Chapter 3: Betrayal for Ten Grand

Hopefully, even if Julian finds out, he’ll go easy on me. I doubted it, but hope springs eternal. Maybe he’d understand—maybe not.

Because ten grand is a lot. And I’m pretty greedy. I tried not to think about it too hard. Money makes people do strange things.

Just as I was about to go downstairs, my hand was suddenly grabbed. Julian’s fingers wrapped around mine, tight and desperate. I froze, heart pounding.

Julian mumbled in his sleep, "Don’t go..." His voice was small, barely audible. My chest tightened.

He gripped my fingers so tight it hurt. I didn’t pull away. I let him hold on, anchoring him to the present.

"Don’t go with him... come back..." He sounded lost, like a kid calling for his mom in the dark. I squeezed his hand, whispering reassurances.

So panicked and helpless, like a kid left behind. I recognized that fear. I’d felt it myself, more times than I cared to admit.

I instinctively held Julian’s hand back. His skin was cold, clammy with sweat. I rubbed gentle circles on his knuckles, hoping to calm him down.

His hand turned cold again. I tucked the blanket tighter around him, wishing I could do more.

The warmth of our fingers couldn’t calm his panic. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t chase away his nightmares.

He curled up, trembling, breaking out in a cold sweat. I grabbed a washcloth, dabbing at his forehead, murmuring soft words like my mom used to when I had a fever.

I leaned down, lay by the bed, and, just like my mom used to do for my little brother, gently patted his back. The rhythm was slow, soothing. I hoped it would help him drift back to sleep.

I pressed my lips together, awkwardly coaxing, "Not leaving." My voice was rough, but I meant it. I wasn’t going anywhere—not tonight.

Julian snuggled into my arms and gradually calmed down. His breathing slowed, tension melting away. I let out a sigh of relief.

After a while, he moved even closer. He buried his face in my chest, arms wrapping around my waist. I held him tight, afraid to let go.

He burrowed into my chest, rubbing his face against my chest. His hair tickled my chin. I smiled, feeling oddly content.

His breath tickled me. I laughed quietly, brushing his hair back from his forehead.

I swallowed and quietly pinched his nose. He squirmed, making a face. I couldn’t help but grin.

Julian opened his mouth. He let out a soft snore, finally slipping into a deep sleep. I stayed by his side, watching over him.

......

After a while, I blushed and pushed Julian’s head away, muttering, "Julian, don’t suck." He mumbled something incoherent, lips still pressed to my skin. I shook my head, rolling my eyes fondly.

That spot—after he rubbed and sucked it—was about to bruise. I’d have to wear a t-shirt for a week just to hide the mark. Not that anyone would ask.

The mansion was surrounded by security, and Julian wasn’t allowed out. Guards patrolled the grounds, radios crackling. It felt more like a prison than a home.

This was Alex’s punishment for him. He said it was for Julian’s own good, but it felt more like a power play.

Julian was so mad he wanted to smash things, but everything in the house had already been broken. There were only so many vases you could shatter before you ran out of ammo. Julian paced the halls like a caged animal.

He paced the living room, couldn’t find anything to break, so he went upstairs, grabbed a golf club, and opened the door to fight the guards. The guards tried to reason with him, but Julian just swung the club, wild and reckless. I watched from the stairs, heart in my throat.

When Alex arrived, two security guys were already bleeding from their heads. Blood dripped down their faces, staining their uniforms. Alex took one look and swore under his breath.

I hugged Julian’s waist, like I was holding back a wild dog. He thrashed, trying to break free. I held on, whispering for him to calm down.

When Alex came in, he didn’t say a word—just raised his foot to kick Julian. Time seemed to slow. I moved on instinct, trying to shield Julian from the blow.

I pulled hard, turned Julian around, and tried to take the kick on my back. But I got the angle wrong and Alex kicked me in the butt. Pain shot through me, but I bit my tongue, refusing to cry out.

Both Julian and Alex were stunned. For a second, nobody moved. Then Julian’s face twisted in fury.

Julian cursed, "Shit." He shoved me away, swinging the club at Alex with renewed rage.

He shoved me away, swung the club at Alex, and yelled so loud his voice cracked. His voice echoed through the halls, raw and broken. The guards flinched, unsure whether to intervene.

"Who told you to kick his ass?" He sounded genuinely offended. I almost laughed, despite the chaos.

Please, stop yelling, man. I shot him a look, hoping he’d take the hint. No such luck.

Alex’s face turned dark. He called over six guards, pinned Julian down, tied him up with restraints, and carried him upstairs. They moved like a well-oiled machine, working together to subdue him. Julian fought every step of the way.

A doctor followed behind. She carried a black bag, face set in a mask of professionalism. I wondered how many times she’d done this before.

Julian struggled desperately. "Let me go!" His voice was hoarse, desperate. I wanted to help, but didn’t know how.

He met my eyes, a flash of panic and even a pleading tone: "Big dummy, help me..." The look in his eyes broke my heart. I took a step forward, but Alex blocked my path.

He was truly scared. I’d never seen him like this before—vulnerable, afraid. It made me want to fight for him.

I instinctively took two steps forward, but Alex stopped me. "Caleb, it’s not your place to go upstairs." He said it flatly, like it was a fact of life. I clenched my fists, but didn’t argue.

"This is family business." The words stung. I knew my place, but it still hurt to be reminded.

And I was just the help. No matter how close I felt to Julian, I was still an outsider. That truth settled heavy in my chest.

Alex said Julian had mental health issues, and that treating him was for his own good. He spoke in clipped, clinical terms, as if that made it easier to swallow. I wasn’t convinced.

I wasn’t really listening—just kept looking upstairs. My eyes burned, but I refused to blink. I needed to know Julian was okay.

I couldn’t see Julian from here, but I just wanted to look. I strained my neck, hoping for a glimpse of him being led away.

I strained my ears for any sound. The silence was deafening. I pressed my ear to the banister, listening for footsteps, voices, anything.

But it was silent upstairs. No shouting, no music, nothing. It was like the house had swallowed him whole.

Julian couldn’t possibly be this quiet. He was never quiet—not when he was awake. Something was wrong.

They must have tied him up, maybe even gagged him. The thought made my stomach churn. I pictured him struggling, helpless.

Three hours later, the doctor came downstairs and whispered a few words to Alex. He responded, glanced upstairs, grabbed his coat, and got ready to leave. Their conversation was hushed, urgent. I tried to catch a word or two, but they were too quiet.

Before leaving, he said to me, "Bring him something to eat." He tossed me a set of keys, nodding toward the kitchen. I nodded, already planning what to make.

Upstairs, I heard the smooth sound of piano. The melody was soft, almost mournful. I crept up the stairs, balancing a tray in my hands.

I brought up the mac and cheese I’d made, and the piano music was still going. The smell of cheese filled the air, mixing with the music. I paused outside the door, listening.

I pushed the music room door open a crack and saw Julian with his eyes half-closed, fingers flying over the keys. He looked lost in the music, hair falling over his face. Blood stained the keys, but he didn’t seem to notice.

The bandage on his right hand was gone, lying on the floor. He’d ripped it off, letting the wound bleed freely. I bit my lip, unsure whether to interrupt.

The wound hadn’t healed, and it started bleeding, staining the white keys red. The sight was both beautiful and horrifying. I wanted to rush in, but something held me back.

The faster he played, the more it bled. His fingers blurred, moving faster and faster. The music grew frantic, desperate.

Most people would be scared. I probably should’ve been. But I couldn’t look away.

But I thought Julian looked beautiful. There was a wildness to him, a freedom I’d never seen before.

A little crazy, but dangerously attractive. My heart pounded in my chest, equal parts fear and fascination.

The piano stopped abruptly. Julian turned his head, met my eyes, and said, "Caleb, my hand is cold. Come warm it for me." His voice was soft, almost pleading. I set the tray down, crossing the room to him.

Julian didn’t look happy. His eyes were flat, lips pressed in a thin line. I wanted to comfort him, but didn’t know how.

Not at all. He looked more lost than angry, like he was searching for something he couldn’t name.

He pulled me in front of him, and even warming his hands didn’t cheer him up. I rubbed his fingers, trying to coax some warmth back into them. He barely reacted.

I wanted to make him feel better, but I’m not good with words, so I just asked, "Are your hands still cold?" He didn’t answer right away, just stared at me with those sad blue eyes.

Julian said, "My hands aren’t cold. Somewhere else is." He let the words hang in the air, waiting for me to catch on.

I asked where. My voice was barely above a whisper. I felt like I was standing on the edge of something huge.

Julian said, "My tongue is cold. Warm it with your mouth." He leaned in, eyes locked on mine. My breath caught in my throat.

Honestly, I know two guys shouldn’t be kissing. Back home, that kind of thing would get you run out of town. But here, with Julian, it felt different.

But Julian’s mouth is really something. Soft, full, inviting. I couldn’t resist.

I’ve never seen such a good-looking mouth back home. Not even in the movies. Julian’s lips were in a league of their own.

So, I’m willing to warm Julian’s tongue. I gave in, pressing my mouth to his. The world faded away, leaving only the two of us.

Julian is happy, and I’m happy too. For a few minutes, nothing else mattered. We were just two people, lost in each other.

We leaned against the piano, kissing for a long time. His hands tangled in my hair, pulling me closer. I let myself melt into him, forgetting everything else.

We kissed until the mac and cheese got cold. By the time we pulled apart, the food was stone cold. I laughed, promising to reheat it.

I had to reheat it and bring it back up, coaxing Julian to eat. He grumbled, but took a few bites. I watched him closely, making sure he swallowed every mouthful.

He doesn’t care about skipping food, but he can’t skip his medicine. I kept the pill bottle in my pocket, just in case he tried to refuse.

There’s medicine in the mac and cheese. I crushed the pills and mixed them in, hoping he wouldn’t notice the taste.

That’s what Alex wants. I hated myself for it, but I needed the money. I tried not to think about what it meant.

I put Julian’s meds in anything I could—mac and cheese, soup, milk, drinks. I got creative, hiding the pills wherever I could. He never seemed to catch on.

Julian had no idea. He trusted me, and that trust felt heavier every day.

Sometimes he’d feed me milk from his mouth, telling me to taste it too. He’d grin, holding the glass to my lips, daring me to drink. I always did.

But soon, I stopped giving Julian his meds. The guilt got to me. I couldn’t keep doing it, not when I saw what the drugs did to him.

That day, I brought him milk. He stood barefoot in the music room, staring into space, looking lost. He told me, "Big dummy, I can’t write songs anymore. I can’t write anything."

His voice was hollow, defeated. I wanted to fix it, but didn’t know how.

He paced the room anxiously, talking to me—He muttered to himself, words tumbling out in a rush. I listened, hoping he’d find comfort in my presence.

Or maybe not to me. Sometimes, I think he was talking to ghosts, memories only he could see.

Either way, he said, "They’ve ruined me." He sounded broken, like something inside him had snapped.

"Who?" I asked gently, trying to draw him out.

"Those doctors! They make me take pills... those drugs kill my inspiration. I won’t survive." He slammed his fist against the piano, voice cracking. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he didn’t let them fall.