We’re driving now in Drake’s white Bentley, with Spoon, his head of security, following in an Escalade, headed toward a nearby Mexican joint. Ever since Drake got robbed four years ago while on a date—and because the game is a daily Kabuki of these rapper threats and counterthreats—every little movement requires security. Spoon is a mountain of a man, with an easy smile. Earlier, he laid out a scenario to illustrate what it’s like each time Drake steps out, especially at night.
“Imagine you and I are in the club,” Spoon said, “and we meet some ladies. I spend $1,000 on a bottle of Ace of Spades champagne, and then you buy the next one. We’re 2,000 into it, been having great conversation for an hour, and it’s, like, Hey, ladies, would you like to go back to the SLS and take it from there? And then Drake walks in. These girls are like over the rope—all over him, man—and here we are, sitting there with our dicks hard. Drake didn’t do nothing. He just walked in, but now you and I have a beef with him, and he just wants a drink. And we’re not the only ones. There are a dozen, two dozen just like us. And that’s every night when we go to the club. You have no idea where it’s going to come from.”
Drake’s most infamous night out occurred last June, at W.i.P. nightclub in New York City. Various versions of the story have emerged, with bottles being sent between Chris Brown’s and Drake’s respective tables, or sent back, or sent back with a note from Drake to Chris Brown that read “I’m fucking the love of your life,” or no bottles and no note—who knows?—but just a lot of tension about Drake and Rihanna getting cozy after Brown assaulted her. What clearly transpired at the club was a melee, flying bottles and fists. The place was trashed. Brown’s bodyguard showed up on TMZ with a nasty forehead gash, Brown tweeted out his own chin job, and hoopster Tony Parker, who happened to be at the club, sustained a scratched retina.