Page 40 of Free to Fall

“Nasseem!” I scolded, trying not to laugh. “They still gotta pack up their stuff?—”

“I’ll help,” Kaia said quickly, clearly knowing what kind of energy was in the room.

They moved fast, all three of them grabbing their tools and packing with military precision. I mouthed I’m sorry to them as they left, but they were already giggling on the way out.

When the door clicked shut, I turned to Nasseem, who still hadn’t moved. “We are not skipping this concert, Nasseem.”

“I didn’t say nothin’,” he replied, walking up to me slowly, hands in his pockets, eyes locked on me. “But you talkin’ about gettin’ on stage lookin’ like that… and expect me to sit in the crowd while niggas lose they minds?”

I smirked, placing a hand on his chest. “Be cool.”

“You tryin’ to start a riot,” he muttered, eyes still drinking me in. “Swear to God.”

“Go get dressed.”

He kissed my cheek. “Yes, ma’am.”

While he was in the bedroom, I walked over to the mirror and took a selfie—just the top half of my body and a glimpse of the rhinestone detail. Then I turned to the door just as he walked back out. And whew. That man was too damn fine.

He had on black jeans, a black and gray Dolce & Gabbana sweater that fit his broad frame like it was tailored just for him, black Dolce shades pushed on top of his head, and a pair of black, gray, and white Jordan 1 Mids. Around his neck hung thick Cuban links with his Nas pendant shining, a diamond-studded Cartier watch peeking from under his sleeve.

“You clean up nice,” I said, biting my lip.

“Just tryna match yo’ fly E.”

We turned to the mirror together and posed—his arm draped across my waist, my hand on his chest. I snapped a photo on my phone. “We look too damn good,” I murmured.

He smirked, brushing my hair off my shoulder. “We look like trouble.”

Backstage at the venue was buzzing. Artists, dancers, managers, makeup artists running around. We stayed close to the rest of our crew, laughing and snapping pictures. Right before Royal’s set, we circled up for a group prayer.

“You ready?” Nasseem whispered.

“Always,” I whispered back.

Royal’s set was electric. Track after track had the crowd lit. By the time he called me out to performPost Up, my adrenaline was already peaking. The lights hit. The crowd screamed. And I walked out.

“ATL, MAKE SOME NOISE FOR MY SIS EGYPT!”

I felt the beat hit before the lyrics came.

“He say he love my vibe, that I’m bad and I’m mean. But I ride for my man, like a G, know what I mean?”

I rapped, I sang, I danced. The chemistry between me and Royal was undeniable, but professional. The crowd fed off our energy.When the song ended, Royal gave me the mic solo.

“You ready?” he mouthed.

I nodded. The lights shifted. Soft pinks and purples filled the stage. My band started to play the chords toNotice Meand the screams rose even louder.

I’m right here, in plain sight.

But you pass me by like I’m not your type.

Tryna play it cool, but I’m breakin’ inside. Hoping one day you might… notice me.

I sang my heart out. Every lyric a story. Every note a confession. Looking into the crowd, seeing thousands of people singing it back to me—I wanted to cry. This was everything I ever dreamed of.

Backstage again, I was buzzing. My pulse still racing. My body vibrating with energy. And then I saw him—Nasseem—waiting with open arms. I ran straight into them. He lifted me off the ground, and I kissed him like no one was watching. Like it was just us in the whole damn arena.

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