Page 51 of Love's Free Will

When I came out the booth, Malachi was already clapping. “That’s it. That’s the fuckin’’ one. Concrete Roses is a fuckin’ wrap.”

Averi gave me a nod, soft and subtle. But her eyes said what her mouth didn’t—she was proud. And if I was being honest, that meant more than any award.

King stood up, tossing a blunt between his fingers. “Aight, that’s it. Album wrapped. We gotta celebrate.”

“I’m good with chillin’ here, or takin my ass home.” I said, flopping back down on the couch.

“Nah, nigga. You always tryna play it cool,” King laughed. “You drop your best shit to date, and you wanna go home? Fuck that. We outside.”

Egypt smirked. “I don’t mind a little outside…”

Averi smiled at her and leaned back, stretching her arms up with a yawn. “It’s my last week here anyway. Might as well do it right.”

I didn’t say nothin’ at first. That sentence hung in the air longer than it needed to.

Last week here.

That shit hit different. It was her last week before she flew back to LA. Before she went back to her life. She’d mentioned to me needing to get back because she had some meetings to go to and in a few weeks, they would resume shooting her show.

And me? I’d still be here. Back to the grind, back to all the shit I had been putting off while I dedicated the last few monthsto being in this studio. I chewed the inside of my cheek, trying not to let that show on my face.

“Yeah,” I said finally. “Fuck it. Let’s go celebrate.”

Averi turned to me. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” I said again, surer this time. “We outside.”

The bass rattledmy chest like it was synced to my heartbeat.

We slid into VIP like we owned the place—which we pretty much did.Compoundwas packed wall to wall, hot air thick with weed smoke, perfume, cologne, liquor, sweat and anticipation. The DJ was talkin’ his shit, crowd amped, lights bouncing off diamonds, gold chains, and sweat-slicked skin.

Me, Averi, Egypt, King, Zay, and Malachi deep in the corner booth. Bottles already poppin’, waitresses rushin’ over with sparklers and ice buckets, black shades on inside just to hide how high we all were.

Averi was on the dance floor with Egypt, hips swayin’ slow to the music, dress ridin’ up just enough to make me want to go drag her ass back home right then and there. But instead, I just watched, lips curled in a smirk, blunt between my fingers.

“Nigga, close your mouth before you start droolin’,” King joked, throwing back a shot.

I looked over and shook my head. “Mind yo business.”

He grinned, holding up a glass to the ceiling. “To album number three.”

Malachi echoed it. “Future multi-platinum album number three, you mean.”

“Aye, let’s not get ahead of ourselves?—”

Before I could even finish, the lights dimmed and the DJ’s voice boomed through the speakers.

“ATL—y’all know who the fuck in the building tonight, right? Lemme hear y’all make some noise for Royal!”

The crowd exploded. Phones up. Hands in the air. Chantin’ my name like I was God on stage. And then?—

“Momma workin’ doubles, tryna stretch that check out”

The beat dropped to Westlake Ave, and the whole club wentcrazy. I stood up without thinking. The whole VIP section lit up, Egypt screaming, Averi laughing, and the crowd singing every word like they wrote it themselves.

“Lights off, heat low, had to thug that shit out…”

Averi turned to me, wide-eyed and beamin’. “They know the whole song…”

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