The Come Up (Book II) : PRODIGY

Chapter 3 - IG LIVE

I sit in the hotel room thinking about all the articles I read regarding my project sales. I created a buzz but not enough of one to matter. This whole process has been going at snail speed and while I understand that is just the grind of music, I can't help but think how much my time is limited. My fan base on social media has risen to at least 340k followers, but project sales aren't even a quarter of that and aside from the hit single that been spreading through the streets, no one knew any other song by me. Very few people knew the other six songs on the mixtape. I know Aubrey and Emil can feel the mood I've been in. I know they can feel the pressure I put myself under, because they're quiet when they come around me most times. They try not to upset me, knowing I could snap at one of them any minute. 

With the pressure of the music, it doesn't help that I'm not in the best place I could be emotionally. The songs about her aren't helping much. I used to think they were working as a therapy method, that maybe if I get it out, I'll feel at least a little better, but that hasn't been the case. 

Blog posts are classifying me with the underground rappers of New York City. It helps that Flex signed me right off the bat and is helping with my promotion but it's not enough. Flex says in the next year or two, I should be well known but I don't have a year or two. I don't have that kind of time, I already wasted a year and a half, I'm running out of this time everyone is so set on telling me about. I rub my eyes and scroll through my phone, it was insane to me that a song could make Billboard top 200 and send so little money into my pocket. It's still more than I had before but it's not enough either. 

Nothing's enough. 

Aubrey isn't enough. This tour isn't enough. This money isn't enough. I fucks with Emil but where the fuck is Pookie? I haven't seen that nigga since he came by after I got out of jail. I think he moved down south with Francis and them, which is probably safer for him anyway. You don't want to stick around after killing one of the most respected idiots in the Ville. I haven't been home in months, but I send Ma and Patrice money. They don't like that. They rather have me there, but Ma knows I'm trying to move her up out that place. I just gotta take it one step at a time. I got my niggas on the block looking out for them odee. 

It's the only way I can keep a steady mind. 

I scroll through celebrity news, knowing eventually her name will pop up. She was doing well these days. Album sales are still up, she's still being talked about. Paparazzi have been on her ass. I know how much she hates that. 

Finally I swipe past her name, highlighted in blue. The picture shows her in huge shades, a white and playful dress and red pumps. The dress and heels makes her legs look long and smooth. I stare at the picture too long. So long it no longer looks like a pictures as my eyes have zoned out and my brain begins conjuring up situations where Bizzy tells me he was just playing about fucking her. The caption under her picture states "Chanel takes London's Fashion show along with front seats and a Julia Robin, custom made white dress." 

My finger hovers over her name. I haven't searched her profile since we've broken up. I feel that the songs are bad enough. No need for consistent torture. 

Don't click on her page, what are you expecting to get from that Trev?  

My fingers tap the link to her instagram and before the page can load my phone dies. 

I stare at the small device shocked. My mouth half open. 

"Good looks, God." I mumble as I look up. 

Because surely he was looking out for me. I search for the charger in my Adidas pullover bag and find it in the same compartment as a mixtape full of my old songs. The first couple songs Flex and I ever worked on. Back in the Ville around the time Chanel started hanging out with us. I smile briefly and open the CD case. The shiny circle stares back at me with Trevon's Tape printed out on it.