Mentor:
NOUN
An experienced and trusted advisor.
VERB
To advise or train; especially someone younger or less experienced)
It's been two years, two whole, entire, complete years, without word from Chris. The media got wind of the salacious breakup a...
Streaks of rising sunlight entered the previously dark bedroom that smelled of marijuana and Hennessy. The singer's throat stung just from the amount of herb he had been smoking yesterday and in the days prior. He was just.. a fucking mess up. First Chris thinking he was about to rape him and now this whole Veronica drama that eh really didn't care about. He'd just give the bitch a couple stacks and pretended he cared enough about his actions to be sorry. That's one problem solved but the Chris problem.. yeah he would need to call a fucking genius to help him fix that.
He groaned and sniffled, damn allergies. The mattress shifted multiple times under his lanky form as he rose out of bed and stretched his lengthy arms. Today he had to get to the studio to do a song with Tyga and he definitely needed want to be late for this; with all the bad publicity swirling around him, he needs to make people think of his music and now his spiraling reputation.
The hard wooden floors felt cold against his bare feet as he patted his way to the bathroom for a brief but needed shower before getting dressed. He took his messy black ringlets out of the ponytail holder he contained them in and rested a shower cap over his bed. He didn't wear a shirt, actually he wore nothing but grey briefs and a tired expression. He hasn't recorded anything in two years and without Chris's cheery face lighting up his life the moment he stepped foot in the studio, things would be very different this time around recording his new album. Of course Chris still had to help him, he was bound by a contract as his mentor; but that doesn't mean things will be like they were before.
The hot water of the shower stung his chocolate chest. Outstretching his right arm, he grabbed a black bottle of Axe body wash and squeezed a good sized dollop of the transparent light green gel into the palm of his hand before slapped it on his chest and massaging it into a luscious white lather.
Stroking into his walk in closet with a fluffy white towel wrapped lowly around his waist, August flicked on the light switch so that he could browse his selection of clothes. In the course of two years his style had chanced significantly, not longer did he look like that ole street thug from New Orleans ready to sling some rocks and make some quick dough. Now he looked like a peace fighter, a poet, a 90's rhythm and blues artists one would find singing his music and preaching his poetry late night in jazz halls or coffee serving cafes. A thin black turtle neck sweater came on, a pair of light washed slightly fainted straight legs pants went over his red briefs. On his feet his slipped on black crew socks before stepping into a pair of laced camouflaged shoes. Several necklaces were fastened around his neck and then it off with the lights as he returned to the bathroom to brush his teeth and do something with his hair.
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Pinning a square cut diamond stud into each one of his ear lobes, August grabbed his phone and put it in his right front pocket, he put his wallet in his left front pocket then he grabbed the keys to his mansion and the keys to his black 2018 Ford SUV. Sliding on a black pair of gladiators and resting a black fedora on his head, he walking out of his bedroom and down the hallway, down the stairs and into his garage where he drove away.
