Rhythm & Blues

Episode Three

The roar of the crowd hits me the second the DJ announces my name. "Tylo, Tylo, Tylo!" It's a wave of sound rolling through the stadium, heavy and electric. This crowd—my crowd—doesn't miss a beat. Atlanta. My home. Where all of this started.

Their energy pulses through me like an electric current, feeding me, grounding me. This is it. This is why I deal with the bullshit—the rumours, the drama, the endless demands. Right here, on this stage, none of that matters. It's just me and the music. Pure. Raw. Honest.

Everything else fades away. This is my calling, and not only do I take pride in it, but I give my all as if every performance is my last.

I take a breath and let it settle deep in my chest, centring me. There's no room for anything else tonight. Not my grandmother's condition, not the stress with my label, none of it. The people out there? They paid good money to see me tonight, and I wouldn't disappoint them—no matter how heavy my shit feels right now. They came to feel something, to vibe, to forget their problems. I can't bring my burdens to the stage. Grit. That's what it takes to stand up here and deliver every night like your world isn't falling apart behind the scenes.

"Five minutes, Mr. Taylor," the stage manager calls from the doorway, snapping me back to the moment. I nod, rolling my shoulders, shaking off whatever's weighing me down. Time to go out there and do what I do best—rock the crowd. After this show, I'd be officially on vacation. I can't wait to spend some time with my favourite people and leave my worries behind for a little while.

I mumble a quick prayer as I walk toward the stage. As soon as my foot hits that platform, everything else fades into the background. It's just me and this moment. Time to give them a performance they won't forget.

This is the only part of it that feels real anymore—the music, the energy. Everything else? PR spins, endless gossip, and the label breathing down my neck, trying to mould me into their vision of what Tylo should be. I never signed up for that part, but it came with the territory. Maybe after tonight, I can step back, clear my head, get some perspective... and stop dealing with their bullshit.

The beat for my second song drops, and everything slows. My eyes scan the crowd, taking in the sea of faces. And then, there she is.

Fatima.

My chest tightens, but I keep my cool, locking eyes with her. I haven't seen a woman this damn fine in a long time, if ever. Considering the industry I work in, that's a big deal. I'm surrounded by beautiful women, but none of them quite like her. She's thick, just the way I like them. Baby has that Coke bottle figure; full titties, slim waist, round hips, and ass that just goes on. She's standing right there, near the front, looking like she didn't plan to be seen but knowing damn well she stands out. She always does.

My heart lurches, and for a second, I'm thrown off. That little hitch in my chest that only happens when she's around? Yeah, it's back, full force.

And this song? It's hers. Every damn lyric.

I wrote it for her years ago. Nobody knows that. Hell, I barely admitted it to myself. But now, seeing her in the crowd, every word feels like it's finally coming home.

I dive into the lyrics, my voice carrying through the stadium like a confession.

"Don't wanna fight no more.

Keep me where I belong.

I've tried, and I've tried.

But I just can't hide from your love.

This moment of timing when your

Soul needs aligning

It's me, you confide in