Page 4 of Love's Free Will

Royal had something.

I’d heard a few of his songs. His voice had that gritty, melodic quality, like a mix between Tory Lanez and Chris Brown—someone who could rap like he had something to prove but sing like he was born to do it. His last two projects had done numbers, but nothing that solidified him as a real force. And that was the problem. He was coasting, putting out safe music instead of the music that could make him legendary. And Logan was asking me to fix that.

I took a deep breath, staring at the studio monitors, weighing my options.

"I’ll think about it."

Logan smirked, knowing that was as close to a ‘yes’ as he was gonna get from me right now.

"Think fast, St. Claire." He pushed off the console, adjusting his chain. "He ain’t the patient type."

Neither was I.

2

ROYAL TEEGAN

The bass thumped through the walls of Grindhouse Studios; the beat heavy enough to shake the glass of Hennessy in my hand. The studio was low-lit and moody, bathed in reds and deep blues, the scent of sativa and backwoods lingering in the air. The spot was exclusive—invite only, the kind of place where real artists worked, not industry puppets who needed auto-tune to stay on beat.

I sat back in the leather chair, one diamond-encrusted chain resting on my chest, another hanging from my wrist as I let the music wash over me. My voice bounced back at me through the speakers, the track smooth, melodic—a mix of bragging, heartbreak, and that slick-talking energy I was known for.

It was good. Real good. But it was always good. And that’s why when Logan walked through the door with that look on his face, I already knew he was about to be on some bullshit.

“Damn, do you even knock?” I muttered, exhaling smoke from the blunt I had between my fingers.

Logan ignored me, dropping down into the chair across from me like he paid rent in this bitch. His designer hoodie, gold chains, and crisp sneakers screamed money—but Logan wasn’t one of them money dudes who just threw cash around and actedlike he belonged. Nah, Logan was industry for real, and he knew everybody.

A lot of white boys in hip-hop were corny, but Logan was certified. He was married to a black chick and had black kids, you could tell he grew up in the hood and wasn’t a culture vulture. From what I had learned about him, he grew up on the south side of Chicago with Lux LA, they were best friends and took off in the music industry over a decade ago. He knew the game, and more importantly, he knew me. Which meant he also knew I wasn’t about to fuck with whatever dumbass idea he was about to present.

“You still making the same music?” Logan exhaled, dragging a hand down his face as he leaned back.

I snorted, unbothered. “Nigga, what?”

“You heard me, Royal." He gestured toward the speakers like he was really disappointed. “It’s the same shit, bro."

I turned my head, staring at him like he had lost his damn mind. “You came all the way to Atlanta just to tell me that?”

Logan sighed, shaking his head. “Nah. I came to tell you I’m bringing in a new producer and songwriter for you.”

I stared at him for a second. Then I laughed. Loud. Like he had just told the funniest joke I’d ever heard.

“Get the fuck outta here.” I said, still chuckling, dragging my blunt across the ashtray.

Logan raised a brow, unimpressed. “Am I laughing?”

My face dropped; all humor gone. “I write my own shit. I don’t need no ghostwriter, I don’t need no new producer, and I damn sure don’t need some outside nigga tellin’ me how to make my music.”

Logan folded his arms, nodding slowly. “Cool. I hear you. But I don’t give a fuck.”

I licked my teeth, my grip tightening around my glass. “Logan, don’t play with me.”

“You playin’ with yourself, bruh” Logan fired back. “You got all this talent, all this potential, and you just coastin’. Two albums in and yeah, you doin’ okay, but you ain’t big.”

I sat up straight, my mood shifting into something dangerous. “I ain’t big?” I repeated.

Logan didn’t blink. “Nah. You ain’t big. You Atlanta big, but you ain’t worldwide big and that’s the problem because you should be by now. When I first signed you, I had a vision for where I wanted you to be and you was close but then you got lazy.”

My jaw ticked, my fingers flexing like I was real close to throwing my drink across the room. I had been grinding for years. I grew up in the trenches of Atlanta, came from nothing, and built my name from the fuckin’ ground up.

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