Whitegirls Like You Ch 02

Chapter 2 - Blacked Concert

Millie adjusted the hood of her oversized sweatshirt over the baseball cap she wore, keeping her head low as she slipped through the private entrance at the Crypto.com Arena. The air was thick with bass from the opening act, the vibrations traveling up through the concrete floor. She pulled her sunglasses down just enough to glance at her phone, checking the instructions Tytus had texted her.

VIP Entrance. North Side. Security will be expecting you.

So far, they weren't.

A burly security guard with a shaved head and a permanent scowl stepped in front of her, blocking her path. "Pass?" he grunted.

Millie slid her VIP ticket out of her hoodie pocket and handed it over with a saccharine smile. The guard barely glanced at it before giving her a skeptical look.

"Who gave this to you?"

Millie raised an eyebrow. "Tytus Jones. He used to work with―"

"Yeah, yeah, I know who Tytus is." The guard crossed his arms. "But you? I don't know you."

She let out a sharp laugh, tilting her head. "Really? That's kind of refreshing, actually."

A second guard, just as burly but with a little more hair, snorted. "Let me guess―you're one of those girls who camp outside his hotel? Follow his tour bus? Thought if you flashed a phony VIP pass, you might get close?"

Millie's mouth fell open in mock offense. "Oh my God, you got me. I'm dying to be the next airheaded blonde on his roster." She grinned. "Honestly, he should be so lucky."

Neither guard was amused. Damn it, Tytus, Millie thought. This is why you were supposed to stay with me.

Tytus of course had gone off to personally arrange their attendance at the afterparty, trusting that Millie would have no trouble with getting in.

The first one gave her a long stare. "Try again, sweetheart. You're gonna have to work harder than that if you want to get in Markus' pants. He ain't

that

easy."

Now Millie was offended. "As if!" She scoffed.

The second guard shuffled behind Millie, sandwiching the incognito pop star between the two burly men. "Why don't you turn around and beat it now, so we don't have to throw you out."

Millie groaned, tugging her hood and cap back slightly. "Look, I get it. You deal with desperate fangirls all day, but trust me―I'm not one of them."

"Right. Because all fangirls say that."

"Okay, but do most of them have their own platinum records?" She crossed her arms, lifting her sunglasses just enough for them to see her face.

The first guard blinked. His mouth parted slightly as recognition flickered in his eyes. The second guard muttered, "Oh, shit."

Millie smirked. "That's more like it."

The first guard coughed and quickly stepped aside. "Uh, my bad, Miss Lucas. Tytus is waiting for you inside."

"Uh-huh," she said, brushing past them with a dramatic flip of her hood. "And next time? Try not to assume every woman with a pulse is here to throw herself at your boss."

She strutted into the backstage hallway, ignoring their awkward apologies. If this was just the warm-up, she had a feeling the night was about to get a whole lot more interesting.

She could hear applause roaring for the opening act out on stage. Wouldn't be long now before Markus appeared out there.

Millie strolled through the dimly lit backstage corridor, pulling her hood down and removing the ball cap now that she was safely inside. She spotted Tytus Jones leaning against a sleek leather couch in the VIP lounge, scrolling through his phone like he had all the time in the world.

"Your old label sure knows how to pick security," she said dryly as she approached.

Tytus glanced up, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Let me guess―they thought you were another groupie?"

"Oh, they were sure I was here to throw myself at your boy," she said, rolling her eyes. "Like I don't have anything better to do."

Tytus chuckled, slipping his phone into his pocket. "To be fair, that's how a lot of girls get back here. Once word got out that Markus would take more than a few bombshells back to his pad after concerts, it only encouraged more of them to try it."

Millie ignored that, plopping down onto the couch beside him. Through the thick concrete walls, she could hear the crowd buzzing, the opening act had finished wrapping up their set. She had been to plenty of sold-out arenas before, but there was something different about this energy―louder, more charged. Like her early tours had been.

"So," she said, crossing one leg over the other. "Tell me more about Markus. I know the headlines, I know the albums, but what's the real story?"

Tytus leaned back, a knowing glint in his eyes. "You ever listen to

Doggin' Duties

?"

Millie frowned. "Should I have?"

He chuckled. "Probably not, unless you were big into underground podcasts about hip-hop or tradvalues culture a couple of years ago. As you know, that's where Markus got his start. He ran the show out of his cousin's basement in Atlanta―just him, a mic, and a whole lot of shit-talking. It was raw, unfiltered, and people loved it. He called out rappers, feminists, debated hip-hop history and social evolution, even clowned celebrities. To be honest, it started as kind of a joke, but then it blew up."

Millie raised an eyebrow. "And that led to a rap career?"

Tytus nodded. "He was always freestyling on the show, dropping little verses between rants. A producer from BNWO label caught wind of it, pulled him into the studio, and the rest is history. Two platinum albums later, here we are."

Millie let out a low whistle. She was sure there was more to it than that. "So he built himself from nothing. No manufactured industry push, no reality show gimmicks..."

Tytus smirked. "Unlike some people?"

Millie rolled her eyes but couldn't help the small laugh that slipped out. "Oh, please. You think I didn't work for this?" She leaned back against the couch, exhaling sharply. "I was sixteen when I got thrown into all this, but it started long before that. While

Next Pop Idol

wasn't exactly a fairytale, my mom put me through different layers of hell just to get on that stage. The competition was rigged, the producers had favorites, and the only reason I made it was because Simone Cawle saw something in me."

Tytus nodded. "Yeah, yeah. The pop princess blueprint. Wide-eyed small-town girl with the golden voice, hand-picked by a legendary talent scout. But the difference is, you actually had talent."

Millie smirked. "Damn right. Mom saw it when I was barely able to walk, then pushed me through lessons as hard as she could to develop it."

Suddenly, the lights around them flickered as a deep, rumbling bass shook the walls. A low, ominous hum rolled through the air, followed by the roar of the crowd.

The concert had begun in earnest now.

Millie stood, stepping toward the edge of the VIP balcony overlooking the massive arena. The energy was unreal.

The audience was a sea of swaying bodies, hands in the air, the glow of a thousand phone screens illuminating faces filled with anticipation. What struck Millie most, though, was who was in the crowd.

Young, college-aged white girls.

Everywhere.

They screamed, reaching toward the stage as if Markus could pull them up with just a look.

But they weren't alone. Black men―almost as many―were packed into the front rows, bobbing their heads, mouthing lyrics, throwing hands up on beat. The blend of those two groups was something she had never seen at one of her own shows.

She had always dominated the white teen girl market. But black men? That was an entirely untapped demographic for her.

Her mind whirred.

If she played this right―if she and Markus really clicked on a track, onstage, in front of the world―her brand wouldn't just evolve. It would explode.

Her lips curled into a smirk as the beat dropped and Markus Khan Kwaest's voice boomed through the arena.

Yeah. This could work.

She leaned against the railing of the VIP balcony, her pulse syncing with the thunderous bass that rattled through the arena. A haze of golden light bathed the massive stage, and at its center stood Markus Khan Kwaest―larger than life, commanding the space like a king before his kingdom.

Dressed in a fitted black tank top and cargo pants, every muscle in his arms flexed with raw power as he stalked the stage. Sweat glistened on his dark skin under the floodlights, his presence magnetic, his movements calculated yet effortlessly dominant.

The crowd was in the palm of his hand.

Every word, every movement, every cocky smirk sent waves of frenzy rippling through the sea of fans. Millie had seen plenty of performers―hell, she was one―but there was something different about Markus. He didn't just sing to the crowd.

He

owned

them.

His voice was a weapon―deep, raw, gravelly―firing off verses with machine-gun precision, punctuated by beats that hit so hard Millie could feel them reverberate in her chest. She found herself impressed, despite herself.

The sheer physicality of him was something else, too.

He moved like a fighter in a ring, prowling, lunging, playing rough with the mic stand, even flipping off fans in the front row―who, instead of being offended, lost their minds in sheer ecstasy.

Millie let out a breath. Okay, yeah. He was good. Really good.

But then she started listening to the actual lyrics.

At first, it was just the usual rap braggadocio―money, cars, power, dominance. No big deal. That was just the game.

But then came the next song.

And the next.

And the next.

It didn't take long before her smirk faded.

The misogyny was blatant.

The violence was glorified.

And the way he spoke about women? Downright vile.

She clenched her jaw as Markus launched into a particularly offensive verse about kicking a woman to the curb after she'd "served her use," and the audience―especially the women―just ate it up like he was preaching gospel.

Millie's stomach twisted. What the hell was this?

She had built her career on empowering girls. Songs about independence, about self-worth. Even at sixteen, when her team had tried to push the 'cute and innocent' angle, her lyrics had carried a bite―a message.

Markus?

He was the opposite of everything she stood for.

And yet...

Here she was, watching thousands of girls screaming his name, worshipping him, despite the fact that he had probably just rapped about tossing them out of a moving car.

Millie exhaled, pushing a loose blonde strand behind her ear.

This was why he was so powerful.

It wasn't just the music―it was the controversy. The danger. The fact that he could say the worst possible thing, and instead of getting canceled, his fanbase doubled.

She narrowed her eyes, watching him bask in the audience's deafening cheers.

She didn't like his message.

But she couldn't ignore his power.

Millie pulled away from the VIP balcony, about ready to grab Tytus, call this whole experiment a waste and head home. She started to walk toward the exec, arms crossed as Markus Khan Kwaest transitioned into a new track, "Gettin' Down in the Ghetto."

At first, she braced herself for more of the same―violence, excess, the usual rap cliches. But as she listened closer, something shifted. Something hit her different about this song. Or maybe she was just starting to appreciate Markus' music for the first time―really hear the message.

The song was gritty, raw, and dark, but buried beneath the aggressive delivery was something real―a story.

A struggle.

Markus's verses painted a picture of a world she had never experienced firsthand―systemic injustice, broken neighborhoods, the feeling of being trapped with no way out. He rapped about police profiling, about friends lost to the streets before they ever had a chance to dream. The chorus repeated like a mantra:

"Ain't no love in the ghetto, gotta fight just to breathe,

Climbing out ain't easy when the system got you beat."

Millie frowned, staring at the man on stage, watching the way he spit every word like it cost him something.

She had spent her whole career writing about personal struggles―heartbreak, self-discovery, growing pains. But this?

This was about survival.

The next song, "All Things Black," had a completely different energy. It was celebratory, triumphant―a bold declaration of power and resilience. The hook was infectious, almost hypnotic, as the entire arena chanted along with him:

"Black skin, black soul, black pride, let it show,

From the roots to the stars, let the whole world know!"

Millie's gaze flicked over the audience, taking in the sea of young white fans rapping along, fists pumping in the air.

They weren't offended. They weren't distancing themselves. They were embracing it. In fact, many of the white girls had started getting handsy with the black men in the audience, and the sea of people seemed on the verge of converting into a low-key orgy.

And that's when it hit her.

This wasn't about division.

It was about pulling people in. Uniting them in passion and purpose.

For all his controversy, Markus was doing something incredible―he was making his world something that everyone wanted to be a part of. He was forcing people to see him, to acknowledge his culture, his experiences, his triumphs and pain.

And maybe―just maybe―she could be a part of that.

If she could control the messaging, they could reframe the narrative.

A collaboration wouldn't just be about headlines or shock value―it could actually mean something. A fusion of her uplifting, girl-power anthems with his raw, unfiltered truth.

A duet.

A full project.

An album, maybe.

Millie felt the first flicker of real excitement.

For the first time in a long while, she saw a way forward―one that didn't just keep her relevant, but made her bigger than ever.

She turned back to the balcony, smirking as she watched Markus pace the stage like a king before his people. A black king over white servants.

"Alright, Markus Khan Kwaest," she murmured to herself. "Let's see if you're as good at sharing the spotlight as you are at taking it."

The concert had ended, but the energy in the arena still thrummed in Millie's veins as she followed Tytus Jones through the winding backstage corridors. She wasn't nervous―not exactly―but there was a strange anticipation building inside her. It started in her stomach and radiated downward, an achy and distracting heat between her legs as she walked.

Then, Tytus pushed open a heavy black door, and there he was.

Markus Khan Kwaest.

Up close, he was... different.

Millie had expected him to be rough, maybe a little cocky, but instead, he was poised―leaned back against a leather couch, one arm draped casually over the backrest, a smooth, unreadable expression on his face as he watched them enter.

He was bigger than she'd realized. Muscular, broad-shouldered, effortlessly powerful. His skin was a deep, rich mocha brown, smooth under the dim golden glow of the dressing room lights.

And damn it, he was... handsome.

Not that she was into him or anything.

She wasn't really attracted to Black men―not in that way―but she could still objectively acknowledge that Markus was... well, striking.

His sharp jawline, the way his full lips quirked slightly in amusement as his dark eyes slowly scanned her from head to toe...

Jesus

.

"Millie Lucas," he drawled, his voice a slow, rumbling bass that sent vibrations through her chest. "Didn't think I'd ever see you at one of my shows."

She smirked, crossing her arms. "Didn't think I'd ever want to be at one of your shows. Guess we were both wrong."

Markus barked out a laugh, flashing perfectly white teeth. "Damn. She got jokes."

Tytus chuckled, clapping Markus on the shoulder. "Told you she was sharp."

Millie tilted her head. "And I was told you were a lot meaner in person."

Markus grinned. "Guess you'll have to find out for yourself."

She liked this. The back-and-forth. He wasn't just some larger-than-life persona―he was quick, he was charming, and... surprisingly disarming.

Maybe some of the headlines about him were true.

But even standing here now, this was a man who knew exactly how to work a room. Millie just had to make sure that didn't overshadow her own presence.

The mansion was obscene.

Sprawling, glass-walled, perched high in the Hollywood Hills like a gilded palace. Music pulsed through the massive space, the air thick with the scent of expensive cologne, weed, and top-shelf liquor.

It was a scene―Instagram models, rappers, actors, athletes―but despite the sheer number of beautiful women draped over the VIPs, Markus and Tytus barely paid them any attention.

Instead, they focused on Millie.

Markus leaned in, his deep voice effortlessly cutting through the noise. "So, be real with me, Millie. You actually vibin' with my shit, or Tytus just dragged you out here for PR?"

She smirked, waving away a cocktail that someone tried to place in her hand. "Both can be true, you know."

Markus chuckled. "Fair enough."

They talked―really talked.

About music, about the industry, hell even about politics and society, about what it meant to evolve as an artist and the responsibility to use your popularity as a means to change the world. She had expected arrogance, but Markus wasn't just a rapper―he was smart, strategic, damn near philosophical about his place in the game and in life.

And the more they talked, the more she found herself genuinely enjoying his company.

She had walked in thinking of him as a risk.

Now, she was starting to think he might be the best damn move of her career.

Hours later, the ritzy mansion was finally starting to clear out. The air was still thick with the scent of expensive cigars, spilled liquor, and designer perfume, but the energy had shifted―the chaos simmering down into murmured conversations and half-drunk goodbyes.

Millie stretched her arms over her head, stifling a yawn as she glanced toward Markus. He stood near the entrance, leaning against the marble doorway like he had all the time in the world, saying goodbyes but still watching her with that same unreadable smirk. Eventually, Tytus came and collected her, heading for the door.

"You out?" Markus asked, voice deep and smooth, cutting through the distant hum of music still playing in the background.

She nodded. "Yeah, I've had my fill of Instagram models and overpriced food for one night."

Markus chuckled, pushing off the wall. Damn, he moved smoothly for a guy his size. "Shame. You were just startin' to loosen up."

Millie rolled her eyes but smirked. "You'll live."

He stepped in closer―not too close, but close enough―studying her like he was still figuring her out. He smelled real good to her just then.

"You're different than I expected," he admitted.

Millie arched an eyebrow. "Better or worse?"

Markus grinned. "Both can be true. We'll just have to see."

A thrill ran down her spine at the way he said it, like he was already imagining what came next.

She wasn't sure how to respond to that, so she simply flashed him a lazy smile, turned on her heel, and walked away.

Tytus and Millie slid into the backseat of one of BNWO Label's private SUVs―a loan from Markus, the soft hum of the engine barely noticeable as they pulled away from the party. The car's interior was sleek and dark, a quiet contrast to the noise of the night.

Millie sank into the plush leather seat, exhaling as she let her head fall back. The driver tapped a button, and suddenly, the speakers filled the car with the deep bass and booming vocals of Markus' latest album.

She hadn't realized how familiar the songs were starting to sound to her.

The beat of "Runnin' These Streets" pulsed through the vehicle, and before she even thought about it, Millie found herself humming along.