The SUV ride back from the club was a heavy, loaded silence. Aubrey sat in the back, his head resting against the cold leather. The scent of Mercedes' vanilla-scented oil was still thick on the collar of his hoodie, a haunting reminder of the private VIP booth. He felt like he had lived three lifetimes in the last twenty-four hours.
V-Strap hadn't been at the club, but his absence felt louder than his presence would have been. Jas Prince was staring out the window with a focused intensity that told Aubrey the situation wasn't over. In Houston, you didn't just walk into a man's territory and take the spotlight without a tax being collected.
"You think V is going to let that go?" Aubrey asked, his voice breaking the silence.
Jas turned to him, the neon streetlights of the city strobing across his face. "In this city, ego is more valuable than money, Aubrey. You embarrassed him in front of Wayne and Jasmine. He's going to try to reclaim his 'face.' But don't you worry about that. You stay focused on the pen."
They arrived back at the Hotel Derek just as the sun was beginning to bleed a bruised, hazy purple over the Texas horizon. As Aubrey stepped out of the car, his bones aching with fatigue, he saw a familiar figure waiting by the glass entrance. It was Jasmine.
She looked different in the morning light—less like the studio predator and more like someone who had been pacing the lobby with a racing mind. She walked toward him, the clicking of her heels sharp against the pavement.
"I need to talk to you," she said, her voice dropping to that low, intimate register that had nearly undone him in the studio.
Jas gave Aubrey a knowing, cautious look. "Don't be late for the session at noon. We're finishing the verse." He pulled the car away, leaving Aubrey alone with the woman who had first tasted his new fame.
"V-Strap is looking for you," Jasmine said, stepping into his space until her chest was inches from his. She reached out and gripped the drawstrings of his hoodie, her eyes searching his. "He's telling the streets you're a industry plant. A fake. He wants to catch you when the OVO circle isn't around."
"And why are you telling me this?" Aubrey asked, his hands finding the curve of her waist. "You were with him before I got here, weren't you?"
Jasmine let out a soft, bitter laugh. "I'm with whoever is going to be the biggest thing in the world, Aubrey. And right now, that's you. But V is dangerous because he has nothing to lose. I don't want to see you get hurt before the check clears."
She leaned in, her forehead resting against his. The erotic tension from the night before hadn't dissipated; it had just become more complicated by the threat of violence. "Come up to my room. The Derek is safe. The streets aren't. Not yet."
The door to Jasmine's suite clicked shut with a heavy, final thud. The silence of the luxury room was a stark contrast to the thumping bass of Dreams. Jasmine didn't say another word. She turned her back to him, the morning sun through the window silhouetting her figure.
Aubrey felt his pulse thundering in his throat. He walked toward her, his boots silent on the thick carpet. When he reached her, the contrast was stark—his heavy, black OVO hoodie and raw denim against her bare, amber skin. He reached out, his hands grazing her waist, his palms feeling the feverish heat radiating from her.
"I've never seen anything like this," Aubrey muttered, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly rasp.
She didn't answer with words. She looped her arms around his neck, pulling him down until their lips crashed together. The kiss was desperate and hungry, tasting of the expensive gin from the club and the raw ambition that drove them both. She pushed the hoodie up and over his head, her hands mapping the muscles of his chest and back, her nails leaving light, stinging tracks that made his blood roar.
He lifted her easily, her legs locking around his waist as he carried her to the massive king-sized bed. The 1,000-thread-count sheets were cool against their heated skin, a sharp, luxurious friction. Aubrey moved over her, his hands exploring the dip of her waist and the curve of her hips with a slow, agonizing deliberation. He watched the way the morning light caught the sheen of sweat on her collarbone, the way her eyes rolled back as he pressed his lips to the sensitive cord of her neck.
Every movement was a slow burn. He could feel the rhythm of her heart hammering against his own, a synchronized frantic beat. As he moved with her, the world outside—the contracts, the mother he'd left in Toronto, the girl who wanted him to stay small—didn't just fade; it vanished. There was only the scent of her vanilla oil, the sound of her jagged breathing in his ear, and the intense, physical reality of his new life. He felt powerful, a man who had claimed his prize, his movements fueled by the adrenaline of his first real taste of the top.
When the tension finally snapped, it felt like an explosion in the quiet room. They lay there for a long time afterward, limbs tangled in the disordered sheets, the air in the suite thick and humid. Aubrey's forehead rested against her shoulder, his breath slowly evening out.
He was starting to realize that this—this intensity, this proximity to beautiful, dangerous women—was the fuel for his music.
After a few minutes, Jasmine shifted, her fingers tracing the "All Things Go" tattoo on his arm. "You're a long way from home, Aubrey," she murmured, her voice thready.
"I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be," he replied, though a part of him felt the first chill of the "secret life."
He reached for his notebook on the nightstand, his fingers still slightly trembling. He looked at the list. He was already thinking about how this morning would sound over a soulful, slowed-down beat.
Jasmine - Houston. The one who showed me that the sun rises differently when you're winning.
But as he looked at her, he noticed her BlackBerry sitting on the bedside table. It vibrated—a short, sharp buzz. Aubrey's eyes drifted to the screen.
1 New Message: V-Strap
"Is the Canadian still in there? Tell me when he's heading to the garage. We're waiting."
The heat in Aubrey's veins turned to ice. He looked at Jasmine, who was watching him with a soft, tired expression. Was she the prize, or was she the bait?