The Hotel Derek in Houston felt less like a luxury and more like a gilded cage. For Aubrey, who had spent his entire life in the familiar, biting cold of Toronto, the stillness of the room was deafening. After the SUV had dropped him off, Jas Prince had been blunt: "Wayne's tied up. Heavy session. Check in, get some sleep, we'll link tomorrow."
Aubrey stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the sprawling Texas highways. The disappointment was a physical weight in his chest. He had traded his last bit of comfort—the warmth of Kiki's bed and the safety of the 6ix—for a hotel room in a city where he knew no one. He felt like an imposter. He pulled his notebook out, the one titled "A Toast to All the Girls I've Slept With," and stared at the blank pages. He thought about the girls back home who were probably at a party right now, laughing about the kid from Degrassi who thought he could be the next king of rap.
He had stripped down to his boxers, the air conditioning in the room humming a low, mechanical tune that did nothing to settle his nerves. He tried to lie down, but every time he closed his eyes, he heard the bass from the Houston radio station. He was just about to drift into a shallow, anxious sleep when a sharp, rhythmic pounding echoed against the heavy oak door of his suite.
He sat up, heart hammering. It was 2:15 AM.
He threw on a robe and opened the door. Standing there was a man he didn't recognize—tall, wearing a heavy gold chain over a white wife-beater, smelling strongly of expensive cannabis and gasoline.
"You the kid from Canada?" the man asked, his voice a deep Texas drawl.
"Yeah. Aubrey," he replied, squinting against the hallway light.
"Wayne wants you. Now. The car's downstairs."
The adrenaline hit Aubrey like a lightning strike. He didn't ask questions. He threw on his black hoodie, his raw denim jeans, and his pristine sneakers. He grabbed his notebook—his only weapon—and followed the man to the elevator.
The drive to the studio was a blur of neon lights and high speeds. When they pulled up to the nondescript building on the outskirts of the city, the air outside was still thick with humidity. But inside, the atmosphere changed instantly.
As soon as the heavy, soundproof doors swung open, Aubrey was hit by a wall of sensory overload. The air was a thick, purple fog of high-grade marijuana smoke that hung like a low cloud over the room. The bass was so loud it didn't just hit his ears; it vibrated in his bone marrow, a slow, heavy rhythm that felt like the heartbeat of the South.
The room was packed. This wasn't just a recording session; it was a kingdom.
In the center of the room, draped over a leather sofa, was Lil Wayne. He looked smaller in person but radiated an energy that was undeniable. He had a Styrofoam cup in one hand and a lit blunt in the other. Surrounding him were women who looked like they had walked off the set of a high-budget music video—long hair, shimmering skin, wearing outfits that were more lace than fabric. They whispered to each other, laughing, their eyes occasionally drifting to the new kid in the hoodie.
The "roster" was everywhere. Girls were perched on the armrests of chairs, leaning against the mixing console, their presence a backdrop to the creative chaos. The scent of vanilla perfume clashed with the pungent smoke.
Wayne didn't look up at first. He was nodding to a beat that sounded like a war march. Finally, he exhaled a massive cloud of smoke and turned his head, his dreadlocks shifting over his shoulders. His eyes were hooded, piercing.
"The Canadian," Wayne said, his voice a gravelly whisper that cut through the music.
The room went silent. The women stopped whispering. The engineers paused their hands over the sliders. Aubrey felt every eye on him—the girls sizing him up, the entourage looking for a reason to laugh.
Wayne stood up slowly, his jewelry clinking. He walked over to Aubrey, stepping so close that Aubrey could smell the sweet, medicinal scent of the syrup in his cup. Wayne reached out and tapped the notebook tucked under Aubrey's arm.
"Jas says you got words," Wayne said, his voice void of emotion. He gestured toward the vocal booth—a small glass room in the corner where a single microphone stood under a dim red light. "I don't care about the TV show. I don't care about the hype. I want to see if you can breathe on this track."
Wayne looked at the lead engineer. "Drop the beat for 'Replacement Girl.' The one with the open verse."
The beat kicked in—a melodic, soulful rhythm that felt tailor-made for Aubrey's style. But the pressure was suffocating. He looked at the room full of people—the beautiful women waiting to see him fail, the rappers who lived this life every day.
"Go on," Wayne said, taking a sip from his cup. "Prove it."
Aubrey stepped into the booth. The silence inside the glass was a stark contrast to the roar of the room. He put on the headphones. Through the glass, he saw Wayne leaning back, watching him. He saw one of the girls—a stunning woman with dark eyes—looking at him with a smirk, as if she already knew he was going to fold.
He opened his notebook to the page he had started on the plane. A Toast to All the Girls...
The beat looped. He took a breath, smelling the faint trace of smoke that had seeped into the booth. He closed his eyes, thinking of the basement, the cold, and the girls who said he'd never make it.
He leaned into the mic.
"Look... I'm just a kid from the 6ix with a dream that's too big for the border..."
The words poured out of him with a hunger he didn't know he possessed. He wasn't rapping for the fans yet; he was rapping for his life. He watched Wayne's head start to nod. He saw the girl with the dark eyes lose her smirk, her expression shifting to one of genuine curiosity.
He didn't just finish the verse; he attacked it. When he finally stopped, his breath was heavy, the silence in the headphones ringing.
He stepped out of the booth. The room felt different. The "atmosphere" had shifted from predatory to expectant.
Wayne stared at him for a long beat, the smoke curling around his face. A slow, gold-toothed grin spread across the legend's face. He turned to the room.
"Yeah," Wayne croaked. "He's the one. Someone get this man a drink."
One of the women—the one who had been smirking—walked over to Aubrey. She handed him a glass, her fingers lingering against his for a second longer than necessary.
"I'm Jasmine," she whispered, her voice low enough that only he could hear. "Welcome to Houston, Aubrey."
He took a sip, the burn of the liquor settling his nerves. He looked at his notebook. The list of girls was about to get a lot longer.