Black Ice

xii

twelve | ishaan

The stress of the tour was starting to get to me, honestly.

It was all cool a week ago. Now suddenly, my single is being shelved, and we have to drop everything to push Cris's song.

We went from having one job— putting on a good show— to suddenly having to go on our own press run to push a song that was always supposed to be an album cut.

Autumn told me not to stress about it too much and suggested that I reframe the way I thought about this extra work.

She said, "Think of it as an investment in the future. I mean, if you guys pull this off, maybe Eudora will give you more control for the next album."

That sounded reasonable— my shorty was smart like that— but it didn't stop me from stressing.

I grew more irritable, more impatient, even less willing to stick by the group members when I wasn't obligated to.

I partied more, hoping for a cathartic release of pent up anger, but it didn't do much but overwhelm me with more rambunctiousness.

It was so much going on a nightly basis, with groupies, liquor, and a slow-growing amount of other drugs being the base.

With my stash of weed dwindling, I was trying to ration it, but no matter how much I smoked, even the reefer struggled to lift the weight of my anxiety.

I wasn't too interested in entertaining the entertainment. Not the women nor even the weed, this go-round. Instead, I opted to babysit a cup of Henny.

It was while I was in a buzzed mindstate, that an entourage member emerged from the chaos with a simple request.

"Ceezar wants to see you."

Those five words made me question if I was drunk.

Ceezar wanted to see me? For what exactly?

With Ceezar's crew running deep, he was hardly ever alone. The only exception was when these after-show bus parties would take place.

As lively as his crew was, Ceezar was rarely with them after the shows. He kept to the back of the bus, and it was assumed that he'd already chosen his groupie for the night and was with her.

So, when my presence was requested, I was absolutely baffled. But I didn't ask any questions for fear that an inquiring mind would shoo off the opportunity.

I was led to the back of the bus, where a whole bedroom was set up. Being used to the sight of a studio, I was taken aback by the sight of a full sized bed and bolted furniture, and even a phat television and stereo set-up.

And sitting at the table was the man himself, rolling a blunt.

He sent a nod to the entourage member, who swiftly left.

I awkwardly stood for only a moment, deciding to sip from my cup to keep any nerves at bay.

"What's up, nigga? You smoke, right?" were his first words.