Chapter 49
BIX
“Good luck,” the chauffeur says, taking my suitcase from the trunk of the limousine when we arrive in Nimes.
As I thank him, Milo comes rushing out, taking the suitcase from my hands. “Mr. S and I have been counting the seconds until you arrived,” he says.
“It’s a full house. People have flown in from all over Europe and beyond to hear the debut of Slayer’s new album.”
I stop short when I see the amphitheater of N?mes looming before me. “Oh my God. It looks like the pictures I’ve seen of the amphitheater in Rome.”
He nods. “Yes, but smaller. It only holds fifteen-thousand people. Just think, gladiators fought to the death here while Roman citizens cheered.”
Milo takes my hand, and we pass through the grand entrance of the arena.
“And now the seats are filled with Slayer’s fans,” I say, looking at 34 tiers of people sitting on the hard stone seats surrounding the simple stage in the middle.
“Come. I’ll take you to him.”
Milo leads me through a series of rough-hewn stone tunnels on the ground floor.
After a few moments, we reach a weathered wooden door beneath a cold stone arch. “He’s inside,” Milo whispers. “I’ll be here if you need me.”
The door opens with a slight squeak. Despite its battered doorway, the interior of the room is beautifully decorated with modern conveniences.
Thank God for air conditioning.
I peek inside and find Slayer sitting with his back to me, quietly strumming his guitar.
He doesn’t turn around, but I know he must’ve heard the door open.
I walk toward him, stopping just behind his chair.
“You came,” he says.
“Yes,” I say, stepping around the chair to face him. “I heard about Mrs. Tyson’s passing. I’m so sorry, Slayer.”
He stands and pulls me into his arms. After a moment he brushes my hair back and looks into my eyes, then hugs me again.
It feels warm and wonderful to be in his arms, inhaling his heady scent of spice and musk.
Slayer doesn’t say anything for a long while. “I’m so sorry for my rant yesterday. I lost control. Your music career is your own. It has nothing to do with me.”
I look at him, gauging his dark eyes for sincerity. “Okay,” I finally say.
"Thank you. I know you’re under a lot of pressure. But Slayer, before I say anything else, I need to know where I stand with you. I saw the headlines in that Italian paper. It said you and Valentina are engaged."
"Never believe the Italian press," he scoffs. "I thought you knew me better than that, Bix."
"The last time I saw you at the party last night, you were with Valentina."
He can only nod.
"And when you didn't come back to the hotel last night, I thought you might be with her. We’d argued, and then I saw the photo and headline in the paper this morning…”
I force myself to look in his eyes, certain I’ll detect any lie he might speak.
He sighs. “I know my actions with her have been confusing for you this weekend. They’ve been confusing for me as well. But despite what she wants, nothing has happened between us. I stayed at her villa that first night, but it’s a big place. I limited our interaction to reminiscing, I promise.”
He pauses, waiting for my response before he continues.
Whatever happened the first time he stayed the night at her villa was before we had our magic moments together.
Before we sat in the golden sunlight and watched Oscar slowly cross the dirt path. Before we gorged on delicious French pastry and sang a silly turtle song, then tore down our barriers and truly connected, just Sam and Bix.
But if he continued to run to Valentina after all that... I nod, urging him on. We’ve got to get through this.
"I did accompany Valentina to her villa again last night," he says quietly. "I was angry at you, Bix—outraged to see you interacting with Carlos. My nerves, my heightened emotions where you’re concerned, I—"
"So you spent the night with her again."
"We had a drink,” he protests. “Talked. She wanted more than that, but I told her it wasn’t going to happen between us, once and for all.”
I nod for him to continue.
“Once I calmed down, I knew I needed my sleep. I was just about to come back to the hotel when Sterling called and said there was a road obstruction on the way to Nimes. He said he’d arranged for a helicopter to take me over last night to avoid stress in the morning."
"But why didn't you tell me? Why didn’t Milo tell me?"
"It was late. I told them not to bother you," he says with a shrug. "I’m sorry. I realize now that you were worried. I wasn’t thinking clearly. Like I said, I was angry about Carlos."
"Carlos," I say bitterly. "You were right to be wary, to forbid me to see him."
"Why?” Slayer is on guard in an instant. “What happened? Tell me!"
I didn't mean to tell Slayer ever. But I can't keep it to myself now. So I try to keep my voice steady as I recall the terrifying events of this morning.
"It was a mistake," I say, my voice trembling. "But you must see why I had to take that chance. At the moment, I saw it as the only way for me to achieve what is no longer possible for Lola and Hilary. I was angry and frustrated too. Not making good decisions. I see that now."
"I'll kill him!" he roars.
"No. There are better ways of handling this and making sure he never attacks a woman again.” I put my hand on his arm. “But we need to focus on your performance now.
Slayer pulls me close, hugging me so tightly I might break. "I'm sorry that happened, Bix," he says.
"I'm angry that I wasn't there to protect you. That must have been horrifying. It infuriates me to even imagine it." He sighs in a way that seems to come from his soul. “This day… I’ve waited so long for it, and so far it’s just filled with horrors.”
We stand together for a long time, and I feel the salt of his tears stinging my cheek. I'm not sure if they're for Mrs. Tyson or my attack—probably everything combined. There’s a small sofa in the corner of the room. “Come. Let’s sit together.”
Once we’re settled, I take his hand.
“I know you’re grieving. One thing I’ve learned from Hilary’s death is that just because a person isn’t here physically doesn’t mean they’re not with you.”
Slayer casts his dark eyes on me, nodding slightly.
“A little more than a year ago, Hilary and I were on Fifth Avenue. She was too impatient to wait for the light to change. Seconds after she stepped into the street, a speeding car struck her down.” I pause. “I rushed to her, but she was already dead.”
He stays quiet. I go on.
“I knelt by her on the asphalt. Pedestrians who’d witnessed what happened formed a human barrier around us until the police and ambulance arrived.” I blink back tears.
“And in that short time, I saw her spirit lift out of her body. She rose the way she got out of bed in the morning—with a grin and burst of energy. Then she stood before me with that playful smile of hers, like it was all a game.”
“Did she speak?” Slayer asks.
“Yes. She said, ‘I’m okay.’ And then, my Lola—”
“Your grandmother?”
“Yes. Lola appeared and put her hand on Hilary’s shoulder. They both looked at me, said goodbye, and disappeared.”
“They vocalized the word goodbye?” Slayer asks.
“No,” I say, trying to recall clearly. “There was no verbal communication. I just sensed what they were saying. But then three days later, I saw Hilary again.”
“Her ghost?”
I shake my head. “No, it wasn’t her ghost. It wasn’t anything like that. It was more the sensation of her being with me.”
His eyes stay on mine.
“It’s like when someone you love enters the room. You just know they’re there, even before you turn around to see them.”
“I understand what you mean,” Slayer says. “But why are you telling me this?”
“Because Mrs. Tyson is still with you. I can’t see her, but you’ve known her your whole life. That connection doesn’t end with her passing.”
We sit quietly for a moment. He gives me a long hug.
“She wants you to succeed with your new album.” I look into his eyes. “You’ll do it for her, won’t you?”
Slayer nods.
I hear a soft knock at the door. Milo enters a moment later. “Time to go, Slayer. Final sound check is finished. Rafe’s already up there.”
We rise, and Milo escorts us through the narrow stone corridors of the ground floor. "Break a leg," he tells Slayer.
Milo and I watch as Slayer walks to the stage in the arena's center to the sound of thunderous applause.
Sterling wasn't kidding when he said Slayer was popular in France.
"Well, he's off to a good start," says Milo, sounding impressed. "Now, let's hightail it to our seats."
He pulls me through more stone corridors. "We have our own private box,” he explains. "It's where they used to keep the caged tigers before a gladiator fight."
"Historical note or are you trying to tell me something?" I ask.
Milo just laughs. Sterling is already present when we walk in. He’s sitting in a deluxe red-velvet, movie-theater-style seat in the small stone room. He smiles and waves at me before turning his attention back to Slayer.
From this ground-floor perspective, the rows of fans in bright summer attire on the upper tiers resemble a colorful toss of confetti. A smattering of reds, purples, and yellows shimmering across the seats.
The stage is modest compared to the Slayer pyrotechnics I’ve seen before. But everyone here knows this isn’t about the old Slayer anymore.
For three years, they’ve read articles. For three years, they’ve been told not to expect what once was. So they’ve come to witness what comes next.
I turn my attention to the stage, watching as Slayer and Rafe begin something people might call a song.
But it’s more like some avant-garde musical shamanism. That’s the first thing that comes to mind. I’m not even sure that term fully encompasses it.
Listening more closely, I can hear Slayer’s brilliance at work. If I had to describe it, I’d say it’s part vocals, part sonic architecture. On stage, under the spotlight, Slayer isn’t singing so much as conjuring.
Conjuring a feeling. An emotion.
Like a shaman invoking the gods.
It’s fascinating to watch.