Chapter 27
SLAYER
It takes all my concentration, but I keep a sharp eye on Bix as Valentina tries to monopolize my attention with stories of our high school days.
Turns out, she did go back to Italy and marry that prince her parents intended for her. They’re divorced now, she says.
Which must be the reason she’s floated back into my life so suddenly.
Though I remind her my name is now Slayer, she insists on calling me Sam. And each time she does, the sound of her dulcet Italian accent caressing my name causes a stirring in my pants.
It’s the excitement of a 17-year-old boy having an encounter with a genuine Italian princess who at first refused to acknowledge his existence.
Valentina’s features have softened over the years, but each time I look at her, I’m struck by her dark beauty. And now, as she wiggles her chair closer to me, I delight in her proximity.
I can see her opportunism clearly, of course. But the way she listens to me speak, her warm brown eyes taking it all in, is an incredible ego boost.
European women tend to be great in this way, but Valentina, she’s the queen of them all. Bix has me off balance, and it’s fun to feel I have a bit of the upper hand now.
Valentina and I reminisce about the days when we sat around Mrs. Tyson’s dinner table, me as Rafe’s guest, and her there with his sister, Sue.
“How is Rafe these days?” she asks, her fingers brushing my wrist.
“He’s landing this afternoon. Commercial flight. Had to stay in New York an extra day.”
“Why?”
I take a deep breath. “His mother’s sick.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she says, putting her elegant hand on my thigh.
I nod, gaze drifting automatically to Bix.
She’s watching us, though pretending not to. The Champagne glass in her hand is empty again. Her cheeks are flushed. Though from the sun or the alcohol, I can’t tell.
“Your new girlfriend is charming,” Valentina says, following my gaze. “But she’s not your usual type.”
I study her a moment, unable to resist the bold question. “What do you know of my type? You made it clear I wasn’t yours.”
She laughs, the sound musical and performative.
“We were children. You couldn’t expect an Italian contessa to take an American boy seriously. But now here you are,” she says, her voice dropping lower, her fingers moving up my inner thigh, “with the world at your feet.”
A server refills our glasses. Across the table, Bix stands abruptly.
She mumbles something to Sterling, who’s deep in conversation with an industry executive who’s stopped by the table. He barely acknowledges her as she moves away, her steps slightly unsteady.
Under the crisp white tablecloth, Valentina’s skillful fingers make contact with my cock. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her looking at me, as if making sure her touch is welcome.
“You have the world at your feet,” she repeats, her voice a silken whisper.
I swallow hard, but my thoughts are on Bix. Though I find a certain satisfaction in her jealousy of Valentina, I sense I might have taken it too far.
I remove Valentina’s hand from my crotch.
She offers a you-don't-know-what-you're-missing look and smiles before turning away.
The beat shifts to something with more bass, a rhythm designed to pull people to the dance floor. I turn to see Bix saying something to the DJ that makes him grin.
She’s different suddenly—lighter, more animated than she’s been all afternoon. He leans down, speaking into her ear over the music. Whatever he says makes her laugh.
Something hot and unwelcome twists in my gut.
This is business, I remind myself. The contract, the album, the image Sterling wants to project. That’s all this is.
The DJ extends his hand to Bix, helping her step onto a nearby table.
The crowd notices, cheers rising. She stands uncertainly for a moment, then the music catches her, and she begins to move.
I stop, transfixed despite myself.
She dances like she’s alone in the room, eyes half-closed, arms lifted overhead.
The seafoam cover-up slides from her shoulders, leaving her in just the bikini. Her body undulates to the music, fluid and responsive to every beat.
It’s nothing scandalous by Saint-Tropez standards—women dance on tables at Caroline every day. But it’s Bix. My fake girlfriend. Dancing for another man.
Camera flashes pop in my peripheral vision. Of course. The same photographers Sterling invited to document our “romance” are now capturing this.
I leap to my feet, reacting before my mind can catch up. I stride toward the DJ booth, driven by something primal I don’t care to examine.
The crowd parts as I approach, whispers following in my wake. “Isn’t that Slayer? The Slayer?”
But I only have eyes for Bix, swaying atop the table to the pulsing beat.
A guy from the next table comes close to her, a sly grin on his face as he drinks in the sight of her long legs.
White-hot jealousy surges through me. I reach the table in a few long strides. “Bix,” I say firmly, holding out my hand. “Stop.”
She turns to me, a lilt in her words. “Slayer! Come dance with me!”
“Bix.” My voice cuts through the music. “Time to go.”
Her eyes widen, surprise giving way to defiance. “I’m dancing.”
“I can see that. So can everyone else.”
She ignores my hand, turning instead to continue dancing, hips swaying provocatively. Another flash—another photo for tomorrow’s tabloids.
“Bix.” I say in the tone that makes sound engineers jump. “Now.”
Her eyes meet mine, green fire against ice. “You were busy with Valentina. I found my own entertainment.”
Without further discussion, I snatch her fallen cover-up and step closer, lifting her down from the table. She gasps, her body warm as it slides against mine.
The crowd whoops and cheers.
Instead of walking her back to our table, I carry her out to the beach, where we can have a modicum of privacy.
“Put me down,” she hisses, but there’s something in her voice beneath the anger.
I set her on her feet but keep my arm around her waist. “We’re leaving.”
“The hell we are,” she says, trying to pull away. “I was having fun for the first time since we got here.”
“This isn’t about fun. It’s about the contract.”
Her eyes narrow. “Everything’s about the contract with you, isn’t it? Just business.”
“You knew what this was when you signed up.”
“Right. I’m just playing a part.” Her chin lifts defiantly. “Slayer’s adoring girlfriend. Isn’t that what Sterling’s paying me for?”
Though I thought we were alone, a camera flash catches us—the perfect tabloid moment of lovers’ tension.
“Not this kind of attention,” I say, lowering my voice. “Let’s go.”
For a moment, I think she’ll refuse. Then something shifts in her expression.
“Fine,” she says, reaching for her discarded cover-up. “Take me back to the hotel. I need a break from all of this.”
As I guide her through the crowd, Sterling appears at my side.
“Everything all right?” he asks, his smile never slipping.
“Just getting some air,” I reply, not slowing our exit.
“The photographers got some excellent shots,” he murmurs, glancing meaningfully at my arm around Bix’s waist. “Passion sells albums.”
I resist the urge to tell him exactly what he can do with his publicity stunts. Instead, I nod curtly and continue toward the exit, Bix silent beside me.
What Sterling doesn’t understand—what I barely acknowledge to myself—is that the anger coursing through me, the jealousy, isn’t manufactured for cameras. It’s real. And dangerous.
Because seeing Bix dance for someone else made me want to break things.
And that was never part of the contract.