Chapter 6
MALIK
Las Vegas looks different in the morning.
The Strip is still glittering when our SUV cuts through traffic, neon refusing to dim even under the pale desert sun.
The city sprawls around us like a fever dream that won’t break, all sharp edges and artificial light bleeding into the natural world.
It feels like the city itself is hungover, lights buzzing out of habit, music echoing faintly from places that never truly sleep.
Casino marquees flash past the tinted windows, Frank Sinatra tributes, magic shows, residencies that stretch into eternity.
I lean back against the leather seat, sunglasses on, jaw tight, watching the world slide past while my mind stays stubbornly behind in Los Angeles.
The air conditioning hums through the SUV, but the desert heat is already pressing against the windows, promising another scorching day. Everything here is both temporary and permanent, built to dazzle and disappear, like the city itself doesn’t quite believe in its own substance.
Renee sits beside me, fingers flying over her phone, already deep in logistics.
She hasn’t looked at me once since we left the hotel, which tells me everything I need to know about my current state.
Her silence is pointed, professional, the kind that means she’s cataloging whatever storm is brewing inside me and calculating how to manage the damage.
She senses it. Whatever is wrong with me, whatever has been wrong since last night, she feels it humming beneath my skin like a live wire threatening to spark.
Her phone buzzes constantly, confirmations, schedule adjustments, the endless machinery that keeps my life moving forward whether I’m present for it or not.
Each notification feels like another weight added to the day ahead, another performance I’ll have to deliver while my thoughts remain fractured and unfocused.
The radio station building comes into view, low and unassuming compared to the towering hotels around it, and my stomach knots with a familiar dread.
Julian is already there. I don’t need visual confirmation.
I know the way I know when a song is about to change key, the way I can feel a chord progression shift before the notes actually sound.
There’s a tension in the air that wasn’t there a moment ago, a subtle shift that tells me he’s close.
It’s the same awareness I’ve carried for seventeen years, this unwanted ability to sense his proximity like some kind of emotional radar I can’t turn off.
The parking lot is nearly empty this early, just a few production vehicles and what I recognize as Julian’s black SUV parked near the entrance. Seeing it makes my chest tighten inexplicably, as if the simple fact of his arrival has altered the gravity of the entire morning.
The studio smells like burnt coffee and ambition, the kind of place where voices are sharpened for consumption and packaged for mass appeal.
The walls are covered with framed photographs of celebrities who’ve passed through; singers, actors, politicians all wearing the same practiced smile that says nothing while revealing everything.
Julian sits across from me at the interview table, posture straight, expression calm, his hands folded neatly in front of him like he’s already braced for impact.
He looks composed. Controlled as always, wearing that same careful mask he’s perfected over the years.
I hate how effortless it seems. I’m a mess and here he is looking as if nothing can touch him, as if the last seventeen years have simply rolled off his shoulders like water.
His suit is immaculate, his tie straight, every detail attended to with the precision that has always defined him.
The red light flicks on, and Jodie Mills smiles like she’s already chosen her angle, her eyes bright with the anticipation of what’s to come.
“Good morning, Vegas,” she says brightly, her voice carrying that particular radio warmth that feels both intimate and artificial. “We’re joined today by Malik Carter and Julian Reed, fresh off a powerful opening night in Los Angeles that has the music world buzzing.”
I lean toward the mic, slipping into the version of myself the world expects. Warm voice. Easy charm. A smile I don’t have to think about anymore, my industry persona takes over when my actual emotions have failed me. “Good morning, Vegas. Thanks for having us.”
Julian nods politely, professional to his core, offering his own brief greeting with the kind of measured courtesy that gives away nothing.
My mind betrays me anyway. The night before flashes through me with uncomfortable clarity, each detail sharp and unwelcome.
The venue finally emptying after what felt like hours, the crowd thinning but never fully dispersing as fans lingered outside hoping for one more glimpse, one more moment.
Renee apologizing for the impromptu meet-and-greet that had stretched far longer than planned, promising me it wouldn’t happen again while I signed autographs until my hand cramped.
My patience worn thin by small talk and forced smiles, by questions about my love life and when I’d settle down, by the constant performance required even after the actual performance had ended.
Then I saw him when I was finally allowed to leave the building.
A man stepping down from Julian’s tour bus just before it pulled away from the curb.
Slim. Pretty. Hazel eyes catching the streetlight in a way that made something sharp twist in my chest like a blade finding its mark.
He moved with the easy confidence of someone comfortable in Julian’s space, someone who belonged there in ways I never would again.
The door closed behind him with finality, the engine rumbled to life, and the bus disappeared into the Los Angeles night like it had never existed at all.
My jealousy came fast and uninvited, a clean stab that had no right to exist after all these years of silence and damage.
I knew that. I understood the mathematics of it.
I had no claim, no ground to stand on, no right to feel anything about Julian’s private life.
We were strangers now, professional colleagues at best, two people connected only by shared history and mutual damage.
Still, it hurt.
I had never seen Julian photographed with anyone.
Never heard rumors stick beyond the usual tabloid speculation.
Never seen proof, male or female. I knew he was gay, that truth had never been in question between us.
I knew he wasn’t out, understood the careful choreography required to maintain his privacy and his career.
I respected his choice even as it frustrated me when we were kids.
I just never let myself imagine the reality of it.
The private life he lived beyond stages and interviews and carefully orchestrated public appearances.
The possibility that someone else touched him, held him, saw him laugh without guardedness, witnessed the rare moments when his control slipped away.
Someone who got to kiss him goodnight and wake up beside him and take for granted all the intimacy I’d thrown away seventeen years ago.
“Malik.” Jodie’s voice pulls me back into the room like a fishhook snagging flesh.
She tilts her head, smiling with the practiced warmth, all surface and no substance. “Your new album, Hues of Blue, feels like a shift for you. What inspired you to move in this direction, especially when your fans are so used to your R&B-heavy sound? It’s quite a departure.”
I glance up without thinking, some magnetic pull I can’t control.
Julian is looking at me. There’s no warmth or hostility in his expression, he’s just watching, waiting, his dark eyes unreadable behind that familiar mask of professional composure.
His face gives away nothing, but I can feel his attention like heat against my skin.
I look away before I can read too much into it, before I can convince myself there’s something there that isn’t.
Leaning into the mic, I answer smoothly, falling back on the practiced responses I’ve given a dozen times before.
“A friend once told me to write what I know, and I finally started listening. Jazz has always been part of me. My saxophone is an extension of my body, my voice when words aren’t enough.
I couldn’t keep denying that part of my creativity, pretending it didn’t matter. ”
I pause, choosing my words carefully, aware that Julian is still listening.
“This album needed more honesty than I’ve given before. It’s a nod of thanks to the person who gave me everything, who showed me what music could be when it comes from someplace real.”
The silence that follows is brief but heavy, weighted with implications that hang in the air like smoke.
I don’t look at Julian again, but I feel the tension roll off him in waves, the way his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, the way something hardens beneath his carefully maintained composure.
He isn’t happy with my answer. The reference is too clear, too pointed, and we both know it. He also can’t deny that it’s true.
Jodie’s eyes light up with professional hunger, sensing blood in the water the way predators always do.
“Julian Reed seems like the perfect companion for this tour,” she says, her voice taking on that particular tone that promises trouble.
“Fans are absolutely losing their minds over your performance last night in L.A. Jazz piano is trending all over social media, and the videos are going viral. Malik, what made you choose Julian specifically? Rumor has it you two aren’t exactly friends, some say there’s history there. ”
Julian speaks before I can, his voice cutting through the moment with surgical precision.