Common finally confronts Drake.
Of course it was going to happen like this, Drake thought to himself as he exited the dressing room of the Gap. It was the only way.
Common was right there, blocking his path to the three-way mirror, smirking. His head was so shiny. Drake wanted to punch him in it.
“Comm,” he said, doing his best not to spit as he uttered his sworn enemy’s name. “I thought I might find you.”
“Surprised you even dared look for sweaters here, motherfucker,” Common said. He was so menacing in his all-khaki outfit.
Drake steeled himself. “There was a sale. I’m not afraid of you,” he said. His lip was trembling. Was it fear? Or something else?
“Your friends aren’t here to protect you, Aubrey. You can’t run. I’ve got Maya Angelou in the parking lot, and she’s strapped with the chopper.” His voice was so golden and buttery, like a croissant. “We both know you’re the softest rapper in the game.” Like lightning, his hand grabbed Drake’s chest. It was so soft.
“No,” Drake said, “You are!” He grabbed Common’s chest right back. It was even softer.
Common couldn’t say anything. He’d lost, and he knew it. “Argh!” he screamed, as he jerked his hand away from Drake’s chest. Drake kept squeezing, savoring his victory.
