Page 91 of Just Like Summer

CiCi interjected, not sure how this handsome stranger made it past Kwan. “Uh, her name is Kamilla Pal-”

“Palmer. I know her name. I know it well,” Cairo finished CiCi’s sentence.

Before she reacted and made her record label look bad with the amount of media and fans around recording and snapping photos, she mustered up the most professional expression she could. When really, she wanted to punch him in the side of his face. And then punch everyone who knew about him being home, let alone here.

“Kamilla, you know him?” CiCi asked, in a loud whisper as Kamilla stood, fixed her dress, and tossed her curls over her shoulder.

She slowly took him in, schooling every fiber in her being. Unsure if she wanted to run into his arms or literally kick him off the back of this raised cabana, she just stood there. A pleasant smile on her face as she took in the manicured facial hair, fresh line-up, and four signature stitch braids. His lanky frame now held muscles. Biceps flexed as he pushed his hands into the pockets of his freshly-pressed navy-blue dickie shorts and a graphic tee, fresh sneakers on his feet. Evidence he had no idea how much his net worth was.

For the sake of keeping people out of her business and great content for the media, Kamilla broke the stare down with a dry joke.

“I see you can take the man from 50th but can’t take 50th out the man. Should I say welcome home?” Casually, she moved her right hand behind her back, flashing a bigger smile to distract him.

“Never knew how to put shit together. You know that,” Cairo commented. His eyes washed over her, taking in every curve. All of them more pronounced. He fought the grunt and the want to pull into her and take possession of her lips.

Kamilla lowly nipped her lip and released it, hearing the shutter of a camera. It was followed with, “C4! Kamilla, smile for the camera!”

She flashed him a warning glare and then turned toward the camera. Cairo, ignored that glare. His arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her into his side. Feeling the inhale of her curls under his nostrils and soft caress of her waist, Kamilla leaned into him. Muscle memory betraying her. Once the photos were taken, she was pulled into hug.

“They record everything. Let me go and smile,” Kamilla directed lowly, pushing him away.

Cairo grinned, putting his hand back in his pockets. “What you doing here?”

“Working,” she replied, turning her back to the recording cameras. “You know they know who you are, so don’t make this hard.”

“I’m seeing that. Who do I have to thank for that?” he quizzed, flanking his body between her and the camera.

“I don’t know, C4. Enjoy the festival, I have a meeting,” Kamilla unglued herself from his magnetic energy and signaled CiCi that she was moving from her section to the industry tent.

Very rarely did she drink, but this seemed to serve as a fine time to help herself to a spritz and relax her nerves. Inside the tent, having accepted the sponsored beverage and lunch box, she found a corner and took in a series of deep breaths. With each breath she took, she prayed he wouldn’t follow her in here. For the last three years, she’d done a superb job at keeping her personal life, attachments, and anything else away from this world. The most people knew about her was that she KP’s daughter but even with that, she refused for it to be a topic of conversation. There were five years of separation between her and Cairo. A five-year-old secret and years of feeling detached from and abandoned by him. She wasn’t unpacking any of that here.

“Girl, how do you know him?” CiCi asked, after Kamilla downed her first glass and singled for another one. “I did a quick dive. Do you know he was the secret producer on Ekho’s last album that went triple diamond?”

“I know,” Kamilla grumbled, taking another drink.

“Do you know he’s unsigned?” CiCi continued to press.

“I know.”

“Then why are we in here and not out there selling him on El Jefe?” CiCi questioned.

“CiCi,” Kamilla said sharply before pulling in a breath. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I am aware of all of the things. Who he is, where he came from, and what he can produce. You forget we need all three. Don’t be so eager to catch a fish that you mistake the fish for a shark. Okay?”

“Okkayyy,” CiCi dragged out. “But off the record, can we talk about how fine he is? My God!”

Kamilla rolled her eyes and muttered. “I know that too.”

Three spritzes later Kamilla was calmer and back in the cabana in her corner. Cairo was seated on other side, watching a rookie artist on stage. Kamilla studied the intensity in his brows and the slight bob of his head, tap of his foot and drumming of his fingers. He was hearing melodies and playing them against the rapper’s lyrics. Business wise, entertaining the thought of Cairo at El Jefe made sense. Rumor was, Ekho was looking for way out of his deal with Platinum. Ekho, plus the moldable artists on stage, served as a jackpot.

While Kamilla studied the two, she noticed one thing no one else would have – the rapper’s lyrics didn’t match his image. There was a writer behind the scenes, poetically penning rhymes of a street life he regretted. The shark had led her to the fish. But in order for her to bring them in, she’d have to cast the net on the shark too.

“Big Dawg KP,” Indigo buzzed, moving up the steps to her. “How you doing, girl? I heard they’re putting you to the test.”

She laughed and stood to greet him. Indigo took a seat by her and looked toward the stage. “You’re making a plan.”

“I am about to make y’all a whole lot of money,” she shared. “You know him? He’s rapping about your soil, but his accent isn’t L.A. or L.O.”

“Nah, that’s a nigga from Port East. He has ghostwriter for sure,” Indigo replied in his South Central accent. “You’re about to reel him in.”