Chapter 14
MALIK
The Scat Bar is already buzzing when we arrive.
It’s not fancy, it’s a well-known, lived-in establishment that’s entertained drunken revelers and late-night blues and jazz jam sessions for decades.
This bar is the real deal, alive, the kind that hums through floorboards and vibrates in your bones, where laughter spills out into the street and music leaks through open doors like an invitation you don’t have to earn.
Bourbon Street is chaos in the best way tonight, bodies weaving past each other with drinks in hand, heels clicking against pavement, someone shouting over a trumpet riff drifting in from two doors down.
Neon glows against old brick, casting everything in colors too bright to be subtle, painting strangers’ faces in flashes of electric blue and hot pink that make everyone look a little dangerous, a little beautiful.
The smell hits me as we step inside, whiskey and perfume, sweat and cigarette smoke clinging to the walls despite laws against it. It smells like music itself, like something authentic that can’t be manufactured or bottled.
This place isn’t meant for arena shows or perfectly timed lighting cues. It’s where notes bend and break and reshape themselves, where musicians lock eyes across crowded rooms and create conversations without words.
The bar is packed wall-to-wall with people who were invited—sponsors, execs, industry types—but it doesn’t feel exclusive.
The doors are wide open like they always are in the Quarter, and every time someone passing by realizes who’s inside, the energy spikes.
Phones flash from the doorway. Cheers erupt from the sidewalk.
Someone yells my name like we’re old friends, voice cracking with excitement.
Hands reach out as I pass, not grabbing, just hoping for proximity, for the briefest touch of connection.
I take it all in and let the noise wash over me, feeling it settle on my skin, alive and energetic, breathing with its own pulse.
This is the kind of place I dreamed about as a kid, sitting in my bedroom with sheet music spread around me, saxophone case open like a promise.
It wasn’t about the fame back then, or the tours.
This is what I yearned for. The atmosphere, the artistry of making a living, earning it night after night in a city that makes you work for it, that demands authenticity before it gives you anything back.
I know now that was a glorified pipe dream and to survive as a musician you got to grind hard, sacrifice sleep and stability, play corporate gigs that pay the bills while you chase the ones that feed your soul, but it was a dream all the same.
Julian is across the room, pressed into conversation with people who are overly excited.
Hands waving, bright smiles, and way too close, even when Eli steps in smoothly to put space in between them, a practiced choreography they’ve perfected over years I assume.
Julian looks composed, too composed, shoulders back, spine straight, smile practiced, nodding when appropriate, every inch of him performing restraint.
He’s beautiful in that controlled way that always made me ache, even back then, even now.
His fingers tap against his thigh in a rhythm only he can hear, the only sign that he’s feeling anything beneath that polished exterior.
We haven’t spoken since the studio, and that feels intentional.
Necessary, even. Everything clicked after we got over the awkwardness of being in each other’s vicinity after what went down in Chicago and my chosen absence afterwards.
The music flowed like we’d never stopped playing together, like the years between us were nothing but a breath, a rest between measures.
Tonight isn’t about pushing, or so Renee says.
“Let it breathe,” she told me before we left the concert venue.
Although, it doesn’t get lost on me that this is yet again another reason to throw us into the same room together for the camera and social media shots.
The continuous display of positivity to feed the narrative of friendship and peace between us.
I wonder if Julian feels as staged as I do sometimes, both of us props in our own story.
Renee appears at my side with a drink I didn’t ask for but accept anyway, amber liquid catching light as she presses it into my hand.
She brushes off what I’m sure is imaginary lint from my silk shirt, being the mother hen that she is and tsks in disapproval from my expression of irritation, her eyes sharp and knowing beneath perfectly arched brows.
“Smile,” she murmurs, voice barely audible over the crowd. “You’re doing great.”
I huff a quiet laugh, feeling the warmth of drink on my tongue before I’ve even taken a sip. “I haven’t done anything.”
She lifts a brow, her gaze flicking meaningfully toward Julian and back to me. “Exactly.”
I take a sip of the smooth bourbon, ignoring her, and let my gaze drift to the small stage tucked into the corner.
It’s barely elevated, already set with a piano that’s seen better days, scratched in places, in need of a polish, but I bet it still sounds like heaven when the right hands touch it.
There’s a single mic stand under a spotlight, but the lights are low, casting soft shadows across empty space waiting to be filled.
The stage is set, eagerly waiting for something, or someone to play their opus, to breathe life into the expectant hush that seems to hover around it despite the noise of the crowd.
That’s when I feel it, the pull, the itch under my skin that won’t let me stay still.
It crawls up my spine and settles in my fingers, a restless energy I’ve known since I was old enough to understand what music was.
My saxophone case suddenly feels heavier against my leg, a presence demanding attention.
I lean toward Renee, my eyes still locked on the stage, caught in its snare, drawn by invisible threads I’ve never been able to resist. “Who do I talk to if I want to play?”
She studies me for a beat, then exhales like she already knew this was coming, a small smile tugging at her lips. “James Monroe is the owner. I’m sure he will eat this up. Probably wet himself with excitement.”
I find James near the bar, laughing with someone twice his age and three drinks deep, his weathered face creased with genuine pleasure. When I ask to use his stage, his eyes light up immediately, recognition and disbelief battling across his features.
“You serious?” he says, already stepping aside, gesturing toward the stage like he’s offering something sacred. “Man, this place exists for moments like this. What can I do? What do you need? Full band? Backup? Name it.”
“I don’t need a big setup,” I tell him, feeling something settle in my chest at the simplicity of it. “Just the stand, and the piano. My sax is always with me.” I pat the case at my side, my constant companion through airports and taxis, hotel rooms and green rooms.
He grins, wide and genuine, “You bring the soul. We’ll take care of the rest. I’ll get my staff to turn up the lights. Give you the proper stage you deserve.”
By the time I step toward the stage with my sax already in hand, the silver body catching light as I move, the room has shifted.
Conversations taper off, curious eyes watch me with hungry anticipation.
Phones lift, lights from cameras turned in my direction like tiny spotlights.
Cheers ripple outward from the bar and roll through the crowd like a wave, building as recognition spreads.
I hook the strap around my neck and take a breath, feeling the familiar weight settle against me, an extension of my body rather than an instrument. My fingers find their places without thought.
I lean into the mic just enough for the room to quiet, a hush falling as if someone’s drawn a curtain across the noise.
I’ll never get used to commanding an audience this way, the power of it.
It’s a heady feeling, a responsibility that I don’t take lightly.
There’s only gratitude as I stand here with all eyes on me, with the privilege of attention in a world that’s always rushing to the next distraction.
“When I was a kid,” I say, voice steady, resonating through the room, “I used to dream about playing places like this. Not stadiums. Not award shows. No, just rooms where the music spills out into the street and nobody cares if you play it perfectly, only that you play it honestly. Where the walls hold the echoes of everyone who played here before, where history isn’t something you study, it’s something you join. ”
A murmur of approval comes from a woman in the front row followed by a few finger snaps, the sound sharp and appreciative in the relative quiet. I see heads nodding, understanding in strangers’ eyes.
“And I wasn’t the only one dreaming,” I add, letting my gaze flick briefly toward Julian, who is watching me, eyes narrowed, body utterly still. “Some dreams stay with you longer than others. Some follow you through your whole life, whether you’re ready for them or not.”
The crowd hums, sensing something without needing it spelled out, the undercurrent of meaning clear enough to those paying attention. The weight of Julian’s gaze is as heavy as a physical touch.
“I don’t know when I’ll get a chance like this again,” I say, lifting the sax, feeling its cool metal against my palms, “So if you’ll let me, I’d like to play. Not for the cameras or the contracts. Just for the love of it. For the kid I was. For this room.”
Cheers erupt, thunderous in the confined space. “Come on, Malik!” Someone shouts, voice cracking with excitement. “Play for us!” calls another, hands already clapping in anticipation.