Chapter 4
MALIK
The hall outside my dressing room sounds like a hive of aggressive bees, a cacophony that’s become the soundtrack to my life.
Rapid footsteps echo down corridors, punctuated by shouts into crackling headsets, someone desperately calling for gaffer tape.
The sounds of a load in, chaotic, urgent, familiar.
Someone laughs too loud in the distance, immediately followed by another voice barking about staying focused.
Doors open and slam shut in rhythm with my heartbeat.
The bass pumping through speakers in the main room rolls through the walls like thunder without direction, vibrating the very air around me.
My name keeps surfacing in other people’s mouths. Coming at me one after the other, a barrage of demands and questions I’ve grown accustomed to filtering.
“Malik, black jeans or leather?” A stylist hovers, options dangling from both hands.
“Malik, Renee needs you.” An assistant glances nervously at her watch.
“Malik, we’re switching the handheld, the other one’s popping.” A technician darts in, already halfway out the door.
“Malik, ten-minute call’s early, we’re running hot.” Another voice, another demand.
I stand in front of the mirror and none of it lands. I let it all roll over me like a tidal wave, but my feet are firmly planted in the sand. Years of this has built calluses on my soul that match the ones on my fingertips.
A stylist hovers at my shoulder with a lint roller clutched like a weapon, her eyes scanning my outfit for the slightest imperfection.
A runner stands vigilant by the door holding a tray of water bottles like they’re sacred artifacts, afraid to make eye contact.
An assistant to an assistant speaks rapid-fire into a headset, eyes glued to a clipboard, already half turned toward the hall, body language screaming urgency.
My life is a machine, intricate and relentless.
The touring lifestyle is second nature to me now.
Gears. Schedules. Bodies orbiting my body to keep everything polished and presentable.
Just down the hall, behind another door, there is quiet.
The difference between us is too distinct to ignore, a contrast that feels like judgment.
He doesn’t need all the bells and whistles to be perfect.
Julian simply exists and excellence follows.
Whilst I come with a slew of unnecessary accessories in the form of too many screaming mouths to feed, a production that sometimes feels like compensation.
I’ve found myself passing by his quiet sanctuary three times already.
I didn’t mean to. Okay, maybe I did mean to.
If by chance I got to see him, really see him, then well, I am willing to face whatever vitriol he spits in my direction.
Julian in close proximity creates a silent magnetism, pulling my feet in his direction, the corridor has its own gravitational pull that I’m too weak to resist despite seventeen years of practiced indifference.
Yet, I haven’t seen him. Not really. Weeks of rehearsals and arriving and leaving through different entrances.
A contractual dance of carefully planned avoidance.
Me swallowed by noise and people, him tucked somewhere on the edges where he can breathe.
I caught pieces of him the way you catch reflections in glass.
A shoulder disappearing around a corner, a phantom limb I almost recognized.
A hand closing a door, fingers I used to know.
Eli’s voice, low and firm, always intercepting before I got close, the guard dog who never sleeps.
If Julian was in a room, I wasn’t.
If I was in a room, he wasn’t.
We turned avoidance into architecture, blueprinted our separation down to the minute.
A year ago, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it.
A year ago, it wouldn’t have mattered because we wouldn’t be here.
I wouldn’t have thought twice about Julian.
I buried us seventeen years ago and knew there would never be room for reconciliation.
Now look at me. One moment of existential regret and gut-wrenching longing at the sound of his music whilst getting my dick wet.
Well, need I say more about how pathetic I’ve become?
One piano riff and I’m seventeen again, raw and wanting.
“Malik.” Renee steps in without knocking. She never knocks. Renee Butler does not ask permission to enter a space that belongs to her client. She’s been with me too long for such formalities, seen me through too many storms to play pretend.
I look up, catching her eyes through the mirror and cock a brow in question, summoning the nonchalance I don’t feel.
“You good?” she asks, eyes scanning with surgical precision. I know she’s not looking to gauge my feelings. No, she’s checking my face and posture. The version of me the world gets to photograph, the product we’re selling tonight.
“I’m fine.” I roll my eyes, the performance for her as practiced as the one for the stage.
She makes a sound that says she doesn’t believe me but doesn’t have time to argue. A hum of skepticism we both recognize as the pause before the real conversation we’ll have later.
“You’re wearing the black,” she says, and the stylist nods like she’s just been blessed by the pope, shoulders relaxing as one decision solidifies.
Renee flips through her notes, all business.
“We’re keeping this tight. No wandering after the show.
You need to be on your bus and headed to Las Vegas.
No extra meet-and-greets unless I clear it.
Opening night in LA means cameras everywhere.
” She emphasizes this with a pointed look that reminds me of my mother.
My mouth feels dry at the thought of camera flashes and questions. . .questions, always with the damn questions. The invasive probing, the speculation, the dissection of every glance and word between Julian and me.
“And no mess,” she adds, casual as the weather, but with steel underneath.
Her eyes sharpen just enough to remind me of what happened last year.
That the world noticed when I spiraled. Yes, I spiraled after years of pushing down my feelings for something I’d done a very long time ago.
The guilt, the regret, the longing, it all crashed down at once.
What do they say? ‘What you do in the dark always comes to light’.
Well, it all came crashing in on me like a demolished building.
I guess my foundation has always been shaky, held together by tape and a prayer, one note away from collapse.
“No mess,” I repeat, the promise feeling hollow even as I make it.
The runner offers water. I take it because my hands need something to do, something to grip besides memories.
He turns, and for a moment, I watch his ass and wonder why my dick hasn’t twitched, not even once.
My old habit of sex before a performance rears its head.
The ritual of release, of connection without consequence.
Right now, though, I’m not interested. No body can distract me from the one I can’t have.
Renee’s phone buzzes. She answers without looking away from me, monitoring my reaction. “Yes. No. Tell Tracy five minutes means five minutes, not five minutes in LA.” The familiar bite in her voice comforts me, its consistency an anchor.
She hangs up and gestures with her pen. “Where’s the sax?”
I glance toward the corner. My polished silver saxophone waits on its stand, gleaming under the lights, patient and loyal.
“Right there.” I wave toward it with a flourish, theatrical even in the small gesture. Usually it would be backstage, but the need to keep it close now is a habit that came from a year of feeding it my deepest, darkest secrets. The instrument knows me better than any lover ever has.
“Good. We’re leading with Apology. Same order we rehearsed. No changes.” Her tone brooks no argument.
“No changes,” I echo, the familiar script settling over me.
I don’t feel like improvising tonight. Not in the way she means.
Something is off tonight. I recognize it in the restlessness under my skin.
My skin doesn’t fit right. I’m anxious, pre-show jitters, butterflies, a newness I haven’t felt in years.
Not since the first time I performed after coming out.
This room is full of noise and choices and people asking whether my chain should be visible or tucked. Someone asks about in-ears. Someone asks if I want the towel warmed. The questions pile up, insignificant individually but overwhelming together.
All I can think about is a door down the hall and the man behind it. A sharp knock hits my door and I’m present once more, jolted from my thoughts.
Tracy leans in, headset on, all efficiency and authority. “Ten minutes, Malik.” Her voice is clipped, professional, the countdown that means the machine is in full swing.
The room snaps into motion and everyone is moving rapidly around me once more, a flurry of last-minute adjustments and confirmations.
“Thank you, ten,” I call back, surprising myself with the formality.
Her eyes linger a fraction longer than necessary.
I am sure she is wondering what’s come over me.
I’ve never acknowledged her calls so politely before, usually too deep in my pre-show zone of being balls deep in a warm wet hole to bother with niceties.
She offers me a quick nod, smiles slightly and leaves, a subtle shift in her perception of me.
The door closes with a soft click.
The stylist pats my shoulder, stepping back to admire her work. “You look incredible.”
I stare at my reflection. The mask is flawless. The mask that shows confidence, composure, and an untouchable presence. Polished skin, sharp jawline, eyes that give nothing away.