Chapter 41
SLAYER
Ileave Rafe talking with some friends and venture back to the party to find Bix.
The crowd has shifted since I left her, and I scan the gathering for her distinctive blonde curls. I’m still not used to how different I feel after this afternoon. Lighter somehow, like I’ve shed a skin I’ve been wearing for years.
But before I can find Bix, Valentina appears, cutting off my path.
“Darling,” she says, her kisses accompanied by a flash of red silk and a cloud of perfume. “I’ve been looking for you all evening.”
“And here I am.” I try to look past her, still searching for Bix.
“Just in time! An Italian television crew has come all the way from Milan to interview you. They want to talk about our high school days.”
I glance at her. “Really, Valentina, that was so long ago...”
“To me it is but an instant, darling. Please be kind.” She places her hand on my arm and captures my eyes.
When Valentina looks at me like that, with those same dark eyes that made me fumble for words at seventeen, I can’t refuse.
Against my better judgment, I allow her to drag me toward a makeshift soundstage set with chairs, a table, even tiny espresso cups to make it seem like we’re on a morning talk show.
“Valentina, I don’t know,” I say, realizing this will take more than a minute. “I have to work the crowd. My concert’s tomorrow.”
“It’ll only take five minutes,” she insists, her hand still firmly on my arm.
As soon as Valentina sits me down, the producer dusts my face with powder while speaking with her in rapid-fire Italian. I can make out some of it, but not all—Italian was never a language I cared to master.
Then, through the crowd noise, I hear something that makes me sit up straighter. A voice—distinctive, melodic, with that particular cadence I’ve come to recognize. Bix. She’s singing somewhere nearby.
I try to rise, but the producer gently pushes me back into my seat with a professional smile. “Un momento, per favore.”
In moments, the cameras are rolling, and the producer begins asking us questions. Valentina elaborates with dramatic gestures and musical laughter.
I answer in mostly one-syllable words, my attention split between the interview and the music drifting through the square.
“Smile, Slayer,” says the producer, gesturing to his own face.
Valentina laughs and says something in Italian. I don’t catch it—but I get the gist. Something like, “He’s too cool to smile.”
I force my lips into an upward slant, but my mind remains elsewhere. The music has grown louder, and I can hear the crowd’s enthusiastic response. What exactly is happening out there?
“You are quite the rebel in America, no?” the interviewer asks me. “Even in high school, Valentina says you were different from the other boys.”
“I suppose so.”
“He was impossibly moody,” Valentina interjects, placing her hand on mine. “Always writing in notebooks, playing that guitar. I knew even then he would be famous.”
The way she tells it, you’d think we were high school sweethearts, not that she barely acknowledged my existence.
I do my best to fulfill Valentina’s desires, but I’m more than grateful when the interview finally comes to an end.
“Caro mio,” she says, tenderly touching my shoulders once the cameras stop rolling. “I will find you later this evening. I hear there may be dancing.”
“Wish I could,” I tell her. “But I must make it a short night. My concert is tomorrow.”
“Oh, come on. Just one dance?” She edges closer, looking into my eyes, her lips inches from mine. The scent of her perfume surrounds me. It’s nothing like the rose scent that clung to Bix’s skin this afternoon.
The memory of Bix in my arms, her trust as I tied the scarves around her wrists, the look in her eyes afterward... It all floods back, making this moment with Valentina feel hollow and performative.
Then I hear it.
The camera’s click.
Oh God.
I shift her gently away. “I really have to go, Valentina. I’ll catch you later.”
I walk quickly through the crowd, following the sound of the music that’s drawn nearly everyone’s attention. They all smile and wish me well as I pass.
I nod in return, but twenty years in the business has taught me that a majority are waiting for me to fail. Few people in the history of the modern music business can match the two-decade run I’ve had. They’re all just waiting for it to end.
The music moguls in the crowd want that. They want to use my example to prove that an artist without studio guidance is nothing. And even though Sterling has skin in the game, put some money on the table, I suspect he would feel a bit vindicated if I fail.
Before allowing me go off in my own direction for the new album—and to greatly finance its production myself—he told me for years that I had another decade of top-of-the-charts fame in me if I’d stick to his plan.
But I’m not going that route.
I’m not keeping the same style.
This album will immediately illustrate why I waited three years to release anything new. It will prove why I staked my fortune on this. This album will send waves through the industry.
As I approach the bandstand, the crowd parts slightly, giving me a clear view of the stage. What I see stops me cold. Bix is there with that server from the yacht club, Sade—the one who modeled topless at Caroline.
They’re performing together. Sade sings with soulful intensity while Bix responds with her jazzy scat style.
The crowd is entranced, swaying and clapping. And Paul’s band backs them with obvious enjoyment. I should feel proud. Bix is incredible, her talent undeniable as she improvises complex patterns that complement Sade’s powerful voice.
A dark emotion sweeps over me as I spot Carlos Rhodes at the edge of the crowd, watching Bix with predatory assessment.
How dare he even cast his eyes on her? Anger flares as my muscles tense, ready for action.
And there's Bix, goading him! Twirling those pearls, shaking her hips. Leading him on like she hasn’t a care in the world.
I close my eyes a moment and try to think of this rationally. Bix is a performer, just like me. She's playing to the crowd.
Yet as I edge closer, I could swear I see some exchange between them. A secret glance. A daring smile.
This is not the same woman I held in my arms just hours ago, watching her as she slept. Bix Bismark is not the woman I thought she was at all.