Jamaica’s hand lingered in mine, her thumb tracing slow circles across my knuckles as if she could rub away the tension. The city below pulsed with possibility, every window a silent witness to the chaos and ache inside my head. If I closed my eyes, I could almost imagine the world was simple again—a world of chords and melodies, where loyalty didn’t taste like poison.
Jamaica’s presence was grounding. She sat close, her dark braid falling over her shoulder as she leaned her head against mine. The soft hum of traffic faded beneath her voice. “You’re not alone, Kong. Even if it feels that way. You have me.”
I wanted to believe her. Hell, I needed to. But the shadows of Crash and Chris were never far behind. Their names rattled in my mind, competing with unfinished lyrics and half-written hooks. I thought of our first gig, all wild nerves and cheap beer, Crash grinning from ear to ear, Chris counting cash in the back. How did a dream get so tangled?
Jamaica squeezed my fingers. “You could stay here tonight. Just… don’t go back yet. Not until you’re sure.”
A car alarm shrieked in the distance, echoing the unease in my chest. “Can’t run forever,” I said, smirking at my own lack of conviction.
She laughed, low and soft. “Maybe not. But you can take a break. Write something. Play me something. Remind yourself what you’re fighting for.”
I looked at her, saw the gleam of hope in her brown eyes. Something inside me loosened. Maybe she was right. Maybe, for tonight, I deserved to forget about Chris’s threats and Crash’s schemes and Mark’s shadowy promises. Maybe, for one night, I could just be Kong again—the guy with a guitar, and a chance.
I let out a shaky breath, tugging my battered notebook from my backpack. Jamaica reached for her phone, queued up the instrumental I’d been working on, the one I hadn’t dared play for anyone. As the beat trickled through her tiny speakers, she nudged me to sing.
I hesitated. The words caught, lodged behind everything I hadn’t said. But Jamaica’s gaze held me steady, and somehow, the music came. My voice wove through the night, raw and uncertain but real. The city dropped away; the lies and the danger and the promises faded. It was just the music, and her, and me.
When the last note faded, she pressed a kiss to my temple, her lips warm. “That’s it, Kong. That’s you. Don’t let them take that from you.”
A flutter of hope beat weakly in my chest, threatened by the memory of a phone buzzing in my pocket. I checked it. Three missed calls from Crash. A single text from Chris: "Come now. Mark’s asking for you."
Jamaica’s hand tightened around mine. The spell of the music fractured, the city’s madness pressing in anew. I looked at her, torn. The night was full of promises—some tender, some treacherous. Which one would I keep?
Sirens cut the silence as a car screeched to a halt outside. Heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs. Jamaica’s eyes went wide, her body tense beside me. Someone pounded at the door, the sound sharp, insistent. My heart slammed—louder than any beat I’d ever played.
“KONG! Open up! We gotta go!” Crash’s voice, ragged, desperate, shot through the wood.
Another voice—Chris’s, icy and urgent. “Don’t make us wait. Mark’s running out of patience.”
I stood, torn between the warmth of Jamaica’s world and the cold pull of the streets. The door rattled again, louder this time. The moment of truth had come, and my next step would echo far beyond tonight.