Her Dark Prince (All Access #2)

Chapter 1

BIX

“OMG, can you believe this place? Talk about glam!” says my roommate, Keesha. She gestures toward the front entrance of Taboo, the glitzy new club in Columbus Circle.

Even from here, the music pulses through my body, a seductive, rhythmic chant promising dark delights within.

I tug at the hem of my bodycon white dress, an Prime miracle that arrived just in time for my birthday bash.

Neither of us is a “club girl” by any stretch. Keesha’s studying playwriting at NYU, while I’m buried in music history textbooks most nights. But it’s summer now.

Our flamboyant friend Zaza insisted we celebrate my 21st birthday, and the end of the school year, somewhere “Instagram worthy.”

She’s also the one who ordered me this dress.

Zaza finishes charming the fierce-looking bouncer and waves us over with a triumphant grin.

“Ladies, follow me,” she calls, already strutting toward the entrance in outrageous six-inch heels that would put me in the emergency room.

I scan the queue of beautiful people waiting to enter. The women look like models who've stepped out of an expensive fashion magazine.

In contrast, the three of us seem somewhat ordinary—but thanks to Zaza's connections, we're the ones who make it past the red velvet rope.

My pulse quickens as I wonder if tonight’s the night. According to three music blogs and Zaza’s “very reliable source,” Slayer—the legendary rock icon the New York Herald dubbed “the Dark Prince” two decades ago—is rumored to be making an appearance.

It would make sense. His much-heralded, top-secret new album is set to launch in France this weekend. And there's a life-sized cutout of his figure near the club's entrance.

“Beatrix! Stop daydreaming about your rock star boyfriend and move that ass!” Zaza calls.

I blush. Did she notice the ridiculous way I was staring at his cardboard figure, like he might actually wink and smile back at me?

“He’s not my—” I start to protest, but Keesha nudges me forward.

“Save your breath,” she whispers. “She knows you're obsessed with him."

My cheeks warm. Obsessed is a strong word. I don’t want to be viewed a total fangirl.

I prefer to say I’m deeply appreciative of Slayer’s dark, ethereal sound. It's a curious blend of Bob Dylan’s electric era and Jim Morrison’s raw, poetic sensuality.

The man has five Grammys and an uncanny ability to make millions of women feel like he’s singing directly to them alone.

As we follow the handsome ma?tre d’ through the club, the bass reverberates in my chest. Red velvet drapes over the walls like a sexy French bordello.

Everywhere, beautiful people move with practiced poise, their designer clothes and perfect features illuminated by strategically placed lighting.

“Jimmy said to treat you girls right tonight,” the ma?tre d’ tells Zaza, leading us to a private corner booth that looks as if it’s normally reserved for those with black cards and family dynasties.

The booth is even nicer than the ones on either side, where handsome young banker-types sit with model-worthy girlfriends in form-fitting Hervé Léger dresses.

Though I was mortified when I unwrapped the body-hugging birthday dress Zaza bought and almost refused to wear it. Now I'm glad for it. I fit in. Well, almost fit in.

Once we're seated, I cast a cursory glance around the room for Slayer. I don’t see him, but I convince myself it’s not yet time to give up hope. It’s only ten—rock star gods never arrive before midnight, right?

A gorgeous server, dressed like a modern Playboy bunny in sleek black fishnet stockings, greets us with a smile that falters slightly when she sees we’re not the usual clientele.

“Ladies, welcome. What is your pleasure?” She gestures toward the crystal decanters of premium spirits on her cart.

“Just water for me,” I say, imagining the triple-digit bill.

“Same,” says Keesha, always practical.

“Nonsense,” Zaza interrupts. “Drinks are on Jimmy tonight, right?”

The server discreetly checks her device. “Yes, of course. And I see we’re celebrating a birthday. Champagne, perhaps?”

“Cristal, please," Zaza says with the confidence of someone who can charm her way through just about anything. “That’s how we roll!”

When the server leaves, Keesha leans forward. “Who exactly is this Jimmy?”

“One of my many admirers from Equinox,” Zaza replies with a flip of her dark hair.

Equinox is a high-end fitness center where Zaza works the front desk.

“And what does this admirer expect in return?” Keesha’s voice carries a bit of judgment. Or maybe it's just her playwright’s talent for loading simple questions with subtext.

I stifle a groan, wishing I already had that Champagne. Playing referee between my conservative roommate and my more audacious friend constantly tests my diplomatic skills.

“Just my sparkling company,” Zaza says with a wink.

“The VIP hotties at Equinox have more money than sense. They’re generous guys who like my smile. And they’re only too eager to lavish their wealth and connections on me, so I can share it with my friends.”

“Those gossipy New York Herald articles indicate that the VIP Equinox guys use their locker suites for more than changing clothes,” Keesha counters, arching an eyebrow.

“Well, they wouldn’t dare try that with me,” Zaza says, her tone playful.

Despite her flirtatious demeanor and show-stopping outfits, Zaza has never been what anyone would call easy.

“Let’s scan the room,” I suggest, eager to change the subject. “See anyone famous?”

“Speaking of gossip, that’s Vanessa Sinclair from the Herald in that corner booth!” Zaza whisper-yells.

”And that’s Maxwell Sterling,” I say, recognizing the CEO of Sterling Records from all his interviews in Rolling Stone. "That’s Slayer’s label. Maybe Slayer will make an appearance tonight.”

Our server returns with the Champagne, opening it with theatrical precision.

Once it’s been poured, Zaza raises her glass to me. “Happy birthday, bestie. What’s your wish?”

I think of my cherished vinyl collection of Slayer’s early albums, the poetry of his lyrics, his dark vibe, and that gorgeous face and body that thrilled my thirteen-year-old self.

“Birthday wishes are secret," I say, clinking glasses with my friends. “They never come true if you say them out loud.”

Instead, I pull out the red diary I carry in my bag to jot down ideas and lyrics. I write my birthday wishes there.

1. Meet Slayer. 2. Get that record deal. 3. Achieve the dream.

My dream is the stardom that always eluded my Grandmother Lola. She sang backup on tour with the legendary jazz great Ella Fitzgerald in the 1970s.

But nothing more ever happened for her. So she transferred her ambitions to me and Hilary, my twin sister.

Now it's up to me to achieve it for us all.

Suddenly, the DJ’s rhythmic pulse cuts off without warning. A spotlight sweeps across the room, catching the glitter suspended in the air.

A parade of shirtless waiters appears, carrying a three-tiered cake exploding with sparklers.

The crowd parts, and the procession heads straight for our table.

“I told you not to make a fuss,” I say to Zaza, mortified as the waiters break into “Happy Birthday.”

Then the lights drop, and a different energy electrifies the room. Whispers ripple through the crowd like wildfire.

The house lights extinguish completely, leaving only the glow of scattered candles and the dying sparklers on my cake.

A single guitar note cuts through the darkness. Low. Dangerous. It hangs in the air like a threat or a promise.

“Oh my God,” someone behind me shrieks. “He’s here.”

Curtains part at the front of the room. Slayer takes the stage like he owns the club, and the night itself. He commands the space under the spotlight like a dark god—all lean muscle and shadowed grace.

His black leather pants might as well be painted on, and the visible portion of his chest beneath his open black jacket reveals a canvas of intricate tattoos that disappear into his waistband.

That famous jet-black hair falls past his shoulders, partially hiding his mesmerizing face until he looks up and grabs the mic. The collective intake of breath in the room is audible as the crowd surges forward.

There's something about his music that reaches down into your soul, compelling you like the way a snake charmer mesmerizes a serpent. Or a vampire compels his victim.

When Slayer’s first guitar riff hits, my body responds before my brain can catch up. An electric shiver vibrates down my spine, my skin prickling with awareness.

The crowd goes wild for it. Women chant his name, reaching toward the stage with manicured fingers as if they could touch him from twenty feet away.

A spark of irrational jealousy ignites in my chest. I have no claim on him, never even met him—yet I feel bound to him in a way I can’t even explain to myself.

I force my attention back to his performance. Slayer’s fingers fly across the guitar strings, stirring an odd emotion in me—somewhere between lust and rapture.

And then his eyes find mine.

The world narrows to a single point of connection. My heart stutters, then races. The air between us feels charged.

My rational mind knows it’s impossible. He’s too far away to truly see me. I’m just another face in a sea of admirers.

I’ve sung on enough soapboxes to know the trick. Just sweep your eyes across the crowd, giving everyone the illusion of personal contact. And then in an instant, it’s over.

But still, this moment we shared, that connection meant something more. I’m certain of it.

“Hey you,” Zaza says, grabbing my hand just as the song ends and the stage goes dark. “Let’s finish that Champagne.”

“In a minute,” I say, still transfixed by what happened. Or what I’ve imagined happened. But by the time I look back at the stage, Slayer has disappeared.

Leaving only the echo of his presence and the frenzied energy of a crowd demanding more.

I exhale slowly, trying to ground myself. Maybe Keesha is right—maybe my obsession with his music has crossed into fantasy.

But deep in my bones, I know what I felt. For one brief moment, Slayer saw me.