Chapter 2
MALIK
The television is on, but I am not really watching it.
It is some entertainment channel, one of those glossy panels where everyone looks permanently excited about nothing.
The sound floats across my living room while I stand at the kitchen island, bare feet on cool stone, absently scrolling my phone.
The blue light casts a faint glow on my hands as I flick through notifications without really reading them.
“Malik Carter is redefining his sound.”
I glance up despite myself, attention snagged by my own name.
My apartment sits high above downtown Los Angeles; all glass and light and angles.
Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap around the open-plan space, the city stretching out below like a circuit board.
Sunlight spills across the hardwood, catching on chrome and marble and the polished silver of the saxophone resting on its stand near the window.
The gleam of it pulls at something in my chest, a silent reminder.
The TV cuts to a clip. I groan and smirk at the same time, somehow my face does the intricate dance of facial Olympics, muscles contracting in conflicting directions.
It is me. I’m shirtless, doing my best rendition of D’Angelo’s How Does it Feel video, shirtless, and sweat-sheened.
Every defined muscle highlighted under careful lighting, each droplet of moisture strategically placed.
Saxophone lifted to my mouth as I play my heart out, fingers moving with practiced precision across the keys.
I’m not looking at the camera, like I’ve been caught unaware in a moment of raw musical passion.
It’s sexy, it’s emotional, and it’s me at my most vulnerable.
Of course, no one knows this but me. They see confidence where I feel exposure.
The chyron reads:
MALIK CARTER GOES VIRAL WITH NEW SINGLE APOLOGY
I snort softly and turn back to the counter, pouring myself coffee I do not need, the rich aroma filling the space between me and my thoughts. The dark liquid pools in the white ceramic mug, steam rising like the questions I’ve been avoiding.
“. . .fans are calling it his most intimate work yet,” one of the hosts says, her enthusiasm cranked up to eleven. “A clear jazz influence on this album, Hues of Blue, and people are obsessed. The saxophone solos alone have garnered millions of streams in just the first week.”
The screen splits with tweets and comments.
Fire emojis. Thirst traps. Women and men alike losing their minds over thirty seconds of breath through brass and a well-timed camera angle.
My manager, Renee’s idea, and it seems to have worked.
She knew exactly what buttons to push, how to package vulnerability as sensuality.
How to make art marketable without losing its soul. At least, that’s what she promised.
“They knew exactly what they were doing with this,” another host adds, grinning with perfect white teeth. “That video was no accident. And rumor has it Malik will be taking this sound on the road. His team has been tight-lipped, but sources confirm venues are being booked as we speak.”
I still. This is happening faster than I expected. The timeline accelerating beyond my control. My fingers tighten around the mug.
The city hums outside the windows. Sirens somewhere below. A helicopter thrums in the distance. Life continues in its chaotic rhythm while mine shifts on its axis.
“Sources say the tour will run four months total. Two in the U.S., then two in Europe. Smaller, intimate venues only, with presales expected to crash servers when they open next week.”
My jaw tightens, because I know what’s coming. I can feel it like a storm front approaching.
“And here is the interesting part,” the host continues, leaning forward conspiratorially. “There is industry chatter that acclaimed jazz pianist, Julian Reed, will be joining him as a co-headliner. Nothing confirmed yet, but insider sources say contracts are being finalized as we speak.”
The name lands like a hard gut punch. A twist in my stomach or a sharp, clean impact somewhere behind my ribs, like fingers pressing between bone to touch something raw and unprotected.
I don’t care how much I anticipate hearing his name.
My body has a visceral reaction every single time.
Julian. The boy I loved. The man I lost.
I reach for the remote and kill the TV mid-sentence. The apartment falls into sudden silence, broken only by the low hum of the city and my own breathing, slightly too rapid, slightly too shallow.
Julian Reed.
I stare at the blank screen longer than I mean to, seeing memories I’ve worked hard to compartmentalize. I guess he agreed and both our labels have run with this news, pressing forward with promotional plans before either of us could reconsider.
That surprises me more than it should. Renee has not called with a heads-up.
I’ve had no warning. Not a text, not an email, not a carefully worded statement to review.
This is the first time I am hearing it. Not from my label.
Not from his. From a talking head on daytime television like it was already settled.
Like we’ve already agreed to share stages and air and history.
I roll my shoulders once and take a long drink of coffee, letting the bitterness ground me, scalding my tongue slightly. The pain is a welcome distraction.
My phone rings mid-sip. Glancing down at the screen I shake my head and huff out a laugh as my best friend Asha’s name appears on the screen with her ridiculous contact photo, her face pressed against glass, distorted and goofy.
Asha has been my bestie for almost twenty years.
She’s been my rock for most of my life, calling me on my bullshit when everyone else is too intimidated by my success or my image.
Asha went to Arts School with Julian and me, so she knows everything.
The before, the during, the devastating after.
I dread picking up the phone because I know where this conversation will lead, straight to the heart of what I’m trying not to feel.
“Please tell me you are naked and smug right now,” she says the second I answer, her voice warm and familiar and already judging me.
I grin despite myself. “Only half right.” I glance down at my bare chest, the sweatpants riding low on my hips.
“You had to be shirtless,” she continues, exasperation lacing her words. “You could not just play the sax like a normal person. Had to make it about the abs. Had to make grandmothers and teenagers alike clutch their pearls at ten in the morning.”
“I am a normal person,” I reply, flexing the muscles of my chest as if she was right in front of me, falling into our familiar rhythm of teasing. “A normal person with exceptional muscle definition and a flair for dramatic lighting.”
She laughs, the sound rich and genuine. “Malik Carter, you posted a thirst trap in four-four time and called it art. Don’t try to intellectualize your horniness for the masses.”
I walk across the living room, scratching my stomach as I go. I stop near the glass, looking down at the sprawling city below, cars like tiny ants moving in methodical lines.
“It worked,” I say, tracing a finger along the glass. “People are listening. Really listening, not just looking at the image.”
“Oh, they are listening,” she says dryly. “They are also drooling. I had to cover Deidra’s eyes. You might turn my girl straight. Seven years together and you’re going to undo all my hard work with one saxophone solo and strategic sweat placement.”
“That is not my problem.” I laugh into the phone, the sound bouncing off the glass. “Tell Deidra, I aim to please and she’s welcome. I’ll play at the wedding if she wants to switch teams.”
“Boy, please, that is exactly your problem,” she huffs. I can almost see her eyes roll, dark and knowing. “Always trying to please everyone except yourself.”
I lean my forehead briefly against the glass, cool and solid against my skin. “You saw the E-News segment.”
“I did.” Her tone shifts, becomes more measured. Careful.
“And?” I wait with bated breath, and of course Asha doesn’t disappoint. She never has.
“And you are full of shit.”
I laugh, sharp and quick, the sound almost startling in the quiet apartment. “Good morning to you. Love you too, bestie.”
“You suggested him,” she says, voice losing its playfulness just a bit. “Don’t try to deny it. I know you too well.”
I straighten, spine suddenly rigid. “Suggested who?”
Do not do that, Malik. She knows you better. Who would I be if I didn’t make it harder for myself, if I didn’t force her to say the name I’m avoiding?
“Julian Reed,” Asha says, emphasizing each syllable. “You dropped his name like it was nothing, didn’t you? Like you were talking about some random jazz guy with good reviews. Just another pianist who might complement your sound. As if you don’t have a history that nearly destroyed you both.”
I say nothing. My silence stretches between us, heavy with everything I refuse to acknowledge.
She fills the silence easily, never one to let me hide. “They probably thought it was perfect. Old school connection. Fake rivalry. Awards-show snub lore. Two Black men from the same arts program. That sells. That creates narrative tension. That moves tickets and streams and press coverage.”
“It is not fake,” I say, an edge creeping into my voice. “Nothing about what happened was fake.”
“Oh, I know. You forget I lived the drama right along with you,” she replies. “I was there picking up the pieces. But they do not know and you let them think it was something simpler, something marketable.”
I turn away from the window and pace back toward the island. My apartment feels too quiet now. Too big. Too empty for all the emotions suddenly taking up space in my chest.