Black Velvet (James' Version)

The Blue Note was filled with the sluggish weight of exhaustion. Instruments were in place, microphones adjusted, but the energy in the room was all wrong. It was too early, a Saturday morning when most of them should still be in bed, not running through the same song for the fifth time.

Evan, half-asleep behind the drum kit, missed his cue again. His sticks hit the rim awkwardly, making a dull clack instead of the beat he was supposed to land. He groaned, rubbing his face.

“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered. “It’s too early for this, Reg. Who the hell schedules rehearsal before noon on a Saturday?”

Regulus, adjusting the strap of his guitar, didn’t even look up. “Only time I can,” he said simply. “M’ mother’s out the house.”

Dorcas, perched on an amp, raised a brow. “She still giving you a hard time?”

Regulus exhaled sharply, fingers tightening on the fretboard. “Ever since my birthday, she won’t let me breathe.”

James, who had been quiet up until now, felt his stomach twist with guilt. He didn’t need to ask why. He knew exactly what had set Walburga off, what had confirmed every suspicion, every whispered fear she already had about her son.

It was him.

The black man who had been holding her drunk son by the hip.

Dorcas stretched her arms over her head, her voice drifting in the warm air. "Alright, let’s take a break."

Regulus wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and nodded. “Yeah, we’ll take five. Let’s cool off.”

Evan slouched back behind his drum kit, his body sagging with exhaustion. “Finally,” he muttered, his voice heavy with relief.

Dorcas glanced over at Regulus, her eyes narrowing with curiosity. “So, you talked to the producer?”

Regulus gave a nonchalant shrug, flicking a glance at her before answering. “Yeah, I talked to him."

Evan’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Wait, what producer? What you talkin’ about?”

Dorcas rolled her eyes, a small smirk playing at the corner of her lips. “The producer who heard us playin’ at The Flamingo, remember? He came up to me after our set, said he wanted me to introduce him to Regulus.”

Evan's eyes went wide, and he leaned forward, practically breathless with excitement. "Wait, hold on now. A producer wanna talk to Regulus? What kinda deal we talkin’ ‘bout here? A record, you say? Well, shoot, that’s somethin’ big!"

As Evan rambled on, James stood quietly by the piano, the weight of the conversation sinking in. His attention snapped to Dorcas and that familiar, tight feeling coiled in his stomach. He remembered the night at The Flamingo, how he’d spotted her talking to a man, a stranger. He remembered the way the stranger's eyes had followed Regulus, like he was studying him, like he was deciding something.

James felt his fists ball at his sides, his jaw clenching hard. Regulus, his Regulus, had been under that man’s eye, and the thought of it twisted something ugly in his gut. The way that producer had looked at him, gaze holdin’ just a touch too long, like Regulus was nothin’ more than a commodity to be bought and sold. James hated that. Regulus was a man with heart, with feelings, and he deserved respect, real respect. And James would make damn sure everyone knew that.

His breath hitched in his chest as he tried to shake off the feeling, forcing himself to focus on the conversation unfolding before him. Evan’s excited voice cut through his thoughts, a rapid-fire barrage of questions tumbling out.

Regulus seemed momentarily caught off guard by Evan’s questions, his brow furrowing as he glanced between them all.

Regulus straightened up, eyes distant as he wiped his hands on his jeans. “There ain’t gonna be no record deal,” he said, voice flat.

Evan blinked, confusion clouding his face. “Wait, what? Why not?”

Regulus’ gaze hardened, his tone steady as he replied, “I turned it down.”

Evan’s confusion quickly turned to frustration, and he pushed himself up from the bench behind the drums, his voice sharp. “Hold on now. You turned it down? What the hell do you mean by that, Regulus?”

Regulus’ eyes darkened, and he looked at the floor for a moment before meeting the band’s gaze again. “The producer made me an offer,” he said slowly. “But he said it was only on one condition. I had to cut James and Dorcas outta the band.”

James froze at the mention of his name. His stomach dropped, a cold knot tightening in his gut. He knew exactly where this was going. His eyes shot to Dorcas, and a bitter taste rose in his mouth. The producer didn’t want them because of their skin. 

Evan’s voice broke through his thoughts, incredulous. “That’s ridiculous! What in the hell do you mean, cut ‘em out?”

Regulus let out a breath, the weight of the situation settling over him. “I told him it was ridiculous, that I ain’t doin’ that. But he didn’t care. He told me no white folks would buy a record of a white man singin’ with two sambos.”

The words hit James like a slap, the pain sharp and sudden, but he didn’t let it show. Instead, his fists clenched at his sides, the heat rising in his chest. He felt a wave of disgust at the very thought of what that man had said, but it wasn’t just the producer’s words that stunt, it was the system, the world that had made those words possible.

Evan stood there, stunned for a moment, before shaking his head in disbelief. "Well, that’s just plain wrong."

James exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. He should’ve felt nothing but relief, hell, he did, in a way. The idea of Regulus standing on some stage, signing papers with a man who saw James and Dorcas as obstacles rather than musicians, made his stomach twist. But that relief was tangled up with something else, something uglier. Guilt clawed at him, sharp and relentless.  

He knew what this meant to Regulus. Knew it down to his bones. Singing wasn’t just something Regulus did, it was who he was. His dream had never been small; it was as big as the stars in the sky, burning hot and untouchable. And James... James was the thing keeping him from it. If Regulus had been alone, if he’d been just another white boy with a good voice and a pretty face, he’d have a contract in his hands right now. He’d be on his way to making a name for himself.  

Instead, he was here. Stuck. Because of James.  

Dorcas crossed her arms, expression unreadable. “Well, I, for one, am glad you turned that bastard down.”  

James swallowed hard, fingers curling into fists. He wanted to let that be the final word, to nod and move on, but the guilt pressed too heavy against his ribs. The words clawed their way up his throat before he could stop them.  

“I’m not.”  

The room went silent. Four heads snapped to him, eyes wide, stunned. Barty was the first to speak, throwing his hands up.  

“Have you lost your bloody mind?”  

James shook his head, frustration thick in his chest. “No, Barty, I haven’t. I just... I just think Regulus should’ve taken it.” His voice wavered, but he pushed through. “This is his dream. The only thing he’s ever wanted is to be. And now...” He exhaled sharply. “And now he’s throwin’ it away. Because of me.”  

Regulus turned to him, eyes narrowed like James had just said the most idiotic thing he’d ever heard. Which, judging by the look on his face, he had.  

“Sugar.” Regulus said slowly, voice edged with something sharp, “Do you really think I wanna get famous if it means leavin’ you an’ Dorcas behind?”  

James floundered for a second, his own heart betraying him. Regulus’s voice was steady, unwavering. He meant it. But that didn’t make James feel any less like an anchor pulling him down.  

He tried again. “Regulus, listen, white folks don’t sing with Negroes, let alone...” he hesitated, “let alone love them.”  

A heavy silence followed. The room was thick with it, pressing in like the heat outside. Regulus stared at him, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.  

“What in the hell are you talkin’ about?”  

James parted his lips, but nothing came out. He didn’t know how to say it. How to make Regulus understand the weight of it all.  

Dorcas sighed, glancing between them before exchanging a look with Evan and Barty. “I think y’all need a minute.”  

She didn’t give them a chance to argue. With a sharp nod toward the door, she led Barty and Evan out, leaving James and Regulus alone in the suffocating silence.  

Regulus moved first. He crossed the room in a few strides, stopping in front of James, who was still sitting at the piano. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers curling in frustration.  

Regulus exhaled hard, rubbing at his temple before dropping his hand. “Alright, sugar,” he said, voice rough with exhaustion. “What the hell was that?”  

James lifted his gaze, and for a moment, all he saw was Regulus. Regulus, who was bright and golden and everything James had ever wanted. He loved him. God, he loved him.  

But love wasn’t enough. Not in this world.  

“It’s true,” James said, voice quieter now, like admitting it hurt. “You should’ve signed.”  

Regulus let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “I always thought you were a bit slow, but I didn’t take you for a damn fool.”  

James clenched his jaw. “Regulus, the law—”  

“The law?” Regulus interrupted, eyes flashing. “Sugar, I don’t give a damn ‘bout the law.”  

James ran a hand through his hair, standing up abruptly. “Well, you should,” he snapped. “Because the law don’t give a damn about us. We shouldn’t even be in this room right now. Do you realize what happens if someone finds out about us?”  

Regulus stared at him, and then, quieter, softer he asked, “D’you regret it?”  

James’s stomach twisted. “What?”  

“Us.” Regulus’s voice wavered, and James hated it. Hated that he was making him doubt something so certain. “D’you regret me?”  

James’s breath caught. “No... Regulus, I—” He stopped, running a hand over his face. “I don’t regret you. I could never regret you. But I do regret that the world won’t let me love you properly.”  

Regulus swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. He looked at James for a long moment, and then his eyes burned, and he shook his head. “That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard.” His voice broke on the last word, and James’s heart clenched as Regulus’s face crumpled.  

James moved before he could think, reaching for him, but Regulus stepped back. His breath was shaky, hands trembling at his sides. “You think I don’t know what we got is dangerous?” he whispered. “You think I don’t know the world don’t want us together? James, I know.” His voice cracked, and he quickly wiped his eyes, like he didn’t want James to see. “But I don’t give a damn.”  

James’s chest ached. He took a hesitant step forward. “Regulus…”  

Regulus shook his head again, tears slipping down his cheeks. “I love you,” he said, voice thick. “And you don’t get to tell me I shouldn’t.”  

James closed his eyes, exhaling sharply. He wanted to argue, wanted to tell Regulus that love wasn’t enough in a world that saw them as wrong. But when he opened them again, all he saw was Regulus. His Regulus, who was looking at him like James was worth the risk.  

And God help him, maybe he was.

Regulus’s breath was uneven, his chest rising and falling as he wiped at his damp cheeks with the back of his hand. "I’m done sneakin’ around," he said, voice thick with emotion. "I love you. I don’t understand why we gotta hide."

James’s heart twisted painfully at the sight of him, at the sheer rawness in his voice. "Regulus—"

"I want to be with you," Regulus pressed, his voice firm. "Openly. Forever."

James swallowed past the lump in his throat, his fingers flexing uselessly at his sides. "I’ll love you no matter what, you know that. But rules don’t change for love."

Regulus’s eyes flashed, and he took a step forward. "Then I’ll change ‘em myself."

James felt his breath hitch. He stared at Regulus, searching his face for any hint of hesitation, but there was none. Only resolve. "What do you mean by that?"

Regulus lifted his chin. "I mean I’ll make ‘em listen. I’ll organize a protest. Get every musician in Memphis out on the streets against these goddamn laws. We’ll raise our voices ‘til they ain’t got no choice but to hear us."

James’s stomach dropped. His blood ran cold. "Regulus—"

"You heard me."

James exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. "This is madness. You’re playing with fire."

"Maybe," Regulus admitted, shrugging. "But if that’s what it takes, then I ain’t scared to burn."

James let out a sharp breath, stepping away from the piano. "You think your father’s money will keep you safe?" His voice wavered, not with anger but with fear. "You think they won’t come for you? For all of you?"

Regulus’s jaw tensed. "I know exactly what could happen."

"Then why?"

"Because somebody’s got to!" Regulus’s voice cracked, and James flinched at the desperation behind it. "Somebody’s got to say enough! Somebody’s got to stand up and tell ‘em they ain’t got the right to decide who I love, who I sing with, who I share my life with!"

James was shaking his head before Regulus even finished speaking. "And you think you can be that somebody?" His voice was quiet now, almost pleading. "Regulus, I love you, but I won’t let you throw yourself into the lion’s den."

Regulus stepped forward again, eyes locked onto James’s with a fierceness that made it impossible to look away. "You think I’m scared, sugar?" His voice was steady now, low and unwavering. "I been scared my whole life. Hidin’, pretendin’, actin’ like I don’t want more. I can’t. I won’t do it no more."

James inhaled sharply. "They could kill you."

Regulus’s lips parted, then pressed together. He took a breath. "Maybe," he admitted, his voice softer now. "But I ain’t gon’ live a life where I pretend I don’t love you just ‘cause some fool wrote it into law."

James felt something shatter inside him. He had never loved Regulus more than he did in that moment, fierce and brilliant, standing before him with his heart laid bare. But love didn’t change the world. And God help him, he didn’t know how to make Regulus see that.

But Regulus had already made up his mind.

And James was powerless to stop him.

....

Over the following weeks, James watched as Regulus threw himself into his plan with a determination that was both admirable and terrifying. He spoke to every musician at the Blue Note, every stagehand, every bartender and doorman who had ever worked a shift in the club. And people listened. Word spread like wildfire through Memphis’s music scene, whispers turning into quiet conversations, quiet conversations into heated discussions.

James saw it in the way men huddled together outside clubs and bars after their sets, their voices low but urgent. He saw it in the way women passed notes to their husbands and brothers, in the way people spoke in hushed tones in the pews after Sunday service. He saw it in the way the city itself seemed to hum with something new, something dangerous.

One evening, James found Regulus in the back alley behind the Blue Note, talking to Lee, his voice as heavy as the Mississippi heat.

“I know a fella,” Lee was saying “He can get us guns. Ain’t no way the law’s gon’ let us do this quiet. Best we be ready.”

Regulus shook his head. “No.”

Lee frowned. “No?”

Regulus’s voice was firm. “We ain’t usin’ violence.”

Lee scoffed. “Boy, you think them white folks gon’ just let us do this? You think they gon’ just smile and step aside?” He leaned in, voice lowering. “I seen what they done to men that tried less than what you plannin’, and it sure as hell didn’t end in no handshake.”

Regulus didn’t flinch. “If we use violence, all we’re doin’ is givin’ ‘em another reason to hate black people. Another excuse to come after us. We ain’t fightin’ ‘em with bullets, Lee.”

Lee crossed his arms, skepticism plain on his face. “Then what the hell are we fightin’ with?”

Regulus exhaled, his eyes dark with conviction. “We gon’ sit.”

Lee blinked. “The hell does that mean?”

“We sit,” Regulus repeated. “We sit down in the street. Right there on Beale. Every single man and woman, don’t matter if they black or white, if they believe in freedom, if they believe in the Constitution, if they believe in the American flag, they sit down. And they don’t get up ‘til the Jim Crow laws are gone.”

Lee let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Ain’t nobody gon’ pay attention to a bunch’a folks sittin’ in the street.”

“They will if the street’s blocked,” Regulus said simply.

Lee shook his head. “Folks’ll just drive through. Run us down like dogs.”

“Not if the white folks are in the front row.”

Lee went quiet. His expression changed, his arms dropped, his brows pulled together, his lips pressed into a thin line.

James watched as the idea settled over him, watched as he saw what Regulus saw.

Regulus leaned in, voice soft but steady. “They ain’t gon’ run over their own. If we can get white folks out there, good folks, the kind that believe in what’s right, we can stop the whole damn city. No one in. No one out.”

For a long moment, Lee said nothing. Then, he exhaled sharply and muttered, “Damn fool idea.”

Regulus’s mouth quirked. “Maybe.”

Lee shook his head, but there was something different in his eyes now, something that looked a whole lot like belief. “We’ll need people. A lotta people.”

“Then we better start talkin’.”

And so they did.

James watched it happen in real-time. The black community in Memphis moved like an underground river, quiet, steady, unstoppable. Word spread through church basements and barber shops, through kitchens and back rooms, through whispers at club doors and hurried conversations in alleyways.

People listened.

People agreed.

It was happening. And James didn’t know if he’d ever been so proud.

Or so afraid.