Pamn rolled out of bed, her hand fumbling across the nightstand for her phone. The sharp ringtone echoed in her tiny bedroom, bouncing off the mismatched furniture and peeling wallpaper. She yanked the sheets off her mattress in frustration, crouching to peer under the bed.

  She felt the black metal phone case pass under her fingertips as her hand brushed over. She grabbed it and answered the call breathlessly.

  "Did I just wake you up?" A female voice on the other end laughed.

  "Yeah," Pamn admitted, chuckling and rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "It's okay, though. I wasn't planning on going to bed just yet."

  "Well, that's good…" she led.

  "Why is that?" Pamn asked, letting the final word drag on.

  "You don't have a shoot tonight or tomorrow morning?"

  "No."

  "A'ight, bet. Imma come by and pick you up in like forty. Is that cool?"

  "Okay…" Pamn said.

  "Bet, wear something sexy," she said, hanging up the call.

  Fifty minutes later, a black convertible low-end sports car pulled up in front of the tall concrete housing. Three young women sat inside, talking and laughing.

  Pamn got to her feet from sitting on the stairs in front of the apartment; with a quick sweep, she brushed off the back of her denim skirt as she eagerly approached the waiting car. She adjusted her white tube-top as the car peeled away.

  Pamn got on her knees, pushing herself up onto the blood-red leather seat. Even though it was night, the warm Miami air was almost orgasmic. As the car sped down the street, it blew her bleach-blonde hair into a frenzy.

  As they walked down the street toward the club, Evelyn, the one who called Pamn, reached into her purse. Her many thin gold and silver bracelets jangled as she rummaged, finally pulling out a bottle of blue Gatorade and handing it to Pamn.

  "Uh," she took the drink, looking at it.

  "It's an Everclear mix," Evelyn clarified.

  "No," Pamn said hesitantly. "I-I just…"

  "It's not gonna kill ya," Evelyn smirked. "Come on now."

  "You weren't there, but the first and last time I drank anything was a disaster."

  "Then don't drink it. Sip it."

  Pamn gave a long stare to Evelyn and sighed, lifting the bottle to her lips.

  The bouncer was dead-eyed and humorless but still let the four skip the quarter-mile line.

  The inside of Humano Genoma was packed. A crush of bodies in the red-lit hallway, drinking, smoking, and grinding. The trap bass rippled through the ground, feeling the beat inside their chest cavities as it reverberated off every surface.

  They pushed through a cloud of weed smoke, entering the club's main floor.

  The room was massive and packed. To the side of the room were several sets of VIP tables bathed in dim, ambient light. Meanwhile, the dance floor transformed into a chaotic masterpiece—a swirling concoction of sweat-drenched bodies and spilled drinks, where the rhythm of the music became the heartbeat of the collective energy.

  Evelyn pushed her way straight to the bar. Ordering several shots, she took one, pulling a face, and attempted to shake out the taste.

  Pamn leaned against the bar next to her, looking out at the crowd. Her gaze shifted to the VIP lounge, briefly catching the eye of a man who sat looking blankly out, bobbing his head to the beat of the song. Walking by him was another man the size of a mountain; to Pamn, it looked like he could be on the stage of a bodybuilding competition—whose heart can survive the most steroids?

  Evelyn's other two friends found them and ordered drinks for themselves.

  "There's some rapper that's 'posed to be here tonight."

  "Like, he's performing?"

  "Uh, no. I think he's just kinda showing up."

  "Then why the fuck would I care?"

  "He's blowing up on SoundCloud."

  "Hey," Evelyn said, poking Pamn and pointing. "Let's dance."

  Earlier in the day, Pamn sat stiffly in a scruffy black office chair in front of a mirror in the modeling agency's near-empty dressing room.

  "Let me help you with that," a woman with dyed blue hair said, taking the makeup brush from Pamn.

  "Thanks."

  The woman studied her for a bit. Pamn felt a little strange—someone being so close and just…staring…at her. The woman raised her eyebrows, clearly impressed by something. "I don't have to do too much," she said, starting to lightly tap the bristles against her cheek.

  "Are you a model?" Pamn asked.

  She shook her head, "No, just a makeup artist for this agency." The woman paused, "So what's it like being so new to Miami?"

  Pamn blinked, "How'd you know?"

  "You have that look about you."

  "That look," Pamn repeated.

  "Doll eyes. The 'deer in the headlights' look. It's cute. They like that."

  "I hope so."

  The woman poked her nose with the brush, "Is that real?" she asked slyly.

  "What?" Pamn asked, half laughing. "Like, my nose?"

  The woman nodded.

  "Yeah?"

  "Most people here are very fake—I mean that literally and figuratively, by the way. Like a plastic shell with a soul inside; sometimes not even that. Shits not as bad as California Island, but still. Where you from? Please don't say C.I. or 'ZooYork.'"

  "The middle of nowhere, Montana."

  "Yikes."

  "Why yikes?"

  The woman smirked, "I didn't peg you for a cousin fucker."

  "Yo, what?" Pamn burst out laughing, caught completely off-guard. "That's crazy to say."

  "Am I wrong?"

  "Yeah, very. I know it's a stereotype, because there's like some commune in the mountains, but I've literally never seen or heard of that actually happening. From what I know, it's not that kind of community."

  "You're saying they don't…" she spoke with a fake southern accent, "Keep it in da family?"

  Pamn shook her head.

  "Hey! Stop moving!"

  "Sorry."

  There was a long pause.

  "Hey, so what're you doing later?"

  "Today? I'm not sure."

  "Alright," she reached over into Pamn's purse, grabbing her phone.

  "Hey," Pamn protested. "What are y-"

  "Chill," the woman said. "I'm just putting my number in your phone," she turned the screen toward her, "See."

  "Your name's Evelyn."

  "Yup."

  Pamn reached into Evelyn's back jean-skirt pocket, pulling out her phone. "There," she turned the phone toward Evelyn.

  "Pamn."

  Pamn stood, feeling the sweaty bodies around her bump into her, grinding across her soft skin. Evelyn was the same. She grabbed onto Pamn, practically groping her. The morphing red and pink light of the club smeared across her vision. The music's thumping reverb merged with the rhythmic pulsations of the floor, enveloping Pamn. Amid the whirlwind, it felt as if gravity had surrendered, leaving her suspended. Every note and movement melded into a euphoric sensation of weightlessness.

  "Hey," Evelyn leaned into Pamn's ear, "Imma be right back."

  "Okay."

  One of Evelyn's other friends appeared, grabbing her hand and pulling Pamn deeper into the pit.

  Several minutes later, Pamn saw a glimpse of the VIP lounge, seeing the man she had seen earlier. Next to him was Evelyn; both were talking and laughing. Simultaneously, as if hearing her thoughts, they stopped, their heads turned, making direct eye contact with her.

  "The blonde one in the white," Evelyn said to the man. "Stop looking! You're making it obvious! Anyway, she's trying to be a model."

  Pamn looked over, seeing Evelyn wade through the crowd. "Hey, Pamn!" Evelyn yelled in her ear when she got close.

  "What?"

  "You gotta meet this guy. You'll like him."

  "I…uh, I don't know…Who are you talking about?"

  "This guy in the VIP section. Come on."

  "He's inviting us in?"

  Evelyn grabbed Pamn's arm, and guided her through the mass of people.

  They ducked under the velvet rope, separating the VIP members from the unwashed masses.

  "Here," Evelyn pushed her into a blood-red chair less than a foot away from another seat. The man Evelyn was talking to minutes prior sat in it.

  He was in his early twenties, tall, muscular, and black. His arms and torso were covered in tattoos, but his face and neck were clean.

  Before she could say anything, he smiled and held out his hand. "I'm Conor."

  "Hey," she whispered shyly, taking it. She glanced around for Evelyn, but she'd disappeared.

  "Do you have a name, or you tryna make me guess?"

  "Pamn." she said.

  "Pamn," he repeated. "Damn, Pamn," He bit his lip as he looked her up and down. "You a model or something?"

  She smiled. "I'm trying to be."

  "How old are you?"

  "Eighteen..." She said quickly. Averting her eyes, briefly.

  A girl, who sat in another chair next to him let out a knowing laugh. Pamn never even noticed she was there, but she looked almost identical to Conor, so she guessed it was probably his sister.

  "Lemme get you somethin'," He waved someone over. "What'chu drink?"

  "Oh, I'm good, I've never…I'll have whatever you're gonna get."

  "Hennesey?" He laughed. "Kinda big for you, ain't it?"

  "I can handle big things." She squeezed her eyes closed, 'Why did I just say that?' she thought, internally punching herself in the face.

  When she opened them, Conor was holding out a bottle filled with golden brown liquid.

  "How long have you been a model for?" He asked as she took the bottle gingerly. Looking at it like he handed her a bottle of cyanide.

  "I'm not…yet…But I've been trying for a few years now. I have like occasional shoots and stuff. I'm not signed or anything. That's where I met Evelyn." She opened the sealed lid, taking a big gulp of the alcohol. She gagged, feeling like she'd swallowed molten lead. "You wanna demonstration?" She asked slyly.

  "For sure," he smiled, holding her eye contact.

  They both got up and walked out of the VIP lounge and to the floor.

  She leaned back into him and melted into his embrace, their bodies swaying in harmony with the beat of the song. She felt his powerful hands around her, reaching and grabbing low.

  Observing the crowd, she couldn't help but notice the palpable aura around Conor, a force that commanded both respect and fascination. Whispers of his name reverberated, accompanied by the glow of phone screens lighting up eager faces. 'It's like everyone knows him.'

  After a series of songs, she broke to pose a question, their faces mere inches apart.

  "What do you think?" she inquired, locking eyes with him.

  "I think you're a star," he grinned, his diamond teeth reflecting the purple hues of the room. "But I gotta be honest," he said once back in the VIP lounge.

  "Hm?"

  "Evelyn's a real one and all, but you're gonna be old and dried out before getting anywhere working with agencies like the ones she's working at."

  Pamn blinked, "Really?" she said, disappointed.

  "That happens to most. Well, actually…I could…" he trailed off, his eyes looking to the ground.

  "What? What is it?" She asked eagerly.

  "There is this one guy…Actually, love, hol' up. Imma be back in a minute. I gotta get somethin' real quick," he said, getting up.

  As he walked away, the huge muscular man she saw earlier got up from across the lounge, swooping in like a bat, sitting next to her.

  "I'm Wyrryr," he said, holding out his hand.

  "Pamn," she blurted. "Look, I'm kinda talking to someone else right now; he's gonna be back in like twenty-"

  "Damn, baby, you're stunning. Like for real, gorgeous," his hand moved under her chin, making her look at him. "Anyone ever tell you that?"

  "Uh," she said nervously.

  "Nigga, the fuck you doin' bruh?" Conor said, walking in front of him.

  "Shit, my bad. Didn't know this yo lil' bitch," Wyrryr smirked as he got off the couch.

  "Yeah…" Conor said, watching him leave. He looked down, and glared at his sister, who didn't look up from her phone.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  "You know him?" Pamn asked once he'd sat down.

  "Kinda," Conor said. He pointed to the girl next to him. "He a part of Zheanni's thing."

  "Is that why he has that 'KTA' tattoo as well?"

  "Mhm," he nodded.

  "Is it like…" she paused, measuring each word, trying to find a way to phrase what she was going to say next. "Is it like a gang, or something?"

  "You could call it that. But for legal reasons, I don't. When I join, it's gonna be part that, and then Imma make it like a bit of a business type thing. Like a music label too, ya know?"

  Pamn looked at him skeptically, "So you're gonna get that face tat as well? Isn't it gonna hurt?"

  "You don't got any tattoos, so you probably wouldn't know, but-"

  "Yeah, I do."

  "Oh, for real?" Conor looked her up and down. "Nah. No, you don't. Where?"

  "Well, it's kinda stupid," she held out her arm, pointing at her tricep.

  He leaned in, squinting at it. "I don't see anything."

  "That's because it's in white ink," she laughed.

  Conor raised his eyebrows, shaking his head and chuckling, "Why'd you do that?"

  "I don't know."

  "Stop playing like you don't know."

  "I mean, like, it's really stupid, but everyone I know has tattoos, and I never saw a point, I guess, but I was kinda pressured, so I decided to do that. I can still say I've got one if anyone asks, but you know…you just can't really see it."

  "What's it of?"

  "It's of a tree that's growing fruit that kinda resembles human heads. It's called 'PunoSaUlo.'"

  He gave her a strange look. "A'ight…"

  "Before you judge, do you know about the ancient Kiala Star tribe on the Kiala Reef?"

  "Nah."

  "They all have died by now, but like they had some crazy shit where they said their island was part of a crashed star."

  Conor raised his eyebrows, "Damn."

  "Yeah, so they had this belief that if you feed the fruit of that tree to an animal or spread its insides on an object, it'll give it humanity. If a person—already human, of course, was to eat it, they'd get like superpowers. I learned about it in middle school for a project I did."

  "That's really fire. Wish I could see it," he smirked.

  "Thanks."

  "You all natural?"

  "Mhm, yeah." She said, noticing the gleam in his eye, which quickly turned sour as it looked past her. She turned, seeing that man again. Wyrryr strutted over to them. He stood next to her and asked Conor something that Pamn couldn't hear. But his hand drifted over, his fingers twirling her hair.

  Conor got up, balled his fist, and punched him.

  "Oh! Oh shit!" Someone yelled out.

  "WorldStar!" Another screeched.

  Bright lights surrounded them as people pulled out their phones, recording the incident.

  She wasn't sure what happened next, but there was yelling and screaming, and the next thing she knew, she found herself outside the club, Conor firmly clasping her hand, both of them sprinting towards an exclusive back parking lot.

  "That was crazy!" Pamn cackled. She looked down. Clearly, they weren't in any real danger anymore, yet he still held on to her hand. Conor pressed a button in his pocket, and the garage door smoothly ascended, revealing a line of luxury sports cars. The lighting overhead was cold, blue, and electric.

  Leading her towards a diamond-wrapped Lamborghini. She sat on the hood as instructed. As they sat beneath the cold light, a silent exchange unfolded, with her entranced by the deep, dark pools of his brown eyes. Time seemed to pause as they maintained their gaze until he finally closed the gap and leaned in, kissing her.

  He looked down at his Rolex watch. "Sheesh, we've been talking for a while. You live around here? I'll give you a ride home."

  "Come on now, it's still early." She smiled, kissing him once more.

  He looked at her contemplatively, "I mean…a'ight," he shrugged as he opened her side of the door. "Here, I'll play you my new song."

  The headlights glared as the car peeled into the street.

  Pamn's nimble fingers danced over her phone, telling Evelyn that she'd found a ride and that she didn't need to wait up for her.

  The street lamps and store lights blurred and smeared as they sped through the city.

  "Look there," Conor said once he noticed she was staring at him.

  "Where?"

  The car slowed to a stop at a red light. "The billboards."

  Pamn tilted her head, eyes scanning the towering electronic display that dominated the adjacent wall. The woman depicted possessed an ethereal beauty, her flawless skin, and lustrous dark red hair practically radiating from the luminescent glow. The glow of the electronic screen turned the street red. She held up a makeup bottle, displaying the brand proudly.

  "The billboards. Their holographics and shit. Imagine being on that. That's where most start and stop—imagination. Not you, though."

  "Yeah?" As her gaze lingered, it was easy to imagine herself standing atop a New York subway grate, knees delicately pressed together, dress flowing around her legs from the updraft, revealing cotton-white panties. Imitating the Blonde in 'The Seven Year Itch.' She tried to hide her smile. Her picture would be taken in that imaginary moment. A still. Immortalized for all to see on that board. Isn't it delicious? "You think so?"

  "You can't see yourself up there?"

  "I definitely can."

  The light turned green, and they started driving again.

  Conor glanced over at Pamn as they went over a bumpy road, seeing her body move with the car. "Damn, so you really is natural?"

  "Yes," she laughed. "I'll always be." She paused, looking out the window, then at her reflection in the rear-view. "I don't want to be some plastic doll that whores around the streets…I'd like to keep my humanity," she smiled. "Hey, yo, so what does this do?" Pamn pointed at a button on the center console.

  "Takes the roof off da coup."

  "Can I?"

  "Go ahead."

  Her hair whipped wildly in the rushing wind as he stomped on the gas, going over seventy. Then eighty. Then ninety.

  "Ahhh!" She screamed as they banked left. She quickly sat down, looking at him with wide eyes.

  "What?" He looked at her, trying not to laugh. "What's wrong?"

  "You're insane!" she cackled.

  "Oh, hello, Conor," the guard at the gate smiled and tipped his hat as they drove through.

  "You live in a whole-ass gated community?"

  "Sometimes. I gotta lot of property I own and live in."

  Her mouth hung open, looking around at the beautiful homes—well, not homes. A better word would be estates. On each side of the road, palm trees towered, making a tunnel of trees, branching off to each property.

  The gate to Conor's estate opened automatically as they approached.

  "Wow," she said once inside, looking around in awe. She cocked her head to the side, listening intently, 'What am I hearing? Is someone peeing?' she thought.

  "It's a mini-waterfall in the other room," he grabbed her hand, "Here, come on," he led her to a room in his basement. In the living room, as they walked past, she spotted people smoking and playing a video game on a massive television.

  The basement was a massive music studio. Two office chairs stood before a very expensive-looking audio mixer and three computer monitors. Beside the right screen, a large robot car mech toy stood. Behind the table was a large window looking into a soundproof room with a microphone hanging from the ceiling.

  'So, this must be where he records everything,' Pamn thought, looking around.

  He sat, inviting her to sit in the other chair. He glanced around the table, pushing a few things aside, giving up on what he was looking for; he sighed, and took his phone from his pocket, texting someone something. A minute later, a man walked down the stairs, handing him a cigar. "Thanks, dog," Conor said, nodding at the guy who walked off back upstairs.

  "What the fuck?" Pamn blinked in surprise, watching Conor's hand in amazement. A dark swirling light formed around his arm, and he brought it to the blunt. The end quickly lit. She gave him a bewildered look.

  "It's a magic trick," he said. "Here," he held the burning stick out to Pamn.

  "Is it weed?" She asked, taking it.

  "Eh, basically. My nigga Antwan made it. He a wiz with this chemistry shit. What makes this fire, is that it's a million times better than that. Best way I can describe it."

  "I've got nothing to base that off of, so here goes," she started to inhale, but instantly started coughing.

  He turned to the computer, clicking around until he opened the audio editing program. He sighed, staring blankly at the hundreds of audio files stretching across the screen.

  "We aren't gonna just move past that 'magic trick' like nothing happened."

  He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, "It's magic. It's energy. I'm on my David Blaine shit; need I say more?"

  "I wish you would." Pamn squinted at him, staring for several seconds as he returned to his computer screens. "I'm too high for this shit," she said, passing it back to Conor. "Is that the new song?"

  "I've been working on it for months."

  "When's it coming out?"

  Conor chuckled, "Never."

  "For real?" She raised her eyebrows.

  "For some reason, I became almost an OCD perfectionist, and for some reason, I can't get this shit exactly how I want. I'll prolly(probably) end up scrapping this." He clicked play. Pamn sat quietly, listening, bobbing her head along to the music.

  Conor abruptly stopped the song after about a minute.

  "Why'd you stop it?"

  "It's not finished."

  "It sounded finished."

  Conor sighed, staring blankly at the screen.

  After a long silence, "I like the lyrics," Pamn offered.

  "The VVS is like water. Then I fucked your daughter. Jerry Springer told the world that Conor's not the father."

  "I mean, like, it's funny though. I mean, yeah, I don't think people are looking at this song like it's some deep, miracle, spiritual, lyrical, 'ImmaSolveRacism' type beat, but it doesn't have to be that to be good- and it is, I legitimately think so." There was a long pause. "And you can make any song sound stupid when you read an out-of-context line and just 'talk' the lyrics."

  There was another long pause.

  "If you were me right now, would you release this?"

  "If I were in your position, I wouldn't make music like this. I'd make superficial pop music."

  "What'chu mean superficial? Why would you purposefully make it superficial?"

  "I wouldn't purposefully do anything. All pop music is superficial. It's just how it is."

  Conor gave her an incredulous look. "You really tryna tell me that Michael Jackson and Prince are superficial?"

  Pamn swiveled in her chair, turned toward him, and slowly lifted herself from the seat. She walked forward, her eyes never leaving his. As she sat down in his lap, she said in his ear, "Outliers. What they say is believable. When I hear them speak, I believe every word out of their mouths. Not many artists know how to fuck, but you can tell they do."

  Conor scoffed as she and him both got out of the chair, "If you were me, would you?"

  "Mhm," she nodded.

  "Okay, what about right now?"

  She sat down, looking into his eyes, "No. But if I can tell, then how many others can?" She nibbled on her lip, adding, "In all your songs, you talk about how much you have sex and how great you are, but I just don't really buy it."

  Conor put his hand on her neck, the firm pressure eliciting a shiver. "What makes you think I don't know how to fuck?" His voice dipped low; the flickering candlelight transformed his dark eyes into abyssal voids.

  Her lips parted, forming a subtle smile. "Prove it to me, then," she urged, reaching over to click play on the song.