Track 24 Love Scars // Pamn part two

"That was crazy!" Pamn laughed. She looked down. Clearly, they weren't in any real danger anymore, yet he still held on to her hand. Conor pressed a button in his pocket, and the garage door smoothly ascended, revealing a line of opulent sports cars. The lighting overhead was cold, blue, and electric. 

Leading her towards a diamond-wrapped Lamborghini. She sat on the hood as instructed. As they sat beneath the frigid light, a silent exchange unfolded, with her entranced by the deep, dark pools of his brown eyes. Time seemed to pause as they maintained their gaze until he finally closed the gap and leaned in, kissing her. 

He looked down at his Rolex watch. "Sheesh, we've been talking for a while. You live around here? I'll give you a ride home."

"Come on now, it's still early." She smiled, kissing him once more. 

He looked at her contemplatively, "I mean…a'ight," he shrugged as he opened her side of the door. "Here, I'll play you my new song."

The headlights glared as the car peeled into the street. 

Pamn's nimble fingers danced over her phone, telling Evelyn that she'd found a ride and that she didn't need to wait up for her. 

The street lamps and store lights blurred and smeared as they sped through the city. 

"Look there," Conor said once he noticed she was staring at him. 

"Where?" 

The car slowed to a stop at a red light. "The billboards."

Pamn tilted her head, eyes scanning the towering electronic display that dominated the adjacent wall. The woman depicted possessed an ethereal beauty, her flawless skin, and lustrous dark red hair practically radiating from the luminescent glow. The glow of the electronic screen turned the street red. She held up a makeup bottle, displaying the brand proudly. 

"The billboards. Their holographics and shit. Imagine being on that. That's where most start and stop—imagination. Not you, though."

"Yeah?" As her gaze lingered, it was easy to imagine herself standing atop a New York subway grate, knees delicately pressed together, dress flowing around her legs from the updraft, revealing cotton-white panties. Imitating the Blonde in 'The Seven Year Itch.' She tried to hide her smile. Her picture would be taken in that imaginary moment. A still immortalized for all to see on that board. Isn't it delicious? "You think so?"

"You can't see yourself up there?" 

"I definitely can."

The light turned green, and they started driving again. 

Conor glanced over at Pamn as they went over a bumpy road, seeing her body move with the car. "Damn, so you really is natural?"

"Yes," she laughed. "I'll always be." She paused, looking out the window, then at her reflection in the rear-view. "I don't want to be some plastic doll that whores around the streets…I'd like to keep my humanity," she smiled. "Hey, yo, so what does this do?" Pamn pointed at a button on the center console. 

"Takes the roof off da coup."

"Can I?"

"Go ahead." 

Her hair whipped wildly in the rushing wind as he stomped on the gas, going over seventy. Then eighty. Then ninety. 

"Ahhh!" She screamed as they banked left. She quickly sat down, looking at him with wide eyes. 

"What?" He looked at her, trying not to laugh. "What's wrong?"

"You're insane!" she cackled. 

"Oh, hello, Conor," the guard at the gate smiled and tipped his hat as they drove through. 

"You live in a whole-ass gated community?"

"Sometimes. I gotta lot of property I own and live in."

Her mouth hung open, looking around at the beautiful homes—well, not homes. A better word would be estates. On each side of the road, palm trees towered, making a tunnel of trees, branching off to each property. 

The gate to Conor's estate opened automatically as they approached. 

"Wow," she said once inside, looking around in awe. She cocked her head to the side, listening intently, 'What am I hearing? Is someone peeing?' she thought. 

"It's a mini-waterfall in the other room," he grabbed her hand, "Here, come on," he led her to a room in his basement. In the living room, as they walked past, she spotted people smoking and playing a video game on a massive television. 

The basement was a massive music studio. Two office chairs stood before a very expensive-looking audio mixer and three computer monitors. Beside the right screen, a large robot car mech toy stood. Behind the table was a large window looking into a soundproof room with a microphone hanging from the ceiling. 

'So, this must be where he records everything,' Pamn thought, looking around. 

He sat, inviting her to sit in the other chair. He glanced around the table, pushing a few things aside, giving up on what he was looking for; he sighed, and took his phone from his pocket, texting someone something. A minute later, a man walked down the stairs, handing him a cigar. "Thanks, dog," Conor said, nodding at the guy who walked off back upstairs. 

"What the fuck?" Pamn blinked in surprise, watching Conor's hand in amazement. A dark swirling light formed around his arm, and he brought it to the blunt. The end quickly lit. She gave him a bewildered look. 

"It's a magic trick," he said. "Here," he held the burning stick out to Pamn.

"Is it weed?" She asked, taking it.

"Eh, basically. My nigga Antwan made it. He a wiz with this chemistry shit. What makes this fire, is that it's a million times better than that. Best way I can describe it."

"I've got nothing to base that off of, so here goes," she started to inhale, but instantly started coughing. 

He turned to the computer, clicking around until he opened the audio editing program. He sighed, staring blankly at the hundreds of audio files stretching across the screen. 

"We aren't gonna just move past that 'magic trick' like nothing happened."

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, "It's magic. It's energy. I'm on my David Blaine shit; need I say more?"

"I wish you would." Pamn squinted at him, staring for several seconds as he returned to his computer screens. "I'm too high for this shit," she said, passing it back to Conor. "Is that the new song?"

"I've been working on it for months." 

"When's it coming out?"

Conor chuckled, "Never."

"For real?" She raised her eyebrows. 

"For some reason, I became almost an OCD perfectionist, and for some reason, I can't get this shit exactly how I want. I'll prolly(probably) end up scrapping this." He clicked play. Pamn sat quietly, listening, bobbing her head along to the music.

Conor abruptly stopped the song after about a minute. 

"Why'd you stop it?"

"It's not finished."

"It sounded finished."

Conor sighed, staring blankly at the screen. 

After a long silence, "I like the lyrics," Pamn offered.

"The VVS is like water. Then I fucked your daughter. Jerry Springer told the world that Conor's not the father."

"I mean, like, it's funny though. I mean, yeah, I don't think people are looking at this song like it's some deep, miracle, spiritual, lyrical, 'ImmaSolveRacism' type beat, but it doesn't have to be to be good- and it is, I legitimately think so." There was a long pause. "And you can make any song sound stupid when you read an out-of-context line and just 'talk' the lyrics."

There was another long pause.

"If you were me right now, would you release this?"

"If I were in your position, I wouldn't make music like this. I'd make superficial pop music."

"What'chu mean superficial? Why would you purposefully make it superficial?"

"I wouldn't purposefully do anything. All pop music is superficial. It's just how it is."

Conor gave her an incredulous look. "You really tryna tell me that Michael Jackson and Prince are superficial?"

Pamn swiveled in her chair, turned toward him, and slowly lifted herself from the seat. She walked forward, her eyes never leaving his. As she sat down in his lap, she said in his ear, "Outliers. What they say is believable. When I hear them speak, I believe every word out of their mouths. Not many artists know how to fuck, but you can tell they do."

Conor scoffed as she and him both got out of the chair, "If you were me, would you?"

"Mhm," she nodded.

"Okay, what about right now?"

She sat down, looking into his eyes, "No. But if I can tell, then how many others can?" She nibbled on her lip, adding, "In all your songs, you talk about how much you have sex and how great you are, but I just don't really buy it."

Conor put his hand on her neck, the firm pressure eliciting a shiver. "What makes you think I don't know how to fuck?" His voice dipped low; the flickering candlelight transformed his dark eyes into abyssal voids.

Her lips parted, forming a subtle smile. "Prove it to me, then," she urged, reaching over to click play on the song.