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 Amazon 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. Thewomen 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’sthe night. According to three music blogs and Zaza’s “very reliable source,” Slayer—the legendary rock icon theNew York Heralddubbed “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.Obsessedis a strong word. I don’t want to be viewed a total fangirl.
I prefer to say I’mdeeply appreciativeof 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 maître 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 maître 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.
