Chapter 4
PIP
We ease into the serene delight of dining, enveloped by the twinkling lights of Manhattan sprawling beneath us like a glittering tapestry.
I’m acutely aware of Snickers’ proximity, the subtle heat of his body radiating through the charged air. His scent—clean masculine skin, spiked with an exotic note of musk—clings to the space between us. It’s intoxicating.
As I stealthily snag another one of his delicious truffle fries, I ponder what it would be like to live in this enchanting 'castle in the sky.'
How could I ever bring myself to look away from this breathtaking panorama, where the city pulses with life and energy?
I dare imagine the luxury of summoning room service at a whim, indulging in the opulence and comfort nestled high above the bustling streets below...
“Did you ever read the book Eloise at the Plaza?”
Snickers quirks an eyebrow. “No. Is it good?”
I laugh. “It’s a children’s book. I loved it when I was a kid. I hadn’t thought about it in years, but now that I’m in your apartment, I can’t help thinking of it.”
“Why?”
“Eloise and her pet turtle lived at the Plaza hotel.”
“Alone?”
I shake my head. “No. With her mother. But her mother was some jet-set type, always traveling. So Eloise spent time with the staff and her nanny. I used to wish I could live at the Plaza, feeding Skipperdee a raisin and?—”
“Wait! Who’s Skipperdee?”
“That’s Eloise’s pet turtle.”
We both laugh.
"You're a great storyteller," he says. "Did you ever want to be a writer?"
"No. But a few years back, I spent the summer busking in Salem with my cousin. We had a magic act we'd perform on the streets."
"What kind of magic?"
"Old-school magic, simplified for street corners. He'd usually tie me up and time how fast I could slip out of the knots."
"Sounds kinky," Snickers teases, waggling his eyebrows.
I laugh, shaking my head.
"I was a good escape artist. Years of restoring vintage clothing, with all the intricate buttons, corset laces, and tricky fastenings, gave me more dexterity than the average person. Then again, if I can escape being trapped in an overly tight 1920s couture gown, I can escape anything.”
After another stolen truffle fry, I lean back slightly, curiosity blooming. “How did you start out as a DJ?”
Snickers sips his Champagne, taking his time before answering.
“I’ve been interested in music all my life. Ever since I got my first set of toy drums as a kid.”
“And from there?”
“In elementary school, I got really into instruments. Learned how to play a bit of everything. Eventually, I got hooked on records—started collecting them.”
“What? Old-fashioned vinyls?” I raise an eyebrow. “At what age?”
“Eleven.”
“That’s impressive.”
He smirks. “That’s not the crazy part.”
“Oh?”
He leans back, sipping from his wineglass.
“When I was twelve, my brother Preston snuck me into a club.”
My fork stops halfway to my mouth. “A twelve-year-old… at a club?”
He chuckles. “It’s not like the States. In Saint-Tropez, in the summer, families dine outdoors under the stars while the DJ plays.”
“Dining with your family while a DJ plays isn’t quite a club scene.”
“Preston was seventeen. He took me to the hot club after the family dinner,” Snickers says with a wink.
“You were a lucky little boy to have a big brother like that.”
I watch Snickers’ face as he considers my remark. “Yeah. Back when I was a kid, Preston was okay.”
Sensing the tension in his words, I change the subject.
“Well, that Saint-Tropez scene sounds magical. I’ve never been. I can just imagine it. The salty tang in the air. The sound of waves crashing on the beach.”
“Hold up. You sound like a travel brochure. But yeah, Saint-Tropez was pretty cool. Me and Preston made the most of it. The next summer, I convinced a few DJs to let me hang around their booth.”
I look at Snickers, intrigued.
"At first, they had me running errands—looking up obscure vinyl tracks, that sort of thing. But one night the DJ I’d been working for took an hour break. So, being the brash kid I was, I jumped into the booth and spun.”
“And you charmed the crowd, of course.”
Snickers shoots me an ‘are you kidding’ kind of look.
“That goes without saying. And that was the night A-list celebrities were there. Paparazzi were covering them but caught me instead. The next day, my name was in the papers.”
“So then what?”
“Club owners sought me out. I focused on building up my name. Continued to DJ while I studied in Boston…”
“At Juilliard? That famous music school? I hear you have to be a child prodigy to get in.”
“No. Harvard. But I had a lot of contacts in Manhattan, so sophomore year I got a gig playing at MoMA.”
“Museums need DJs?”
“Sure. For the parties after the opening exhibits.”
I try to picture it—him, younger, a rising star moving through the city’s elite social circles, filling grand halls with music. It’s surprisingly easy to imagine.
“So what were the patrons like? Old fuddy-duddies rocking to the beat?”
“Not at all. Lots of trendsetters in their twenties in the ‘young patron’ program.”
“And I’m sure you had your share of ‘young patron’ groupies…”
“Oh yeah.” He speaks this in a way that is not arrogant or conceited. But rather, as if girls coming on to him was a typical occurrence. To be expected.
A new flush of jealousy sweeps over me. I remember how the girls downstairs at the club looked at him. Even fought over him.
“Tell me about them, these stuck-up rich girl museum groupies. Did they throw their panties at you?” I tease.
Snickers smirks as he grabs the last truffle fry and pops it into his mouth.
“I don’t remember any panties. But after MoMA, things got wild. That’s when I really blew up in New York. There were groupies. Some of them followed me from gig to gig for a while.”
“So you had a fan club.”
He nods. “It started that first night at MoMA. Some girl ran up to me right after I got off stage. She had a full tattoo already—my name, right here.” He taps his muscular forearm. “She tried to convince me to let her start an ‘official’ fan club.”
I sip my sparkler. “A girl tattooed your name before even meeting you?”
“I guess she’d seen me play before.” He shrugs, like this kind of thing happens to everyone. "She was pale. Intense. Long black hair. Kind of reminded me of Wednesday from The Addams Family.”
"And you let her start the club?"
"I just told her to talk to my manager. Before too long, Lila grew the whole thing online with social media. Called it the ‘Snickerdoodles.’"
“Cool. What does the club do?”
He shrugs. “Support me online. Build buzz for upcoming concerts. In return, they get the occasional free ticket or branded merch. I’ve never really been involved.”
Curious to see the fan group in action, I grab my phone. "Snickerdoodles, huh?” It only takes a few moments to find the group on Facebook.
“Wow! You have thousands of followers,” I say, scanning through the dozens of smiling, mostly female followers. “How many members are in the club itself?”
“No idea. Lila and my manager Rick handle it. Maybe five hundred. Maybe five times that.”
I smile softly. "May I join?"
"Only 'good girls' are welcome," he murmurs, his voice a seductive whisper as his gaze locks with mine. "Lila has very strict rules. Are you a 'good girl'?"
"I can be exceptionally good," I reply, feeling the warmth of his hand as he helps me up. "Or delightfully naughty, if that's your desire."
"Let's explore that," he suggests, guiding me gently towards his bedroom.