WED 4/16 @ 2:13AM

He'd kept his head down since the leak. His camp, as always, had refused to address the hacking at all and answered no calls from the media. They maintained their own version of omerta because, eventually, people got bored of waiting. Nothing was more effective than a blackout and with a whole new set of phone numbers and e-mails, ignoring the press had never been easier.

The soul-sucking spectacle from Sunday's Madonna number had provided plenty of distraction. The feeding frenzy was starting to die down. The usual rounds of sensationalist journalism taking shots at his relationship with Rey (a usual but missing staple from Coachella this year) and his brotherhood with Wayne (a usual but missing appearance on stage) didn't concern or bother him. Those rumors were regular. The real buzzing had faded enough for Raph to leave the estate for a night out with the boys. He hadn't been in LA for awhile and the weather was good.

They'd rolled out to the party in the standard four-car train and he'd more than enjoyed himself. He'd needed it to calm down. He could feel himself burning out with the late nights he'd been pulling in the studio, prepping for another mini tour, handling the fall-out from the hack, and planning around Rey's filming schedule. On Tuesday, he'd hit the point where he'd just known he needed time to mellow. So tonight he'd gone out and mellowed. It was close to 2AM when he and the boys decided to retire. No amount of subtlety was ever enough. They'd tried to duck out the backdoor and the vultures had been waiting.

The explosion of lights was always blinding coming out of a dark hallway.

"Goddamn lights."

Back up. Back up.

Hood up, head down, second one out, with Dom (The Giant) in the lead to clear the path to the car. Raph heard Cap's voice behind him singing: Move, bitch. Get out the way. So he started laughing.

And he almost made it.

Raph's hand dropped to the car door that popped open for him to duck through when he heard someone shout something else. He'd always been a pro at ignoring taunts. No amount of name calling or insult hurling had ever gotten a rise out of him because he knew the game. He'd seen what happened plenty of times when his friends and peers lost their tempers. He wasn't out here for that kind of attention and, for all intents and purposes, he really couldn't give a shit what they had to say about him. It just wasn't worth settling in court. But he'd been in fine form ever since his phone had been hacked and he'd left the house aggressive tonight. This time, his head turned. The look on his face was short.

"Where's Reyna? Where's your girlfriend Reyna? I got her picture here. Over here. Hey, Raph, man. She's got a nice pussy."

He heard Cap first: Bitch, move. Check your damn mouth.

OB second: I bet you do, too.

And then Chubbs shouting from the driver's seat for them to get their goddamn motherfuckin' asses in the goddamn motherfuckin' car.

The crowd was starting to crush them inward. The rapid-fire clicking of shutters and the heavy bombardment of shouted questions disconnected for a heartbeat.

He thought of Rey.

He thought of her face and her dark hair and her loud mouth and her small hand holding his, of her hurling herself across a stage at him after a show, of her ridiculous aversion to clothes. He thought of her dressed like a preacher's daughter every Easter, whispering in the pew that her grandma was watching him, of her stoned at 2AM and ordering everything off the dollar menu because he was hungry. She could never wait to unveil what profanity she'd written on his birthday cake. Her entire body vibrated when she couldn't contain her happiness. She was so damn pretty when she was furious at him, and she was so fucking beautiful when she was sliding off her dress. All the times he'd felt heavy and she'd flown out to fix him because her voice wasn't enough, he knew the sound of her breathing. He knew she always held her breath as soon as his hand pressed between her legs. And when he got tired and low and went to sit in his studio in the middle of the night like a cryptkeeper, she always came to find him, crawled on top of him to keep him company until he carried her back to bed. They don't love you like I do, Raquel. The Hitmaker. He forgot sometimes how small she was because he saw her as a titan.

He thought of her now, this week, quiet and rational and folded into herself, calling her parents and lying on top of him in the dark. Of the five phone numbers he'd known by heart, two of them had been hers and all of them had been disconnected. Her entire family had been collateral. He'd made a joke about how fucked he'd be if he ever lost his phone in Albania and she had laughed tiredly, let him kiss her face. I'm fine, she'd told him. It's not your fault. But it was. By virtue of being Raph, the Rapper. And he hated it. It made him furious, seeing her chin go up and her back go stiff whenever they threw stones at her. They were always throwing fucking stones at her. Just for being with him.

She'd told him, Don't let them see you sweat.

He snapped back to the pack shoving forward when the overly-eager photographer jammed a camera in his face. The flash blinded him and Raph knocked the man back a step with his forearm, irritated and impatient. "You better back up, man." He'd hesitated long enough to expose himself. He already knew that'd been a mistake. They had to go before it turned into a mob. He turned back towards the car, intent on dismissing the bait, when the paparazzo clipped the side of the door.

"If you're finished with her, send her my way. I'll fuck her good."

Raph, man. Fuck him--

But the boy was gone. The door was left swinging with the sudden explosion.

The shouting and cracking of something hitting the ground hard followed by the surge of bodies and Sean barking BACK THE FUCK UP OFF ME had turned the quick exit into a full-on brawl.

Shit.

Dom!

Get him in the car. GET HIS ASS IN THE FUCKIN' CAR.