Page 63 of Stay Dangerous

“I’m heading to the studio. Y’all should ride with me.”

“Sure,” Rain said, smacking his hands away from mine. “As long as Grimey’s there.”

Fave cut his eyes to Rain before shaking his head. “Yeah, thirsty. Who you think I’m goin’ to see? C’mon, cuz. Wynter ridin’ shotgun.”

The twins pleaded with me to be cool. They’d seen me cut a nigga down more than once, so I swallowed my attitude and followed them back out into the unforgiving sun.

If I was curious at Geronimo Land, I was in awe at the studio.

It was a rectangular two-story building, once again looking rough on the outside, but state of the art on the inside.

The recording equipment had to be in the six figures. And we had passed three rooms before we came into this one.

There were some more younger guys in there, while another was in the booth sounding like shit, but the vibes were still fun as blunts and drink were passed around.

Soon, I was faded, faded enough to let Fave wrap his arm around my shoulder.

“So wassup, Wynter?”

“I’m chillin’,” I replied, trying to focus on the beat playing in the background, and which flow would sound better on it.

“I’m askin’ is you fucking with anyone?”

I smirked, cutting my eyes to him. “Do you care?”

“Shit, not really.” He scooted back to sit up, right as the doors open.

My eyes flitted toward the door, just to see, but the gasp that escaped came out of nowhere.

“Oh shit,” I whispered. The music turned off, and all the air was sucked out of the room.

Grimey. In the flesh.

He was a superstar. Rap’s bad boy, bringing West Coast gangsta rap back into the forefront. Sure, the Native Sons were from G$, too, but the producer/rapper duo wasn’t on that gangbanging shit. PC’s smooth game over mellow beats and real instruments was a different breed, allowing him to crossover overseas, where they were more famous, though I had every album.

Grimey was different. Flashy as fuck, even then with multiple iced out chains around his neck, though they were long enough that they didn’t cover the obscene G$ tatted on it. In every video, he was throwing up his signs, twisting his fingers, and speaking in the thickest Southern California accent someone could have. His aura was just as magnetic as it was deadly, and being associated with the Native Sons made him an overnight celebrity as soon as he stepped on the scene this year.

He walked more into the room, his scowl deepening by the second. Donning a simple Chanel tee, acid washed skinnies sagged low enough to show Versace boxers, and some limited edition shoes Turkey had a picture of in his room, he looked… whoa.

Braids pristine, six on his head and probably tied in the back. He licked his lips, before wiping his giant hand down his face, pulling on his chin hairs. “Why is it bitches here?”

Rain scoffed, but she shrunk when his eyes landed on her. He cataloged everyone in the room, but when his dark brown eyes got to me, he narrowed them.

Fave tightened his arm around me, and even though Grimey didn’t take his eyes off me, I knew he saw it.

“You gotta go.”

“Excuse me?” I blurted, shaking off Fave’s arm to fold mine.

“You heard me, cuz. Yo’ hot n’ ready ass gotta go. Now. And whoever brought you, too.”

“Whatever.” I stood and stomped out, fully intending on shoulder checking his arm, since he was that much taller than me. “You can’t rap anyway.”

He grabbed my arm surprisingly gently for how fast his hand was, and when I looked up, amusement colored his face. “What was that, cuz?”

I jutted out my chin. “I said, you can’t rap.”

Murmurs filled the room. Rain stood, but one look from Grimey, and she sat back down.