Page 9 of Love's Free Will

The bass-heavy track playing through the custom speakers was smooth, full of that melodic rap-and-sing blend that made Royal a Tory Lanez- Chris Brown hybrid with a chip on his shoulder. The beat knocked; the flow was clean—but something about it felt… familiar.

My brows furrowed as I let the beat roll over me, the melody settling in my head before I realized exactly why it sounded familiar. This nigga had an identical song on his last album.

I turned to Logan, arms crossed. “Tell me I’m trippin’.”

Logan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wish I could.”

Before I could respond, the studio door swung open, and in walked the man of the hour himself—Royal. Behind him were two dudes, one looked just like him so I figured they could be related, the other was a big stocky dude who was one donut short of having a heart attack.

Royal was tall as hell, all confidence and cocky energy, covered in ink, diamond earrings glinting under the neon studio lights. Dressed in a designer tee, heavy chains, and sweatpants hanging low, he moved like a nigga who knew he was fine and didn’t give a damn how anybody else felt about it. But it was the attitude that got me.

The moment his dark eyes landed on me, his face twisted into an expression of pure irritation—like I was a goddamn inconvenience in his studio. I already didn’t like him.

“Mannnnnnn,” he muttered rubbing his hand down his face. “So this is who you got me workin’ with?” He laughed, shaking his head. “A spoiled rich girl playin’ in music?”

I blinked once. Then twice. Oh okay, so this is the energy we were going to be on? No hello, no nice to meet you, nothing but pure bitchassness which I for damn sure wasn’t about to accept.

I smiled, sweetly making sure to display all 32 pearly whites. “And you must be Royal Teegan, the guy who keeps putting out the same damn song and callin’ it art. You don’t know shit about me so stop before you embarrass yourself.”

His smirk dropped but the laughs from his friends didn’t go unnoticed. Logan’s eyes flicked between us, probably already regretting every decision that led to this moment.

Royal took a step forward, arms crossed over his broad-ass chest, looking unimpressed. “You don’t know shit about my music.”

“Oh, I know enough.” I waved a lazy hand toward the speakers. “I know this sounds identical to track six on your last album.”

His jaw ticked. “So, you think you know me just off one listen?”

I scoffed. “Nigga, everybody knows you. You been making the same song since you came in the game. You rap about money, bitches, and struggle like the rest of these SoundCloud niggas, and the only thing switchin’ up is the beat.”

Royal’s head tilted slightly, that cocky little smirk creeping back onto his face. “That’s crazy, ‘cause last time I checked, my shit still sell. So, remind me again, why the fuck do I need you?”

I didn’t hesitate. “Because I have three Grammys.” His smirk faltered, but only for a second. I stepped forward, matching his stance. “How many you got?” I asked, tilting my head. “Oh. That’s right, you ain’t got shit.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, his tongue running over his bottom lip in agitation. “I don’t give a fuck about no awards.”

“Of course you don’t,” I mused, nodding. “That’s exactly why you don’t have any.” His jaw flexed, his lips pressing into a hard line. I could see it all over his face—this nigga was heated. His hands flexed at his sides, like he was holding himself back from saying something disrespectful. Logan inhaled sharply, clearly ready to jump in before one of us actually tried to fight the other. But I wasn’t done yet. “You wanna talk about who’s playing in music?” I laughed, stepping even closer. “Nigga, you got all this talent, but you too stubborn to elevate. You could be great, but you stuck in your own head, makin’ the same tired-ass tracks ‘cause you refuse to grow.”

I watched at Royal’s dark eyes narrowed, his whole body tensing.

“Who the fuck you think you talkin’ to?”

“A nigga who needs my help but too arrogant to admit it,” I said coolly, my gaze unwavering. More thick, tense silence emanated between us. Logan and Royal’s friend’s eyes bouncing back and forth between us.

Royal’s fists clenched at his sides, and I could tell he was fighting the urge to really go off.

Logan coughed, stepping in like he already knew shit was about to get ugly. “Alright, alright, let’s chill for a sec?—”

Royal ignored him, his eyes locked on me and a slow, amused grin stretching across his face. “Lemme guess. You one of them bougie-ass debutantes who think just ‘cause they got industry cosigns, they know real music?”

I arched a brow. “And you one of them angry hood niggas who think just ‘cause they been through some shit, they’re automatically deep? Fuckin’ clown’.”

“Aye yo, who the fuck this bougie bitch think she talkin’ to?”

“Bitch?” I asked putting my freshly manicured coffins in his face. “Nigga, I’ll show yo ass a bitch.”

“Aye, aye, chill.” Logan stepped in between us. “Come on now, this ain’t what the fuck I brought y’all together to do.”

Royal chuckled lowly, but it wasn’t warm—it was the kind of laugh that said this nigga is about to say something even more disrespectful.

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