The SUV surged forward, a black shadow cutting through the neon heart of Miami, carrying two people who were about to realize that the only thing more dangerous than the crowd outside was the person sitting next to them.
The blacked-out SUV finally glided into the cool, marble-lined sanctuary of the Setai's subterranean garage. The heavy iron gates hissed shut behind them, cutting off the distant, muffled echoes of the Miami streets. Inside the cabin, the silence was thick, charged with the static of the "almost" kiss that was still burning between them.
Aubrey's hand was still tangled in the hair at the nape of Robyn's neck, his pulse thudding in his fingertips. He could see the reflection of the garage's fluorescent lights in her eyes—eyes that were searching his for any sign of weakness.
But the friction was shattered by a sound. Not a roar of a crowd, but the high-pitched, persistent vibration of a BlackBerry on the leather seat.
Robyn stiffened. The heat in her expression didn't just fade; it turned to ice. She slowly pulled back, her fingers slipping from his jaw as she reached for the device. Aubrey watched her face. He saw the exact moment she read the screen. Her jaw set so hard he could see the muscle leap in her cheek, and her breath hitched—not with desire, but with a sharp, jagged spike of adrenaline.
She didn't flip the phone over. She let it buzz in the palm of her hand, the screen illuminating her face with a harsh, clinical glow. Aubrey leaned over, his eyes narrowing as he caught the name. It wasn't just a string of numbers. It was a name that carried the weight of a dozen headlines, a name synonymous with a dark, volatile chapter of her life that the world was still gossiping about.
"CHRIS - MOBILE"
The phone stopped. Then, two seconds later, it started again. The persistence of it felt like a physical intrusion into the car.
"You're not going to answer that," Aubrey said, his voice dropping into a low, protective growl. The "Houston stank" was gone, replaced by a raw, territorial instinct. He felt a surge of possessive heat that surprised even him.
Robyn stared at the blinking LED. "He's in the city," she whispered, her voice sounding hollow, a ghost of the confident woman who had just dominated a radio station. "He saw the news. He saw the photos of us at the airport. He thinks he can still reach out and pull the strings whenever he wants."
"He thinks wrong," Aubrey said, reaching out to take the phone from her hand.
Robyn pulled it back, her eyes snapping to his. For a second, the "General" was back, but there was a flicker of fear behind the mask. "You don't know him, Aubrey. You don't know how this goes. He doesn't do 'quiet.' He doesn't do 'private.' If he's calling this many times, he's already circling."
"Let him circle," Aubrey countered, his hand moving to her waist, pulling her back toward him. "We aren't in that chapter anymore. Look at me, Robyn. I'm the one here. I'm the one who was in the booth. I'm the one who just walked through a riot for you."
The phone started a third time. The vibration was a rhythmic, demanding scream in the small space. Robyn looked from the phone to Aubrey, her chest heaving. The sexual tension was still there, but it was now twisted with a dark, combative energy. She looked like she wanted to cry and scream at the same time.
"Answer it," Aubrey challenged, his voice cold. "Tell him you're busy. Tell him you're with the man who's taking his spot on the charts and everywhere else."
Robyn's eyes flared. She hit the 'Ignore' button with a violent thumb-press and shoved the phone deep into her bag. "I don't need to tell him anything. Silence is the only thing he understands."
She turned to the door, her movements jerky and sharp. "Let's get to the penthouse. I need a drink, and I need this night to be over."
"The night is just starting," Aubrey said, following her out of the car.
As they stepped onto the concrete of the garage, the air felt different. The "private" sanctuary of the Setai felt compromised. Aubrey scanned the shadows of the garage, his eyes landing on every pillar, every parked luxury car, looking for a threat. He felt a fierce, protective fire burning in his gut—a feeling that he was no longer just playing a part in a music video. This was real life, and the stakes were higher than a #1 record.
They walked toward the private elevator bank, the silence between them heavy with the ghost of the phone call. Aubrey reached out, taking her hand. Her fingers were ice cold. He squeezed them, a silent promise that he wasn't going anywhere.
But just as the elevator doors began to hiss open, a familiar, raspy cackle echoed through the garage, accompanied by the heavy, rhythmic clinking of gold.
"Man, if I knew I was gonna walk into a funeral, I woulda brought flowers!"
Aubrey and Robyn both spun around. Standing there, illuminated by the flickering garage lights, was Lil Wayne, looking like a chaotic king who had just landed from another planet.
The private elevator ride up to the penthouse was a study in sensory overload. The small space was packed with bodies: Wayne, smelling of loud weed and expensive cognac; his two girls, Chanel and Sky, giggling and whispering; Jas, looking stressed while typing on two Blackberries; and Robyn, who stood like a statue of ice, her phone still buried in her bag like a ticking bomb.
When the doors opened, Wayne burst into the suite as if he'd been the one paying the mortgage on it for years.
"Music! I need something that sounds like money!" Wayne shouted, tossing his jacket onto a million-dollar silk sofa. Chanel scrambled to the sound system, and within seconds, a heavy, unreleased Young Money track was rattling the floor-to-ceiling windows
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