Page 3 of Free to Fall

Logan Zarelli, co-founder/CEO of the label, was already waiting for me in the glass-walled conference room, espresso in one hand, iPad in the other. I couldn’t help but think about how much of a good looking white boy he was. Dark hair, tall, muscular, with swag for days. The kind of swag you could only have by growing up around black folks and having a black wife that kept you dressed to the nines.

“Egypt,” he greeted me, standing to give me a quick hug and a kiss on my cheek. “Looking every bit like a star.”

My eyes narrowed as I dropped into the seat across from him. “Flattery first? What do you want Logan?”

He laughed. “Only to celebrate.Notice Meis picking up momentum. Streaming numbers are solid, playlist placements are climbing, and the feedback from the soft rollout has been better than expected.”

I nodded, a small breath of relief slipping past my lips. “Averi’s a genius. She wrote the hell outta that song.”

“She did,” he agreed. “And between that and the Concrete Roses feature, you’ve got real momentum. The fans are talking. The industry’s watching. We want to position you not just as atalented actress who can sing—but as a real artist. A standalone name.”

“That’s the goal,” I said. “Music’s the focus now. Acting’s… background noise.”

“Well, let’s turn up the volume then.” He grinned, and I couldn’t help but return it. It was the first real smile I’d had all day.

By the time I made it home that night, I was running on fumes. Nestled in the Hollywood Hills, my house glowed softly as I pulled into the driveway. It was peaceful here, quiet in a way I rarely allowed myself to be.

The open-concept living space welcomed me like an old friend: oak floors beneath my tired feet, Caesarstone countertops catching the last trace of golden-hour light. The kitchen, with its stainless steel appliances and oversized island, still smelled faintly of lavender cleaner. The electric fireplace crackled gently in the living room, and the balcony doors were cracked just enough to let in the soft hum of night and the glitter of the LA skyline.

The master suite was my favorite space in the house. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city like a painting I never got tired of. My walk-in closet was a mess, but my soaking tub called my name. I dropped my bag on the bed and pulled my phone from my pocket turning on my relaxation playlist and exhaled as Snoh Aalegra’s,I Want You Aroundblasted from the speakers in my bedroom. I went into my ensuite, running a bath, getting it to the perfect temperature and adding bath salts.

I thought about putting my phone on DND, but I didn’t just in case my Nana called me for an emergency. She was getting up in age and I never knew when she would need me. I had asked her so many times to come live with me in California; I had plenty of space. But she kept refusing, insisting she didn’t wantto crowd me. Little did she know, I needed her more than she needed me.

I walked through my house, back down the stairs and went into the kitchen to grab my chilled bottle of wine I had in the fridge. I grabbed one of my oversized wine glasses and poured myself a hefty serving before grabbing the wine bottle and glass and marching back up the stairs to my bedroom. By the time I got back, the tub was quickly filling so I set my wine bottle and glass down on the small table next to my tub before wrapping my hair and then getting undressed. Seconds later, I was lowering myself into the deep depths of the tub; I could feel my body relaxing as I did.

By now Wicked Games by Kiana Ledé was playing and all I could do was think about Nasseem. I shouldn’t have been. Thinking about him was torture for me. It made everything so much more complicated than it had to be, but then again, we had made things complicated ourselves. We should have left it at one time, but a part of me knew that it was too good for that.

As if on cue, like he knew I was thinking about him, a special ringtone I used for him played on my phone interrupting my music. I sighed, wondering if I should just let it go to voicemail or answer. Whatever he wanted couldn’t be good for my soul. So, I let it to go voicemail but then I got a text notification instead.

Nasseem: Meet me at the spot. I need you.

And just like that, without hesitation, I was climbing out of the tub and headed for the shower. I didn’t even have to think about it. That was the problem. I never did any thinking when it came to him.

2

NASSEEM WALKER

Pleasure wasn’t the kind of place you stumbled on by accident. You had to be invited, vetted and cleared. And even then, you didn’t really know what it was until you stepped inside.

The first time I did, it was with an ex—a woman who was into things I wasn’t really built for at the time. Or so I thought. But the second I crossed through those black velvet curtains, everything shifted. The club didn’t just cater to desire—it demanded surrender. It was red lights, heavy air, leather and silk, consent contracts, and raw honesty. And for someone like me—always in control, always calculating—being in a place where control was optional? It messed with me. In a good way.

I went back. Alone. Then again. And again. Not for the chaos out in the main lounge, but for the quiet kind of power that came from choosing who you wanted, when, and how.

After Creed and Serenity’s wedding, when Egypt and I crossed that line, we both swore we’d never touch each other again, but I couldn’t stop thinking about her. The way she tasted. The way she talked back even while she was coming apart beneath me. The way she slipped out of bed before the sunlike she regretted every second. She acted like it was a fluke. A moment of weakness. But I knew better.

So, I sent her an invite. No name. No words. Just the QR code and a time, then left her a key for room 34. I wasn’t sure she’d show. Hell, I expected her to cuss me out for even trying. But she came. And then she kept coming.

We’d been doing this for months now. Sneaking and hiding. Pretending like we hated each other in front of our friends, when behind closed doors we were wrecking each other on a weekly sometimes daily basis. Tonight was no different.

Her skin was still warm against mine, her scent lingering on the sheets as she shifted beside me, careful not to wake me. She thought I was asleep. She always did. But I never was. I felt her slide out of bed like a thief, moving quietly through the room, slipping her dress over those hips like it hadn’t just been hiked around her waist thirty minutes earlier.

I clenched my jaw, eyes still shut. Every time we met, she did this shit. Every time she left like I was some stranger. Like this was just a favor she regretted. I was tired of it. I was tired of pretending this was just physical when I knew damn well it wasn’t. I was tired of Room 34 when I wanted her in my bed, in my space. And I was tired of her acting like this thing between us didn’t mean something.

But I didn’t stop her. I never did. Because Egypt only let you close when she felt safe. And she never felt safe for long, not with me at least. That was the part I hated because I felt safe with her and I wasn’t understanding why after all this time, after all these nights spent together, she wasn’t feeling safe with me.

The next morning, I was at the gym before the sun even thought about rising. My match against Sadiq Ansari was a few weeks out. A win meant I was one fight away from the championship belt—facing off against Kahlil Morgan, the current king of the welterweight division.

Sadiq was fast and unorthodox. The kind of fighter who made mistakes work in his favor. I needed to be sharp, focused. But all I could think about was Egypt’s legs wrapped around my waist and the way she whispered my name like she hated herself for needing me.

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