Chapter 12 Malik
MALIK
“Malik, I’m not going to waste your time,” the voice on the speakerphone says. “This is Joseph Levin, we’ve never had the pleasure of meeting, I’m the new PR rep for Blackline Records. We have a serious problem.”
Renee paces behind me. Her heels strike the floor in sharp, clipped beats as she moves the length of the conference room, back and forth like she’s trying to burn the excess adrenaline out of her body.
The sound echoes against the bare walls, creating a nervous rhythm that matches the tension coiling in my gut.
Her usual composed demeanor has fractured; she hasn’t sat down once since I walked in, which tells me everything I need to know about the severity of what we’re facing.
I don’t ask what the problem is. I know. The entire world knows at this point. The confrontation with Julian has become digital wildfire, spreading faster than anyone could contain it.
The phone sits in the center of the long table, screen glowing, speaker on. It feels deliberate, like an accusation placed between us, an electronic witness to the mess we’ve created.
“The Chicago incident is already everywhere,” Joseph continues, his voice crisp and clinical. “And before you say anything, I don’t care who started it, and I don’t care why. What I care about is fixing it. Damage control needs to happen now.”
I lean back in my chair, arms crossing over my chest without thinking.
The leather creaks under the movement, the sound unnaturally loud in the tense atmosphere.
The room itself is sterile, designed for people who live out of suitcases and the steady grind of business travel, long table, identical chairs, walls that have heard a thousand versions of the same conversation.
The generic hotel art hanging on the wall, abstract splashes of muted blues and grays.
“You call that fixing? Our silence?” I ask, hearing the edge in my own voice. “Because it looked more like containment last night.”
Renee stops pacing long enough to shoot me a look that says don’t poke the bear. Her eyes are serious, warning me to tread carefully. She knows how quickly I can turn a bad situation worse when my pride is involved.
Joseph exhales, the sound sharp with impatience.
“You’re not wrong. But containment is step one.
And frankly, you’re lucky your managers moved as fast as they did.
If they hadn’t intervened when they did, we’d be having a very different conversation if the world had been privy to all of it, I’m sure. ”
I think of Renee and Eli cutting through the hallway like a pair of storm warnings, voices cold and absolute, phones disappearing mid-recording.
I think of Julian’s face, the raw emotion there before the mask slammed back into place.
I think of how close it came to being worse, how the words between us could have cut even deeper if we’d had more time alone. The memory sits heavy in my chest.
“How bad is it?” I ask, though I already suspect the answer.
“Bad enough,” Joseph says with a grim finality.
“The clip ends abruptly, but the damage of what the world has seen is damning. ‘You stole from me’ is doing numbers all on its own. It’s trending.
Screenshots. Reaction videos. Memes. People don’t even need context anymore.
Speculation fills the gaps just fine. Your histories are being dissected by strangers who think they know everything about both of you. ”
Renee resumes pacing, her movements more agitated now. “Every outlet wants a comment. Every blog wants an exclusive. The major music sites are running with it. Social media is a nightmare. We’ve been issuing the same holding statement on loop for the last sixteen hours.”
I don’t need to ask what it says. I can practically recite it myself.
Exhaustion. Pressure. Misunderstanding. Old friends.
Taken out of context. A carefully constructed wall of meaningless words designed to say nothing at all.
Julian’s life, our history, reduced to a paragraph that avoids saying anything at all.
Just like we’ve been doing since this tour began.
Joseph clears his throat. “Here’s the reality.
The tour is performing above projections.
Ticket sales spiked after Los Angeles. Julian’s albums are climbing faster than we anticipated, so are yours.
Your collaborative appearances have created a perfect storm of publicity that’s translating to serious revenue.
Jazz piano is a niche musical genre, and right now, he is the golden ticket.
Your combined star power is undeniable.”
My jaw tightens, the muscles locking painfully as I resist the urge to curse. “So, this is about money. Not about us as people, not about what happened. Just profit margins and quarterly projections.”
“This is about sustainability,” Joseph corrects, his tone shifting into something sharper.
“You have a European leg coming up. Sold-out venues. Sponsorships already locked. We don’t cancel.
We don’t fracture the relationship we have with the tour sponsors.
We absolutely do not allow the narrative to become ‘two artists implode backstage.’ The optics would be catastrophic, especially for an openly queer Black artist and one of the few Black jazz pianists with mainstream recognition. ”
I stare at the table, my reflection warped in the polished surface. My own distorted face looks back at me, unfamiliar and troubled. “You don’t know what happened between us. What really happened. Years ago. Last night. Any of it.”
“Like I said before, I don’t want to,” Joseph says with the practiced disinterest of someone who has navigated countless artistic conflicts. “And I don’t need to. What I need is cohesion. Professional appearances. A narrative that benefits everyone involved, especially the two of you.”
Renee finally stops pacing and plants her hands on the table, leaning forward.
Her bracelets click against the surface as she fixes her gaze on the phone.
“Say it. Give him the bottom line and tell him what you all have agreed upon without giving him the opportunity to shoot it down. He deserves to know exactly what’s been decided. ”
There’s a brief pause on the line. Long enough for my stomach to tighten, for dread to pool cold and heavy at the base of my spine. What have they done?
“We’ve spoken with Damon,” Joseph says after the weighted silence. “Reality Records is on board. Eli has been briefed. The solution we’re proposing is collaborative. We need to transform this tension into something marketable.”
I let out a short, disbelieving laugh that sounds hollow even to my own ears. “You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m not some newly signed artist, Joseph. No one makes decisions on my behalf. I’ve earned that much respect, at least.”
“You’re going to do a duet,” Joseph continues, completely unfazed by my protest. “A joint project. You and Julian, working together to create something new. It will debut during the European leg and be released as a standalone single. We will give you the choice to decide which city. Proceeds will be donated to an LGBTQIA+ organization of mutual agreement. It reinforces the tour’s theme of artistic boundaries and reframes the public narrative. It turns conflict into collaboration.”
Renee watches me carefully now, her expression unreadable, though I can see the tension in her shoulders.
She knows me too well, knows exactly how close I am to exploding.
I know she is ready for me to pop off, and damn it, I’m close.
Heat crawls up my neck as realization sinks in.
This can’t be happening. Didn’t they watch the footage, didn’t they hear what was said?
Julian and I can’t work together. Not after everything.
Not with those words still echoing between us.
“You think forcing us closer is going to fix this?” I struggle to keep my voice level. “You think putting us in a studio together is somehow going to erase years of history and what just happened?”
“I think it removes speculation,” Joseph replies with clinical precision.
“It signals unity. It turns tension into artistry. It gives the audience a narrative they can root for instead of one they’ll tear apart.
And before you say anything else, Malik, this isn’t optional.
I’ve had approval from the CEO, he thinks this is the right move for both of your careers.
Damon Stone personally signed off on this approach. ”
My pulse thuds hard against my ribs, anger and disbelief warring for dominance. “Julian will hate this. More than hate it. After what happened in that hallway? He’ll refuse.”
Another pause follows and Joseph sighs in frustration or is the man just weary of managing artistic temperaments and wounded egos. “He may not have a choice,” Joseph says, his words measured. “Just like he didn’t have a choice about the tour.”
The words land heavier than anything else said so far, stopping my brewing argument cold.
I straighten slowly, every muscle tensing. “What do you mean?”
Renee exhales through her nose, eyes closing briefly in what looks like resignation. Then her phone chimes and she curses under her breath. She moves away from the table and begins to pace again, this time whispering urgently into her phone, her free hand gesturing sharply.
Joseph doesn’t soften it. “Julian didn’t agree to this tour willingly.
Damon made that clear when we discussed contingency planning.
He was contractually obligated. Declining wasn’t on the table.
His last album underperformed, and he needed the exposure.
The tour was non-negotiable from Reality Records’ perspective. ”