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.”
“You’re late,” she said, a small smile tugging at her lips. Jack Harlow - PICKYOURPHONEUP (feat. K. Camp)
“Pick your phone up,” he muttered under his breath, a rhythmic mantra that started to sync with the music. Camp caught the beat, nodding
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. If she picks up, she’s yours
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’d sent the text twenty minutes ago. “You up?” Simple. Classic. Cruel.