The LyricsTo His Song Read online

  THE LYRICS TO HIS SONG

  BY: KRYSTAL ARMSTEAD

  Copyright © 2016 by Krystal Armstead

  Published by Racquel Williams Presents LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright laws. This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to any person dead or alive, events or places are purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Dedication

  This book is for my four beautiful children, Jada, Adrian, Jordan, and Angel. A life without you four is not worth living. This book is also for my beautiful step-children, Jamie, Jasmine, Anglie, and Little James. I love you all like you are my own. Never forget that.

  Acknowledgements

  Of course I have to thank my homie, Racquel Williams, for taking me underneath her wing. Without her, none of this would have been possible. This is my moment, and best believe, I’m gonna take it! Third contract and counting! You’re stuck with me foreva (in my Cardi B voice)!

  I also give thanks to Robin Watkins and Ashley Williams for keeping my spirits up when I want to give up. There are days when I don’t want to get out of bed, when I’m just ready to give it all up and throw in the towel. But then, Robin curses me out, and I have no choice but to keep going! I appreciate ya, homie, for giving me that push that I need!

  I can’t forget about my homies in my reading group, Krystal’s Motivation. Michelle Neal, Shanicia Jackson, Elysia McKnight, Octavia Carter, Glenda Daniel, Nicki Ervin, Kasey Smith, Monique Franklin, Fallon Hampton—these are my motivators! There have been days where I was too sick to get out of bed. One of them would message me on Facebook or text my phone, asking me, “Where the hell is my book, Krystal?” Even when I feel like giving up, even when I’m crying my eyes out over the daily stresses in my life, this crew always manages to put a smile on my face. I appreciate you all. There are too many to name, but just know I appreciate the love.

  Thanks to my mother and father, Jennifer and Conrad Artis, Jr.

  I’d like to thank my cousin, Latrese Washington, even though she has “deemed me uncousined” a few times! Muah! Love you, Cuz!

  And last, but definitely not the least, my husband James. We stayed together through situations that were meant to rip us apart. The only way from here is up, boo. Let’s go get this moneeyyyyyyy!

  Thank you all for your support. Thank you God for the opportunity. A’ight, y’all, let’s do this

  Prologue

  June 2016

  Audrey “Lyric” Gibson

  “Antwan, wait!” I called out to Antwan, as he strolled down the hallway with his entourage, on the way to the stage, at the Nokia Theater L.A. Live.

  Antwan turned around when he saw me. He grinned, looking sexy as a muthafucka in his sky blue, button-down shirt, dark denim jeans, and high-tops from Roberto Cavalli’s urban wear apparel line. His publicist liked my idea of toning him down a little bit. I wasn’t trying to soften him up. I was just trying to get this man to cross over like Drake did. Appeal to a broader audience. If he wanted to be accepted by the mothers of these females that he was rapping to in his songs, he had to play the boy-next-door role sometimes. It was okay to show one or two tattoos every now and then. But this dude had tattoos that trailed from his hips all the way around his got-damn ear. His side burns were even tatted on.

  It was Antwan’s first appearance at the BET Awards, and though he pretended not to be, I knew this dude was nervous as hell. Shit, I was nervous. He was performing his first love song—a love song that I wrote for him. Antwan Jared was a gangsta rapper. Twenty-two-years old. Young, wild, and dangerous. He took the industry by storm when he was just fourteen. Shit, producer Karen Black put the air under that troubled soul’s wings, and he hadn’t stopped soaring ever since.

  “What’s up, Lyric?” I loved when he called me that. He hadn’t called me by my birth name, Audrey, since the day that he found out that I wrote music. Antwan smiled at me, chrome braces shining under the hallway’s incandescent lights.

  “You-you forgot your hat.” I stuttered, handing him his sky blue ‘The Hood Raised Me’ baseball cap, the cap that his brother once wore.

  “Awe, shit, thanks. You know I can’t perform without my nigga.” Antwan smiled, taking his hat from me, his fingers grazing against mine. I missed his touch. It had been a few months since he touched me, since I’d seen his face. My heart was in trouble from the moment I met Antwan Jared. In order to stay out of trouble, I tried my best to keep my distance. It wasn’t easy, but it was for the best. A strictly-business relationship with that dude was damn near impossible.

  I smiled up at him, about to wish him good luck, when a few of his dancers—my sister, Brandie, included, whisked by us, grazing against my shoulders on both sides. I glared at Brandie, knowing the bitch bumped into me on purpose.

  “C’mon, babe.” Brandie tugged on Antwan’s arm. She slid her hands down his arms until her hands met his. She held his hand, pulling him away from me. She looked at the glare on my face and had the nerve to wink at me.

  I rolled my eyes at my sister, looking her over from head to toe. There she was, wearing pretty much nothing. A white sky blue crop top, tiny dark denim shorts, and high tops. All the dancers matched Antwan’s attire. I was dressed in a floral Dolche and Gabanna floor length dress, ready to take my place in the audience, in the first row.

  Antwan slipped his hand from hers, adjusting his cap. He glanced at her and then looked back at me. “I want you on stage with me, Lyric.”

  I glanced at my sister, whose smirk was wiped clean from her face at that point. She loved rubbing the fact in my face that a guy like him would never be interested in a girl like me. That I’d never mean shit to a man who could have fifty of me on any given day of the week if he chose to. She said I had nothing he wanted but maybe the lyrics for his next song. She’d met the boy years before I did because she was that girl who did whatever she needed to do to get in any rapper’s new video. I, on the other hand, was the manager of Foot Locker, who just happened to get lucky.

  My boo, Mariah, scurried past me to catch up with the dancers. She was always late.

  “Girl, you better hit that stage wit’cha nigga! This is it; fuck Sean!”

  I looked back at Antwan as he held out his hand for me to take.

  I looked at my sister and the rest of her dancers (also known to every rapper in the game as IP, or Industry Pussy). Rumors about Antwan and I had floated around for months. I tried keeping my distance from Antwan, but the more I tried to pull away, the more he tried to pull me back in. I wasn’t supposed to be around him. I wasn’t supposed to anywhere near him without Sean. That was the agreement that I made.

  “C’mon, Lyric. We doing this shit together or what? I can’t see myself doing this without you.” Antwan watched me biting my lip nervously.

  His team shook their heads at him.

  “C’mon, Antwan, let’s roll.” His hype man, Drizzle, spoke up. “Shorty doesn’t wanna be in the spotlight; you know how she is. And her nigga, Sean, already told you that he doesn’t want her on stage with you. He’s out there now, standing behind that turntable on stage. What’cha think he’s gonna do when he sees you with his girl? The nigga is gonna flip!”

  Antwan ignore
d him, turning towards me. “Man, fuck that nigga. What I look like performing your song without you? I don’t wanna do it without you. I won’t do it without you, Ma.” Antwan reached for my hand and grabbed it.

  I gasped as he led me down the hallway with his crew.

  The roar of the audience chanting his name echoed throughout the hallway.

  “They stay ready for The Jeweler!” Drizzle was hype as usual. “Do what’cha want, bruh, but we both know the outcome. You already got enough beef with this nigga. You need to leave his girl alone. You’ve done enough damage.”

  My heart was pounding to the beat of the song, my song, as we strolled down the hallway towards the stage. “Sean is gonna be pissed when he sees me walking out on this stage with you, and you know it.” I whispered to Antwan.

  “Too muthafuckin’ bad, shawty. You already know I don’t give a fuck. You ready?” Antwan laughed a little, eyeing the nervous expression on my face as he led me down the hallway, intertwining his fingers with mine.

  “No.” I mumbled, looking up at him as I scurried along in my heels that I still hadn’t gotten used to.

  “Well, you better get ready. Cause it’s show time.” Antwan winked at me.

  Chapter One

  Face the Facts

  “If I could mail my heart right to you, I would.” I sang to myself, along with Zhane playing over the loud speakers at Foot Locker, one Friday morning, two days before Valentine’s Day to be exact.

  “I’d pack it up, seal it tight, and send it overnight!” My employee, and best friend, Mariah, came from the stockroom, twerking to the song, which was so not a song to twerk to. But then again, Mariah twerked to everything.

  I shook my head at her, feeling a sharp pain in my chest. My chest always hurt when it rained, ever since that car accident that I was in four years ago. My family and I were visiting our relatives in Jacksonville, Florida, for Thanksgiving, 2012. My older brother, Alvin, and I were sent to get food from the grocery store. It had to be around seven in the morning when Grandma sent us out shopping for a few last minute items on her list. We were just laughing, joking, singing along to Dueces, my brother’s fifteens beating down the block. We were stopped at a red light on that rainy day. When the light turned green, my brother took off, and we were hit by a man who fell asleep behind the wheel of an 18-wheeler. Alvin was killed instantly on impact. I, on the other hand, survived but just barely. I suffered severe blunt force trauma to my chest. My heart was damaged far beyond repair. I remember waking up in a hospital bed, camera lights flashing in my face, my parents standing at my side. Turns out, I was in a coma for three months. I had a broken collarbone, a fractured pelvic bone, and a broken left tibia. Why was I surrounded with cameras, news reporters, and shit? Because my life was saved by the mayor of Baltimore City, who was also vacationing in the area. Mayor Denise Jared-Michael was killed the same rainy day when her car hydroplaned off of the road, slamming her into a tree. She wasn’t wearing a seat belt, and she flew through the windshield. She was an organ donor. She died and, because of her heart, I lived. Hundreds of people died each year waiting on transplants, and I was chosen.

  “You okay, Audrey?” Mariah approached me, rubbing my back, watching me rubbing my chest.

  I nodded. “Yeah, boo, I’m good. You know my chest hurts when it rains. Not to mention, my head is killing me.”

  Mariah shook her head at me. “Are you still having those nightmares?”

  I looked at her. Ever since my heart transplant years earlier, I was having dreams about being raped and almost killed. I could never see the rapists face. But the dreams were too vivid to be dreams. They were almost like memories. But the memories weren’t my own. I started doing research after the dream I had of giving birth to Antwan and Apollo. I found out that it had been scientifically proven that one-tenth of organ donor recipients took on the personality traits of their donors. And some even inherited their memories. I couldn’t tell you how many times I intended on going to work at Arundel Mills Mall but ended up parked outside of the mayor’s office to go to work.

  I sighed. “Yeah, girl. I don’t wanna talk about that shit right now though. Let’s talk about you, hun. What’cha getting into tonight?”

  “You mean, what are we getting into tonight?” Mariah grinned, her bright brown eyes widening with excitement.

  “Fuck you mean?” I scoffed. “I have to open in the morning. I’m not trying to get drunk with y’all fools tonight. Besides, Sean is supposed to be taking me out tonight.” I watched Mariah roll her eyes. “He’s finally home. They’re about to be gone on tour for another two months or so. I hadn’t seen that boy for damn near three months, okay?”

  My boyfriend, Sean Lee, aka DJ Sean, deejayed and produced music for rapper Antwan “The Jeweler” Jared. In case you didn’t know, Antwan Jared was killing it in the rap game. He was one of the last real gangsta rappers there was. He rapped reality raps. He didn’t just rap the shit; the dude lived it. And if his last name was familiar to you, that was because his mother was Mayor Denise Jared-Michael, the woman whose heart beat in my chest. I met Antwan once, but he showed no interest in meeting me. It almost seemed at the time that he resented me because I lived, the woman who he often rapped about losing died, and I lived on because of her. Sean took me to meet Antwan one night, about three years ago, after I’d had my final heart surgery. Antwan barely looked at me, partly due to the fact that he was drunk and high as hell, with a groupie or two sitting on his lap.

  “Girl, fuck that nigga.” Mariah rolled her eyes. “That nigga ain’t shit. The fuck you think he’s doing out there while he’s out on tour? Do you know how many times your sista rolls up in her, bragging, telling me and Elle about the freaky shit she does with those niggas and about the shit they do with other females? All those niggas in Sean’s crew are dogs, going around humpin’ every got-damn thing. You know your sister is IP, so she ought’a know.”

  I sighed. Brandie was a story all of her own. She was the result of a one-night stand with a Puerto Rican that my father had in between breakups with my mother. We were never really friends, though our parents made sure that we grew up knowing each other. We went to the same school for a few years and hung in different crowds. School was the last thing on this girl’s mind. She skipped school every chance she got. She failed her grade at least twice. She was a grade ahead of me, so the only class that we had together was Spanish. And the only time she talked to me in class was to tell me to move my arm so she could copy off of my paper.

  Brandie had talent beyond words. Could dance more gracefully than any ballerina I’d ever seen. Instead of going to Julliard like she could have been, her ass decided that she was going to be a video vixen. She fucked her way through the industry to become a background dancer. She’d been in just about every rapper’s videos, and just about every rapper had been in her. She was twenty-four years old and one of the most beautiful girls I knew. She was always competing with me, but I didn’t see why.

  I was a fuckin’ twenty-one-year-old manager at Foot Locker. I was the responsible one, always told by my father to look out for Brandie as if she were the youngest. I was tired of being the responsible one. I wanted to wild out like she did every now and then but was too shy to do so. I wanted to write music; I was told that I was gifted vocally, but I was too shy to do that too. And Mariah was always trying to get me to test my skills on the mic at this club we’d visit in downtown Baltimore called The Rhymes. The Rhymes was like the hood version of Star Search. Every performance was televised on a local television station. Hundreds of careers took off because of that club. Producers, record executives, choreographers and celebrities from all over the country would visit that club every weekend, looking for talent. The club was run by some pretty ruthless muthafuckas who didn’t play. The club owners were members of a squad known as the Royals. Their signature color was purple.

  I laughed a little. “ ‘IP’? Don’t you mean, IEP, Instinctive Entertainment Property?”

 
“Nah, bish, I meant just what the fuck I said. IP, Industry Pussy.” Mariah rolled her big, pretty eyes.

  I grinned at Mariah. My boo wanted to dance, too, and she was one of the baddest dancers around too. Her only problem was that she wouldn’t dare do what the other girls did to make a name for themselves in the industry. I couldn’t tell you how many auditions my boo made it through. She’d be so excited that she was chosen among thousands. Once she got through the auditions, and finally made it onto the set of a music video, that was when the shit hit the fan. After they would shoot a video, the rap stars would throw a party in whichever hotel they were kickin’ it in. They’d have all the girls get naked. As soon as the word strip came out the rapper’s mouths, Mariah’s ass was flying out the door.

  “You wanna dance too, huh, boo?” I made a pouty face at my girl.

  Mariah rolled her eyes before her eyes started to coat over in tears. “No… maybe… yes. Girl, stop playin’, you know I wanna dance! But I wanna dance, not fuck niggas. Do you have any idea of the shit that goes on at those hotels?”

  “Hell nah.” I shook my head, rubbing my chest where it hurt as I sat down on the stool, behind the register.

  “Well, I do. Those niggas make those girls take it in every hole by every nigga in their crew. And them dumb-ass bitches, your sista included, do that shit too.” Mariah shook her head, face grimacing. “I ain’t even trying to go out like that. I’ma make it someday. Last month, I auditioned for Anastasia Jones. She’s always looking for new talent. Maybe she’ll chose a sista, ya know?”

  I grinned. “Of course she will, boo. She’d be crazy not to.”

  I was rooting for my boo. No one wanted the spotlight more than she did.

  Mariah grinned back, nudging me in my side. “Like I asked, what’cha getting into tonight? A few of my cousins want me to roll with ‘em to the club. You know Antwan Jared’s making an appearance at The Rhymes tonight. I’m surprised Sean didn’t tell you.”