a chronology of meeting, getting to know, and ultimately getting inside someone.
Someone.
“Can’t be considered fuckboy music,” Dean said. “No mention of hoes. Cause this dude is clearly sprung off whoever he’s hiding from the world.”
I shook my head. “I’m not hiding anybody.”
She was hidingherself.
“Notice he didn’t deny being sprung though.” Vaughn laughed and I swiped a hand over my face, embarrassed by the oversight but only a little.
“We done for the day or not?” I asked, trying to get some heat off me, but that only made them all laugh harder.
“Yeah, it’s good,” Dean finally answered once he’d wrapped up his laughter at my expense. “Y’all still performing this atSummitSaturday night? Folks are hype for it.”
I blew out a sigh.
