Chapter 7
SLAYER
On the phone in my den, my eyes drift over the Grammy-winning records lining my walls as I listen to Rafe’s voice crack.
He’s the guitarist on my latest album, but we were once in a band together, and we’ve been friends since childhood.
His mother, Amanda, is in the hospital. And the pain in his words hits me hard. I’ve always considered her my second mother.
Back when Rafe and I were just kids with guitars and big dreams, she’d bring still-warm chocolate chip cookies to our garage sessions. I can taste them even now.
“Hang tight, man.” I try to keep my voice steady. My parents are still alive, though I rarely see them.
But Rafe’s mom—she’s different. Always supporting us, believing in us, even when everyone else thought we were wasting our time.
“Will you still make Saint-Tropez?” I hate asking, but Sterling’s breathing down my neck about this album launch.”
“Yeah.” Rafe’s voice goes quiet. “Mom insisted. Made me promise.”
“The gig’s not worth—”
“She wants pictures,” he says with a chuckle. “Says she’s going to show everyone at the hospice.”
We both laugh, but it’s hollow.
As I end the call with Rafe, I study my first guitar, mounted on the wall like a museum piece. That’s a good analogy. More and more, my life has become a museum artifact.
I take a deep breath and head back out to the living room. But it’s empty. “Bix?”
Then I see her. A small figure in that white dress, standing in my bookshelf alcove. My private space. My sanctuary.
Everything in me goes cold. “What the fuck?” The words spew out before I can stop them. My brain suddenly registers that she could be a mole from one of those tabloid magazines.
My feet catapult me forward. She’s a plant sent to find dirt on the Dark Prince. Rage drowns out reason.
“Sam?”
She turns toward me, not frightened as much as bewildered by my outburst.
Doesn’t she understand that these books represent the foundational part of myself? The only piece I’ve kept pure.
And she’s touching them. Writing titles in her notebook like some fucking literary spy.
“Why are you so upset?”
Only when those green eyes hit me, filling with pure terror, do I stop short, immediately aware of my imposing presence, how threatening I must seem.
Something about her fear, her fragility, cuts through the red haze.
“I’m sorry,” I manage, forcing my voice to gentle. “I’m sorry. It’s just that this alcove is a private space.”
“I didn’t realize,” she stammers, stepping back. “There was no closed door. No door at all...”
I look pointedly at her notebook. “What are you writing?” Every muscle in me tenses.
“Just taking notes about your books.”
“Really? So you can read them later? Most of these books have been out of print for centuries. And what were you doing in that noodle shop, anyway? Lying in wait for me? Are you a tabloid spy?”
“No!” Her voice trembles.
Twenty years in this business has taught me to doubt everything. But somehow, I sense she’s telling the truth.
“I told you why I was there. About Hilary...”
The mention of her dead sister throws me. If she’s playing me, it’s elaborate. And those eyes... They hold the same raw hurt I heard in Rafe’s voice as he spoke about his mother. You can’t fake that kind of pain.
“Look,” I say, trying for a calmer tone. “My worry comes with the territory.” I don’t specify what territory, but something in her eyes softens.
“I get it. Privacy’s important.” She glances at her notebook. Then she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and holds it out to me.
“You can read this page if you want to. Just where I made notes about your books.”
She covers the opposite page with her slender hand, purple ink peeking through her fingers.
“You have secrets too?” I’m surprised to hear humor in my voice.
“Everyone does. But you can’t read mine.” Her smile comes slowly. “Not yet, anyway.”
“But you read mine.”
“I didn’t know they were secrets. I thought they were old books.”
“If they’re just dusty old books, why take notes?”
“That’s my secret.” She meets my eyes. “I apologize. Really. I promise never to look at your bookshelf again. You can read what I wrote about them. Then we can drop this?”
The gesture disarms me completely. A spy wouldn’t offer evidence. And there’s something about her, this mix of fragility and quiet strength that makes me want to believe her.
I take the notebook, scanning her neat handwriting. Just book titles, authors, and brief notes:
Jung—check library
Sacred geometry connection to music theory?
Nothing invasive or tabloid-worthy.
“Keep it.” I hand the notebook back, and something in me shifts, like a door cracking open that’s been sealed for years. “Forget it. How about we pour a little more Champagne and start over?”
She nods, relief flooding her features.
As I turn to get the wine, I feel strangely exposed. Not because she saw my books, but instead because for a moment, I let her see me.
Not Slayer.
Just Sam. That terrifies me more than any tabloid ever could.