Prologue
MALIK
“Ten minutes, Malik.”
Tracy’s voice cuts through the door, sharp but familiar, the kind of warning that doesn’t need a response. She knows me too well by now. I don’t answer. I never do. The countdown is part of the ritual, the unspoken agreement between us that I’ll be ready when I need to be, no sooner, no later.
I let my head fall back against the couch, the worn leather cool against my skin.
The room is dim, the overhead lights killed in favor of the warm glow from the lamp in the corner, casting long shadows across the walls.
The air is thick with the scent of my cologne, something rich and smoky, the kind that lingers, mixed with the musk of sweat and the faint, lingering trace of sex.
It’s a familiar cocktail; one I’ve perfected over the years.
The kind that tells me I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
The speaker on the dressing table hums softly, some slow, sultry R&B track I don’t recognize playing low enough to blur into the background. It’s all atmosphere, all build-up. The real show starts later.
The man between my legs—Terrance, I think his name is—shifts closer, his hands gripping my thighs as he takes me deeper.
His mouth is hot, skilled, the kind of enthusiasm that deserves more than just a passing thought.
My mind is already half-gone, floating somewhere between the weight of his tongue and the distant roar of the crowd beyond these walls.
“Fuck,” I breathe out, my fingers tangling in the short curls at the nape of his neck.
The urge to thrust up into that wet heat is almost overwhelming but I hold back, letting the tension coil tighter inside me.
This is the point. This is why I do this.
Not just for the release, though, fuck, I need that, but for the emptying out.
The way my body unclenches after, the way the stage doesn’t feel like a battlefield but a playground.
I’ve learned the hard way what happens when I skip this part of the routine.
The edge stays with me, sharp and jagged, and the crowd can sense it.
They don’t know what it is, but they know something’s off.
I can’t afford to be off. Not tonight. Not ever.
The arena’s noise seeps through the walls, the thud of the bass so deep it vibrates in my bones, the muffled shouts of the crew, the distant, electric hum of anticipation from twenty thousand voices waiting.
It’s all white noise, a backdrop to the here and now, to the slick slide of Terrance’s lips and the way my breath is starting to come shorter, tighter.
The track on the speaker fades into silence, and for a second, there’s nothing but the sound of my own heartbeat and the wet, obscene noises filling the room. I’m close. So fucking close.
Then the music shifts.
A piano.
Not just any piano. His piano. The opening chords hit me like a physical blow, so precise, so controlled, it’s like a hand wrapping around my ribs and squeezing.
My fingers tighten reflexively in Terrance’s hair, my body locking up for half a second before I force myself to relax. It’s too late. The damage is done.
The progression turns, something aching and familiar, and my chest responds before my brain can catch up.
It’s muscle memory, the kind of recognition that doesn’t need thought.
It just is. And I hate it. I hate that after all these years, after everything, my body still knows his sound the way it knows its own breath.
I hate that I can’t outrun it, no matter how fast or how far I go.
Terrance hesitates, sensing the shift. His rhythm falters, his mouth stilling for just a fraction of a second. My dick, which had been throbbing a moment ago, is now hanging on by sheer stubbornness.
“Keep going,” I say, my voice rough but steady. I won’t let this derail me. Not now.
He obeys, his lips sealing around me again, his tongue working in earnest. I try to focus on the sensation, on the heat, on the way his throat opens for me but the music is already inside me, threading through my veins, dragging me backward against my will.
I know this sound. I know the hands that shape it.
Julian’s hands.
The Julian of back then. The one who played like he was holding the world at arm’s length, like he was daring it to come closer, to ask for more than he was willing to give. He was controlled. Precise. Like every note was a secret he was deciding whether or not to keep.
My eyelids flutter, but I don’t open them.
I don’t need to. The image is already there, burned into me, long fingers hovering over the keys, the way his shoulders would tense just before he played something that surprised even him.
The way he’d glance at me, just for a second, like he was checking to see if I’d caught it too. The memory is so vivid it hurts.
I exhale sharply, my ribs constricting like someone’s wrapped a band around them and pulled tight. My release, which had been right there, teasing at the edges, now feels distant, slipping through my fingers like smoke.
Terrance is doing everything right. His technique is flawless. My body has already checked out, caught in the undertow of something I buried years ago.
I open my eyes.
The dressing room snaps back into focus, the half-empty water bottle on the table, the crumpled setlist by my feet, the jacket slung over the back of a chair. The music plays on, indifferent. Julian’s music. Always fucking there, no matter how much I try to drown it out.
I sit up abruptly, my hand finding Terrance’s shoulder. He pulls back, his lips glistening, his expression carefully neutral. He’s done this before. He knows the drill.
“Sorry, gorgeous,” I say, my voice easier now, smoother. The mask slides back into place. “It’s not you. It’s not happening tonight.”
He nods, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and gives me that same slight, knowing smile guys like him always do, the one that says I expected this. Maybe he did.
He stands, adjusts his clothes with practiced ease, and slips out without another word. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me in silence again.
I exhale, long and slow, then straighten my own clothes. Zip up. Button my shirt. Roll my shoulders once, twice, feeling the tension coil there. The music is still playing, softer now but no less intrusive.
We were seventeen and crammed together on a piano bench in the practice room at school.
The memory hits me like a freight train, unbidden.
The room was too small, the air too thick, the piano slightly out of tune.
None of it mattered. Not when Julian was playing.
Not when his fingers were moving like they were part of the music itself, fast and confident and alive.
Not when his shoulder pressed against mine, our knees brushing, the heat of him seeping into me like a promise.
I sang without thinking. That’s how it always was with him. The melody poured out of me like it had been waiting all day, like it had been saved just for this moment. He was my muse. I was his. We fit together like that. Effortless. Inevitable.
The last note hung in the air between us, vibrating and alive. Julian turned to me, his dark eyes lit up, his grin wide and unguarded in a way I almost never saw. He was breathless, the way he got when he was excited, when he’d already decided something before the words even left his mouth.
“I think that’s it,” he said. “I think this is the one.”
I scoffed but I was smiling too. “You haven’t heard mine.”
He tilted his head, those beautiful lips of his pursing just slightly, like he was considering something. “Then play it.”
I looked away. Because I couldn’t. Not yet. Not then.
Mine wasn’t ready. It was unfinished, fragile, too close to the things I kept locked up tight. That moment was perfect. I didn’t want to risk it. Didn’t want to hand over something that raw and watch him pick it apart, even though I knew he never would.
Some things weren’t meant to be shared yet.
“Malik.”
His voice, even in memory, snaps me back to the present.
I blink, the dressing room sharpening around me again. The radio is still playing. My chest heaves, like someone’s stacked weights on it while I wasn’t looking.
I stand, shake off the ghost of his touch, his voice, his everything, grab my jacket from the back of the chair and slip it on, the familiar weight of it settling over my shoulders like armor.
If I had known then what I know now, would I have done things differently?
Maybe. Or maybe not, because if I hadn’t done what I did, if I hadn’t broken us the way I did, I wouldn’t be here.
Wouldn’t be this. Wouldn’t be standing backstage, headlining, about to walk out in front of thousands of people who paid to hear my voice.
Wouldn’t have the life I built with my own two hands, brick by fucking brick.
I can’t untangle one from the other. I stopped trying years ago.
“Two minutes!” Tracy’s voice is sharper now, urgent. I hear the rustle of movement outside the door, the crew gearing up, the stage manager’s voice crackling over the radio.
I turn to the mirror, my reflection stares back at me. Confident. Composed. Ready. No one would guess what just passed through me. No one ever does.
The music shifts again, something slower, melancholic. My fingers twitch at my sides. I reach over and kill the speaker mid-note, the sudden silence a physical relief, like I’ve been holding my breath and only now remember to exhale.
I don’t look back. I never do.