Chapter 9 Julian
JULIAN
The Chicago wind cuts through me like a knife through butter.
Even with all my layers I can feel the cold.
It slices straight through my coat the moment I step off the bus, sharp and unrelenting, the kind of cold that makes its presence known immediately.
Fall is collapsing into winter here, leaves skittering across the pavement like they’re trying to escape the season before it traps them completely.
The skyline looms steel-gray and imposing, the city buzzes with a restless energy that settles uneasily in my chest. The air carries that distinctive Chicago scent, lake water, exhaust, and anticipation of the changing of the seasons.
The door slams behind me followed by my newly acquired bodyguard, Rodrick.
Ever since my performance went viral in Los Angeles, moving around as freely as I used to has become more challenging with each city we perform in.
What began as occasional recognition has transformed into persistent attention, eyes following me, whispers trailing behind, the weight of expectation growing heavier with each passing day.
“Mr. Reed, please let me go ahead of you,” he says, irritation lacing his tone. His broad shoulders tense as his eyes scan our surroundings with practiced vigilance.
“My apologies. I’m not used to this at all,” I reply, pausing as he steps in front of me, eyes searching the area ahead of us. The choreography of protection still feels foreign to me, another reminder of how my life has shifted into something I barely recognize.
As soon as we clear the bus there’s flashes of cameras from paparazzi.
I’m far enough away to avoid questions and eagerly wanted sound bites, so that’s a relief.
Their silhouettes huddle together against the cold, cameras raised like weapons, hungry for a story I’m not interested in telling.
I keep my face carefully neutral, the mask I’ve perfected over years of hiding parts of myself is natural.
I barely make it ten steps before my phone vibrates, stopping our progress.
Rodrick stops, blocking me with his tall broad body.
The man towers over me and I’m six feet tall.
His presence creates a physical barrier between me and the world, a human shield I both appreciate and resent for its necessity.
Pulling my phone out of my pocket, Cyaire’s name appears on the screen. He knows my schedule and usually doesn’t call me right before a performance. I know this call won’t end well. That particular flutter in my stomach, the one that precedes disruption, has never led me wrong.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath before answering. “What did you do?”
A pause. Then a familiar exhale. “I didn’t do anything. None of this has anything to do with me, Jules.” His voice carries that particular defensive tone I’ve known since childhood. The sound of my little brother caught in circumstances beyond his control.
Yep, this is not good.
“Cy.” I infuse my brother’s name with all the wariness building inside me.
“Listen,” he says quickly. “They caught me off guard. They showed up at school. Surprised the hell out of me. You know momma doesn’t care for my change of major, so I was shocked and off my game when they told me we were flying as a family to see your show.
You’ve been climbing the charts, the viral videos of your performances.
Jules, you’re on everyone’s lips these days.
Momma’s been bragging to her bible study group probably.
She’s been glued to her phone for weeks.
Every time your name trends, she acts like it’s a personal victory.
Dad booked the flights and there was no way for me to get out of it. We’re already in the city.”
My stomach drops. No, no, no. Shit. The cold suddenly feels more intense, seeping deeper, reaching places the wind shouldn’t be able to touch.
“You’re here,” I say flatly. My fingers tighten around the phone, knuckles whitening against the sleek surface.
Another pause. Then, quieter, as if he’s trying not to be overheard. “Yeah. We are all coming tonight.” I picture him perfectly, ducking into some corner, speaking in that hushed tone he adopts when navigating our family dynamics, his tall frame somehow making itself smaller.
I drag a hand down my face. “Jesus Christ.” The expletive escapes before I can catch it, a small rebellion my mother would immediately correct.
The sound of my distress has Rodrick looking over his shoulder in question. His dark brown eyes scanning me for damage. For some reason I wish the big man could shield me from my own parents. His protection only extends to physical threats, not the emotional landmines waiting for me inside.
“I know,” Cy says. “I tried to stall them. I told them we should give you a heads up. But you know how they are when attention gets involved. They want to be seen supporting you.”
In their way. Always in their way. This isn’t about me. It never is. Their support comes with conditions, invisible strings I’ve spent a lifetime learning to navigate without getting tangled.
“I got you, Jules,” Cy adds. “I’ll run interference.” The promise in his voice is sincere, as it always is. My younger brother, standing between me and our parents’ expectations, a position he’s assumed without being asked.
“You shouldn’t have to.” I protest. The familiar guilt rises, thick and choking. He shouldn’t need to protect me. I’m the older one.
“I know. But you’re my big brother.” I can hear the smile in his voice. That unwavering loyalty that makes me both grateful and terrified of disappointing him.
I swallow. “I’ll see you backstage. There is no way they won’t demand to see me.” The thought sits like lead in my stomach, heavy and poisonous.
By the time I drag my feet into the venue, Portia is already in my dressing room. Rodrick opens the door, sees him there and leaves me to it. The bodyguard’s discretion is one small mercy in this unfolding disaster.
Portia looks up from the couch the second I step inside, reading my face instantly.
He’s wearing a sheer, shimmery blouse tonight, showing off his smooth light brown skin.
The fabric glitters as it catches the light with every shift of his body.
Sparkly makeup dusted deliberately along his collarbones.
He is a beautiful man, polished and entirely his authentic self.
The sight of him, so comfortable in his own skin, sends a familiar pang of envy and admiration through me.
“You look like something just detonated,” he says softly. His perceptive gaze takes in every detail of my expression, the tension in my shoulders, the tight line of my mouth.
“My parents are here,” I reply. The words feel inadequate to convey the impending catastrophe their presence represents.
His expression stills. “Are they coming to the show tonight?” There’s concern in his voice, an understanding of what this means that goes beyond the simple question.
“Yes, and so is my brother.” I hesitate, then add quietly, “Malik will love that.” The bitterness in my tone is unmistakable, even to my own ears.
A perfect storm brewing, my parents, Malik, and Portia all occupying the same space.
The careful compartments I’ve built my life around threatening to collapse into one another.
The truth hangs between us, unspoken but undeniable.
I had to explain my strained relationship with Malik to Portia.
I had no choice with Malik mean mugging him whenever he caught a glimpse of him with me in passing.
Portia knows enough to understand the complexity, though I’ve kept the deepest wounds private, buried beneath layers of practiced composure.
Portia studies me for a moment, his polished finger tracing his bottom lip, a clear sign of his worry.
“Do you want me to leave?” His offer is sincere, without a trace of resentment.
Another sacrifice he’s willing to make for what we have, this arrangement that gives him parts of me but never the whole.
I shake my head. “No. Stay. You’ve come all this way.
I’ll see my parents and brother quickly after the show.
I’ll take a few pictures, satisfy my mother and then we can leave.
I’ll meet them in the hallway. You can stay here.
” Even as I say it, I know I’m naive. Nothing about this evening will go according to plan.
He nods without hesitation. “Okay.” That simple acceptance, the way he adapts to the limitations I’ve placed on us, makes something twist painfully in my chest.
Tracy knocks a moment later. “Five minutes, Julian.” Her voice, efficient and professional, pulls me back to the immediate reality, the performance waiting for me.
“Thank you, Tracy,” I call back. I turn to Portia and he stands, closing the distance between us. The scent of his cologne wraps around me, familiar and comforting.
“Have a good show.” He lifts on his tiptoes and plants a sweet kiss on the corner of my mouth. The tenderness in the gesture nearly undoes me.
I look down at him and smile, wishing like hell I could give this man more of me.
I don’t deserve him and I know that eventually this arrangement between us is going to have to end.
Portia is invested and I know it. He won’t say it because he knows what this is, but I can’t keep pulling this wonderful man behind me like this.
The secrecy, the compartmentalization, it’s unfair to him.
He deserves someone who can walk beside him in the daylight, not just behind closed doors.
“Rodrick is in the hall if you need anything,” I say instead of saying something more. I have enough on my plate at the moment and there is no time for such a heavy conversation. The cowardice in my own words doesn’t escape me.