He thought about the last time they’d spoken—the way she’d laughed at his jokes before the fame got loud, before the tours and the guest lists. Now, every silence felt like a statement. He picked up the phone, thumbs hovering over the keypad. He wanted to demand her time, to tell her he was outside, to remind her who was calling.
Camp caught the beat, nodding. “The dial tone is the loneliest sound in the city, bro. But don’t let it get to you. If she picks up, she’s yours. If she doesn’t? Well, the night’s still young.” Jack Harlow - PICKYOURPHONEUP (feat. K. Camp)
Suddenly, the screen came to life. No text—just a FaceTime request. Jack didn’t hesitate. He slid the green bar, the background noise of the club fading as her face filled the frame, messy hair and tired eyes, looking like the only real thing in a room full of smoke. He thought about the last time they’d spoken—the
Across the table, K. Camp was nursing a drink, watching the bubbles rise. He didn’t need to see the screen to know the vibe. “She’s playing the game, Jack,” Camp said, his voice smooth even over the trap beat. “You know how it goes. The minute you stop looking, that’s when it rings.” He wanted to demand her time, to tell
Jack let out a sharp exhale, spinning the phone on the polished wood. “I’m not looking for a game, man. I’m looking for an answer.”
Jack grinned, his ego tucking itself away for the night. “Nah,” he whispered. “I’m right on time.”
“Pick your phone up,” he muttered under his breath, a rhythmic mantra that started to sync with the music.