Page 12 of Love's Free Will

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 backthrough the state-of-the-art speakers, filling the room with the newly adjusted version of my new trackWestlake 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’,

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